It must have been nearly four o'clock when I told
him that I really must sleep. "Bueno," said he, as he rolled over on his
side, "hasta manana."
In five minutes he was snoring. Even so, I did not dare to move, for
fear that he might be foxing. About an hour passed, during which he
moved, coughed, expectorated, and had other signs of conscious
animation, much to my disgust, until at last I thought the snoring
sounded too genuine to be shammed, so I crept towards him and whispered
in his ear that I thought I heard sounds of movement. But his snoring
was rhythmic and swinish, so I gathered up my saddle and gear and stole
over to my horse, which was picketed some yards off, and proceeded to
saddle him up. In doing so, my stirrups somehow clashed and thought it
was all up, for what a fool I should look if he woke and discovered me.
But it was all right: the music continued.
I led the horse for some little distance, then mounting, I rode him down
alongside the fence for about a mile until I came to a fresh gap in it.
Horror! Even though it was but what my suspicions had depicted, the
realisation came as a shock to me. "The--! The--!" To repeat my
expressions would edify no one.
Guided by the signal-lights at the station, I moved along at a smart
trot and soon recognised the quick tramping of animals ahead.
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