"Didn't I tell you?" he said. "This is what we call long grass"; and he
asked if I could "see any track now." "It's as plain as a pikestaff," he
declared, trying to show what he called a "clear break all the way." "Oh
I'm a dead homer all right," he shouted after further going as we came
out at the "King" crossing.
"Now for it! Hang on!" he warned, and we went down the steep bank at a
hand gallop; and as the horses rushed into the swift-flowing stream, he
said unconcernedly: "I wonder how deep this is," adding, as the
buck-board lifted and swerved when the current struck it: "By George!
They're off their feet," and leaning over the splashboard, lashed at the
undaunted little beasts until they raced up the opposite bank.
"That's the style!" he shouted in triumph, as they drew up, panting and
dripping well over the rise from the crossing. "Close thing, though!
Did you get your feet wet?"
"Did you get your feet wet!" That was all, when I was expecting every
form of concern imaginable. For a moment I felt indignant at Mac's
recklessness and lack of concern, and said severely, "You shouldn't take
such risks.
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