We all supposed he intended to take a nap, but in another two seconds he straightened up again, eyed each of us in turn, and, with an air of having thought it all out and at last decided the matter beyond dispute, he remarked in a tone of gentle resignation:
“John Brown’s body.”
Having delivered this well-considered opinion with becoming solemnity, he threw back his head and laughed a rollicking laugh, as though he had made the very best joke that ever was heard.
“You black heathen, Sox!”cried his master. “I believe you would laugh at a funeral.”
“Lies,”said Sox, opening one eye and shutting it again; a remark which, though it sounded very much as though intended as an insult to Peter, was presumably but the continuation of his previous quotation.
“Get out, you old rascal!”cried the hermit, “shooing”away the bird with his hat. “Your conversation is not desired just now.”And as Sox flew back to his perch, Peter continued: “How far down did you leave your ponies, boys?”
“About a mile,”I replied.
“Then I believe the best way will be for one of you to go down and bring up one of the ponies. I can probably get upon his back with your help, and then, by going carefully, I believe we can get down.”
“All right,”said Joe, springing to his feet. “We’ll try it. I’ll go down. The little gray is the one, Phil, don’t you think?”