“It looks jolly inviting,” said Larry. “If I could find any excuse I’d fall off my horse and take a swim.”
“Did you ever think how curious a fish’s life must be?” began Dave.
“No! But I’ve often thought how curious the Rambler Club’s life must be,” grinned Larry.
The cool, clear water splashed over stirrup leathers, while the hoofs of the ponies scattered showers of shining drops.
Crossing the marshy strip of shore, with the imprints of many longhorns’ hoofs upon it, they struck off in a westerly direction.
The further they progressed the more Larry Burnham became convinced of the silliness of the whole proceeding. Frequently, when the pace was not too great, he was observed to take a folder from his pocket and scan it intently.
“Wonder what that chap’s doing?” remarked Tom Clifton to Dick Travers on one occasion.
“Ask him,” laughed Dick.
“And get some kind of mean answer?” snapped Tom. “No—I don’t think. But I’ll find out, just the same.”
At noon a halt for lunch was made in a little patch of timber, and upon resuming the march the seven lads pushed steadily ahead, at long intervals skirting around or crossing ranges of hills, and seeing on many occasions great herds of grazing cattle.