"I don't like Klondyke! I don't like Klondyke!" sobbed poor Lessels, a moment afterwards when the ginger-beer cork flew skywards with a loud report, causing the bold miner to drop the bottle in dismay.
"You're a pretty pard to send on an errand!" cried the disappointed Stanley, as the greedy sand quickly absorbed the contents of the bottle. "Frightened of a ginger-beer cork! I wouldn't be such a cowardy custard! Here I am nearly dying of gold fever, and there's nothing to drink or eat but sea-water and dry bread."
"Poor old Stan!" said Lessels, with genuine concern. "Don't die an' leave me to find my way home all by myself. Let's lie down an' go to sleep a bit. Then we'll forget how hungwy an' thirsty we are, an' how dada'll whack us when we get home!"
"Dear old pard!" said Stanley, sleepily. "It was my fault bringing you here, and I ought to have all dada's smacks."
"Not all; nearly all," answered the loyal pard, with sublime condescension. "You can have all the biggest ones. I'm not gweedy! S'pose the tide comes up an' drownds us, what'll mamma say?"
"It serves us right," was the drowsy reply.
"An' dada?"
"Dada'll say he'll teach us to get drownded again!"
"An' baby Desmond?"
"Desmond'll say 'cuckoo'—he doesn't know any other words."