He was picking his way across the dry bed of a torrent in the dip not
fifty yards below us, leaping from slab to slab of outcropping
granite as a man crosses a brook by stepping-stones; and upon a slab
midway he halted, drew off his hat, extracted a handkerchief, and
stood polishing his bald head while he took stock of the climb before
him.
"Billy! Billy Priske!"
He tilted his head still higher, towards the ridge and the rock on
which I stood against his skyline, frantically waving.
"HOO-ROAR!"
"And to think, lad," he panted, ten minutes later, as he stretched
himself on the heath beside me--"to think of your mistaking me for a
deer!"
"Did I say so, Billy? Then I lied. It was for a _mufro_ I took you.
Marc'antonio here had as good as promised me one."
His beaming smile changed on the instant to a look of extreme
gravity.
"See you, lad," he said, "have you ever come across one of these here
wild sheep?"
"Not yet."
"I thought not. Well, I have; and I advise you not to talk
irreligious about 'em."
"I will talk about nothing," said I, "until you tell me how my father
is, and of all your adventures.
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