“Yes,”I answered. “The little gray’s the one; he’s more sober-minded than my pony and very sure-footed. Bring the gray.”
Without further parley, away went Joe, and in about three-quarters of an hour he appeared again, leading the pony by the bridle.
“It’s pretty rough going,”said he, “but I think we can make it if we take it slowly. The pony came up very well. Now, Peter let’s see if we can hoist you into the saddle.”
It was a difficult piece of work, for Peter, though he had not an ounce of fat on his body, was a pretty heavy man, and being almost helpless himself, the feat was not accomplished without one or two involuntary groans on the part of the patient. At last, however, we had him settled into the saddle, when Joe, carrying the rifle, took the lead, while I, with the two shovels over my shoulder, brought up the rear. In this order the procession started, but it had no more than started when Peter called to us to stop.
In order to avoid going up the hill more than was necessary, we were skirting along the edge of the great snow-bank, when, as we passed just beneath the big tree upon one of whose roots Socrates was perched, Peter, looking up to call to the bird, espied something which at once attracted his attention.
“Wait a moment, boys, will you?”he requested, checking the pony; and then, turning to me, he continued: “Look up there, Phil. Do you see that black stone stuck among the roots? Poke it out with the shovel, will you? I should like to look at it.”
Wondering rather at his taking any interest in stones at such a time, I nevertheless obeyed his behest, and with two or three vigorous prods I dislodged the black fragment, catching it in my hand as it fell; though it was so unexpectedly heavy that I nearly let it drop.
“Ah!”exclaimed Peter, when I had handed it up to him. “Just what I thought! This will interest Tom Connor.”
“Why?”we both asked. “What is it?”