And he did try, and so did the others; with such success, too, that before the sun set that evening they had penetrated into the very heart of the mountain range which runs through the centre of the island.
There had not been much conversation on the way, for hill-climbing all day at top-speed is not compatible with small talk. Besides, the obvious anxiety of Ravonino rendered his companions less inclined than usual to engage in desultory remarks. Nevertheless there were occasions—during momentary halts to recover breath, or when clear bubbling springs tempted them to drink—when the prolonged silence was broken.
“Putty stiff work dis hill-climbin’, massa,” said Ebony, during one of these brief halts, as he wiped the perspiration from his sable brow with the back of his hand. “Lucky I’s used to it.”
“Used to it?” repeated Mark.
“Yes. Di’n’t I tell you I was born an’ raised among de Andes in Sout’ Ameriky?”
“To be sure, I forgot that, but there must be a considerable difference between the two mountain ranges.”
“Das troo, massa, but de diff’rence don’t make much diff’rence to de legs. You see, wild rugged ground much de same wheder de mountains rise a few t’ousand foot, like dese, or poke der snow-topped heads troo de clouds right away up into de blue sky, like de Andes. Rugged ground is rugged ground, an’ hard on de legs all de same, an’ dis am rugged ’nuff even for ’Ockins!”
The negro opened his huge mouth in an amiable laugh at his companion, who had taken advantage of the brief halt to give a hearty rub to his colossal limbs.
“Rugged enough it is, no doubt,” said the sailor, gravely, “an’ it makes my sea-legs raither stiffish. But never you fear, Ebony; they’re tough, an’ will last as long as yours, anyhow.”
“You’s right, ’Ockins. Dey’ll last longer dan mine by eight or ten hinches—if not more.”