[CHAPTER XI.]
THE OLD SUGAR CAMP.
Pryne's team was by no means a swift one. The horses jogged slowly out into the hills, Pryne constantly plying a gad.
"Seems to me like," remarked Pryne, looking around suddenly, "that Grattan allowed Bunce had only one eye."
"That's another pal of his," said Matt coolly. "You've got us mixed, Pryne."
"Waal, mebby. Git ap, there," he added to the horses; "you critters are slower'n merlasses in January."
For a few minutes they rode in silence, the dust eddying around them and only the creak of the wagon, the thump of the horses' hoofs, and the swish of the gad breaking the stillness.
Goldstein, his satchel on his knees, kept flicking a gaudy and heavily perfumed handkerchief in front of his face to clear away the dust. Matt was busy with his thoughts, and was wondering what was to happen at the end of the journey.
Abruptly, Pryne turned again in his seat.