“No, governor, it’s too far,” I said.
“We’ll be all right, anyway,” added Speed; “there’s a change in the moon and this warm weather ought to hold, governor.”
“I dunno,” said Byram, with an abstracted glance at the crowd around the elephant.
“Cheer up, governor,” I said, “we ought at least to pay expenses to the Spanish frontier. Once out of France we’ll find your luck again for you.”
“Mebbe,” he said, almost wearily.
I glanced at Speed. This was the closest approach to a whine that we had heard from Byram. But the man had changed within a few days; his thin hair, brushed across his large, alert ears, was dusty and unkempt; hollows had formed under his shrewd eyes; his black broadcloth suit was as soiled as his linen, 162 his boots shabby, his silk hat suitable only for the stage property of our clown.
“Don’t ride too far,” said Byram, as I set foot to stirrup, “them band-wagon teams is most done up, an’ that there camuel gits meaner every minute.”
I wheeled my horse out into the road to Paradise, cursing the “camuel,” the bane of our wearied caravan.
“Got enough cash for the license?” asked Byram, uneasily.
“Plenty, governor; don’t worry. Speed, don’t let him mope. We’ll be in Lorient this time to-morrow,” I called back, with a swagger of assumed cheerfulness.