in their shade.

"We've done thirty miles, anyway," said Conniston, cheerily, when he,
too, had drunk. "Twenty miles farther to the hills, and--"

Hapgood, his head between his hands, groaned.

"Twenty miles farther and I'll be dead. I couldn't eat any of that
infernal mess last night, and I couldn't eat beefsteak and mashed
potatoes this morning. And I've got pains through me now in a dozen
places. I wish--"

He broke off suddenly. There was little use to tell what he wished: a
cool club-room on Broadway; a deep, soft leather chair; a waiter to
bring him delicate dishes and cool drinks.

For an hour they sat in the shade resting. Then Conniston got to his
feet and threw his reins over his horse's head.

"Come on, Roger," he said, quietly, the unusual gentleness of his tone
showing the pity he felt. "We can't stay here all day."

Hapgood rose wordlessly and walked stiffly to his horse. He cursed it
roundly when it jerked back from him, and for five minutes he strove
to mount. The animal, high strung and restless, was frightened, first
at his lunging gait, then at his loud, angry voice, and jerked away
from him each time that he tried to get his foot into the stirrup. But
at last, with the aid of Conniston, who rode his own horse close to
the other, preventing its turning, Hapgood climbed into the saddle.
And again in silence they pushed on toward the hills.