ickling for your right
to the glass, when you should at such a time of emergency have been
ready to give up for the sake of all. Off with you."

"Serve you right," said Ned, as they climbed quickly up towards the
place from whence they had first seen the Indians. "If it had been my
father's glass I'd have given up in a moment instead of laying claim to
it."

Chris was silent, and involuntarily he touched both of his cheeks, as if
to feel whether they were as hot outside as they were in.

He found them hotter, and they grew hotter still by the time they had
reached their lookout, creeping to it during the last fifty yards and
keeping behind stones and bushes and every other bit of cover in their
way. "Wo-ho!" cried Chris cheerily then, as he lay on his chest looking
down towards the salt plain, with the nettled feeling dying out fast.
"Come on; you can see capitally from here."

"Oh!" cried Ned sharply.--"Here, catch hold."

As he spoke he held out the glass.

"What's the matter?"

"Something in my right eye.--I can't see."

He was rubbing it violently, and it certainly looked red and inflamed.

"Got something in it?"

"Yes, a fly or a bit of dust, or else I've rubbed it too hard. You must
look out, and I'll take the messages."

"Father's orders were that you should use the glass and I was to take
the messages."

"Yes, I know," cried Ned irritably, "but who's to use a glass with a fly
in his eye?"

"Lie down and turn over. I'll take it out with a bit of grass," said
Chris gruffly.

"No, no, catch hold of the glass and don't waste time. I shall be able
to rub it out directly."

"Better let me wipe it out gently with the strand of grass. I shan't
hurt you."

"Yes, you will. Eye's such a tender part. I know; I'll pull the lid up
and look at the sun. Then it'll water horribly, and wash the fly away."

"No, it won't," said Chris.

"What!--How do you know?"

"Because it isn't a fly."

"What!" cried Ned, whose cheeks were scarlet, as much as could be seen
for one hand held over the closed eye.

"You heard what I said," cried Chris. "It isn't a fly."

"What is it, then?" said Ned, who kept on rubbing hard at the inflamed
part. "A bit of grit or dust?"

"No, it's a fib, and it's in both your eyes."

"What?"

"There, don't keep on whating about it. I can see it quite plainly."

"Don't talk nonsense," cried Ned hurriedly. "Can't you see how it hurts
me?"

"Yes; but you needn't hav