“How do you know the dog’s name?” the boy inquires, now almost roused into curiosity.
“How do I know it? Why because she belonged to me for six months before I went to India, and then I gave her to the lady who I hope is to be my wife now I’ve come back.”
“What—are you Cecil Gordon?”
“The same—at your service ‘Cousin Cis,’ as your little sister used to call me, if, as I suppose, you are my old playfellow Bertie. Two years have made a difference in your size, my lad—and this snow gave your face a blue sort of look which prevented my knowing you at first. And now tell me what pranks have you been playing to get into such a plight?”
“I rode Grey Plover to Appleton this afternoon to get—some things the girls wanted—and the snow-storm came on heavily—and it got horribly dark as you see—and somehow we stumbled into a snow-drift—I’d marked the bad places as I came and thought I could keep clear of them—but the darkness misled me, and the snow got into my eyes. We rolled over together—and my foot caught in the stirrup and came out with an awful wrench—but it’s ever so much better since you cut the boot open.”
“And then I suppose, the pony made off?”
“Yes, I believe so. I felt awfully sick when I got up, but I managed to crawl out of the drift, for I’d just sense enough left to mind being smothered. I don’t suppose I could have lain here very long when you came, or I should have been frozen.”
“Well the great thing will be to get you home as soon as may be—but the snow is getting so deep that it won’t be very pleasant travelling. Can you bear to put that foot to the ground? No? Then don’t try—my legs must do duty for two.”
“Oh! I’m too heavy—you’ll never be able to carry me, especially through the snow.”
“Nonsense! If you begin making difficulties I shall have to treat you as one of our fellows (so the story goes) did the wounded sergeant in Zululand.”