Laughing, the men followed--but far enough in the rear to permit their
leader to choose his own way when they should reach the wagon road at the
foot of the mountain wall. Without an instant's hesitation, Croesus turned
down the road--quickening his pace, almost, into a trot.
"By George!" ejaculated the novelist, "he acts like he knew where he was
going."
"He's taking you at your word," returned the artist. "Look at him go!
Evidently, he's still under the inspiration of your oratory."
The burro had broken into a ridiculous, little gallop that caused the
frying-pan and coffee-pot, lashed on the outside of the pack, to rattle
merrily. Splashing through the creek, he disappeared in the dark shadow of
a thicket of alders and willows, where the road crosses a tiny rivulet
that flows from a spring a hundred yards above. Climbing out of this
gloomy hollow, the road turns sharply to the left, and the men hurried on
to overtake their four-footed guide before he should be too long out of
their sight. Just at the top of the little rise, before rounding the turn,
they stopped. A few feet to the right of the road, with his nose at an
old gate, stood Croesus. Nor would he heed Czar's bark commanding him to
go on.
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