"Thirty-five miles to-day," observed Allen, as they pushed on along a somewhat hilly trail, lined on either side by cactus and other low plants.
"Is that the distance to Daddy Wampole's hotel, as you call it?"
"Yes by the roads. The direct route would not make it over thirty miles, but we can't fly as the birds do."
"We ought to make thirty-five miles easily enough."
"We could on a level. But you must remember we have several hills to climb and half a dozen water courses to ford. I imagine, too, you will get tired of the saddle before nightfall."
"Oh, I can stand it," laughed Noel Urner, "thanks to my experience in the riding schools in New York and my frequent exercises in Central Park."
"A big difference between Central Park and this, eh? I would like to see the park some time," returned Allen.
On they went, taking advantage of the early morning while the sun was still low. The level stretch was passed and then they came to a good-sized brook. Beyond was a belt of timber and the first of the hills.
