with a sort of fatherly indulgence, agreed mildly with the labouring man, and seemed lost for a moment in a reverie from which he roused himself to enquire cautiously after the boss. There was no boss, it was a co-operative party. That chap standing over there by the dray in the end of the cutting was their spokesman―their representative: they called him Boss, but that was only his nickname in camp. Steelman expressed his thanks and moved on towards the cutting, followed respectfully by Smith.
Steelman wore a snuff-coloured sac suit, a wide-awake hat, a pair of professional-looking spectacles, and a scientific expression; there was a clerical atmosphere about him, strengthened however by an air as of unconscious dignity and superiority, born of intellect and knowledge. He carried a black bag, which was an indispensable article in his profession in more senses than one. Smith was decently dressed in sober tweed and looked like a man of no account, who was mechanically devoted to his employer's interests, pleasures, or whims, whatever they may have been.
The boss was a decent-looking young fellow with a good face―rather solemn―and a quiet manner.
'Good day, sir,' said Steelman.
'Good day, sir,' said the Boss.
'Nice weather this.'
'Yes, it is, but I'm afraid it won't last.'
'I am afraid it will not by the look of the sky down there,' ventured Steelman.
'No, I go mostly by the look of our weather prophet,' said the Boss with a quiet smile, indicating the gloomy man.
