"There's no of course in it. I was always petty and disagreeable, and ready to impose on your good-nature; but you never had an unkind word for me." "Well, you were such a little one, and I was always so big." "I can see it all, Joe, and it's made me miserable many a time; but the kinder you've been, the worse it has made me. You and father always spoiled and petted me." "Not we. Only kind to you, because we liked you. I say, Dyke, what games we used to have! You see, I never had a brother till you came. There, it's all right. Now then for a canter." "Not yet," said Dyke. "I feel as if I could talk to you this morning." "But you have talked, and it's all over now; so come along." "No," cried Dyke firmly, and he caught his brother's rein. "I say, old chap, are you the boss here, or am I?" "I am, this morning," said the boy, looking up in his brother's big manly face. "I want you to listen to me." "Well, go ahead then, and let's get it over." "It's been like this, Joe. I've got in a bad way of thinking lately. It's all been so disappointing, and no matter what one did, nothing came right." "Yes, that's true enough, old chap," said Emson, rather drearily; "and we have tried precious hard." "You have, Joe, and I've been a regular sulky, disappointed sort of brute." "Coat been a bit rough, Dyke, old chap, eh? Out of sorts." "I suppose in my head; but, Joe, I am sorry--I can't say it as I should like to, but I--I will try now." "Just as if I didn't know. We've been chums so long, old man, ever since you first took to me when I was a big stupid fellow, all legs like a colt, and as ugly, and you were a pretty little golden-haired chap, always wanting to stick your soft chubby little fist in my big paw. There, it's all right. Old times again, old un, and we're going to do it yet, eh?" "And you'll forgive me, Joe?" said Dyke earnestly. "Forgive you?" cried Emson, looking at his brother with his big pleasant manly face all in wrinkles. "Get along with you! What is there to forgive?" "I will try now and help you, Joe; I will, indeed." "Of course you will, old chap," cried Joe, a little huskily too; "and if you and I can't win yet, in spite of the hot sun and the disease and the wicked ways of those jolly old stilt-stalkers, nobody can." "Yes, we will win, Joe," cried Dyke enthusiastically. "That's your sort!" cried Emson. "We'll have a good long try, and if the ostriches don't pay, we'll hunt, as, I know, we've got plenty of room out here: we'll have an elephant farm instead, and grow ivory, and have a big warehouse for making potted elephant to send and sell at home for a breakfast appetiser. Who's going to give up, eh? Now, then, what about this canter? The horses want a breather--they're getting fidgety. I say, feel better now, old chap, don't you?" Dyke pinched his lips together and nodded shortly. "So do I.--Here! What's that?" He checked his horse, and pointed far away in the distance.