“W-what you driving at, Al? Talk English, won’t you?”
Knowing that in this case actions were clearer than words, Alden spoke gently to Dick, rubbed his nose, patted his neck, and then placing the toe of his foot in the stirrup swung himself into the saddle. The mail pouches had not been disturbed, and the new rider was ready to take up the duty of Dick Lightfoot where he had laid it down forever.
“You doan’ mean dat you’s gwine to try to ride to de next station on dat horse!” exclaimed the astonished Jethro.
“I shall try it, Jeth; you will take Firebug to camp and tell Shagbark, Mr. Fleming and the rest what I have done.”
“You can’t mean it, Al! What’s de matter wid you; I knowed you war a fool but nebber thought you was such a big one as dis.”
The situation did not permit any offense. “You doan’ know de way!” added Jethro desperately.
“You heard Lightfoot say his pony knows every foot of it; I shall leave that part of the business to him.”
“But—but,” sputtered the African, “what’s gwine to come ob me?”
