"But then, they could only go one way! It sounds like nonsense."
"Quite true, though; they keep to the right. I'll show you their notice-boards presently. Then higher up we may get a few chiffons, or a brace of fichus."
"I never heard of your local game. Very inferior sport, I should suppose."
"Yes. The chiffon is only a four-legged bird—grows fur and teeth."
"Of course, you mean it's an animal?"
"No—plain bird. And the fichu is more curious still. We only get hen birds now, because the cock birds are all extinct."
"Aw—nonsense! How could they breed?"
"They don't," said the Blackguard sorrowfully.
By this time Mr. Ramsay was full of misgivings, but gaining the top of the bench-land, the Blackguard led off at a trot which soon shook not only misgivings out of the Tenderfoot, but also several vital organs, and even one or two distinctly profane remarks when he lost the cigar. He was so sore after yesterday's travelling that every jerk spelt agony, and nothing but courage withheld him from crying aloud.
"Sore tail, eh?" said La Mancha at last, and, loosing rein, let his horse break into a fresh pace, the delightfully easy canter known in the west as a "lope." "Is that better?"