Henri knew
it, and Joe Blunt knew it. Even Crusoe knew that something was wrong
with his master, although he could not exactly make out what it was.
But Crusoe made memoranda in the note-book of his memory. He jotted
down the peculiar phases of his master's new disease with the care and
minute exactness of a physician, and, we doubt not, ultimately
added the knowledge of the symptoms of home-sickness to his already
well-filled stores of erudition.
It was not till they had set out on their homeward journey that
Dick Varley's spirits revived, and it was not till they reached the
beautiful prairies on the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, and
galloped over the greensward towards the Mustang Valley, that Dick
ventured to tell Joe Blunt what his feelings had been.
"D'ye know, Joe," he said confidentially, reining up his gallant steed
after a sharp gallop--"d'ye know I've bin feelin' awful low for some
time past."
"I know it, lad," answered Joe, with a quiet smile, in which there
was a dash of something that implied he knew more than he chose to
express.
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