Worst
of all, the fever of the fight was dying out from Weldon's veins.
His pulses were slowing down, and the ceaseless jar of the gray
broncho's gallop waked his wounded leg to a pain which fast became
intolerable.
Kruger Bobs edged closer to his side.
"Boss sick?" he asked.
"Not altogether content, Kruger Bobs."
"Leg?" the boy questioned anxiously.
"Yes; that--and some other things."
"Me help Boss?"
"No, thank you. I'd better let the mess alone."
"Boss ride Nig?" Kruger Bobs suggested, in the hushed tone in which
all their talk had been carried on.
"It is better not to change."
The silence broadened, broken only by the splashing of eight hoofs
in the ever-deepening mire, and by the sighing squeak of wet strap
rubbing on wet strap. Then Kruger Bobs spoke again.
"Paddy send," he said, as he poked a soft parcel into Weldon's
dangling hand. "He say 'Give it to little Canuck.'"
Weldon felt and tasted his way into the parcel. It was large, and
filled with savory bits which Paddy must have gleaned here and there
from the general mess, robbing freely from many a greater man, all
for the sake of the "little Canuck."
It was no time for the discipline which bids a servant eat of the
crumbs from his master's table.
Pages:
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120