“Roddy! Tell Gordon to hurry up home. I got a bit o’ chicken for his tea.”
Roddy grunted reply without looking up, and tramped on. Over the tussock hill the sunset lay red, and the cool of the spring evening grew as the Nor’west died. Roddy climbed the stiff slope with its needly spines, beat through gorse and broom until the thunder of the dredges in Changing Creek filled the air, and the tent that he shared with Fysh showed in the shingle gully at his feet. By the fire Fysh was feeding already. He paused with his knife at his mouth to say:
“Yer ain’t got much time ter go wastin’, kid.”
Roddy poured strong tea from the billy; drank again and again; clawed oilskins and long boots from beneath the bunk, and fixed on a loose button with wire. Fysh ate with noise and cheerful haste, and Roddy’s nerves twitched in irritation and disgust.
“Did yer tell Ormond ’bout that shovel yer broke the ’andle off of?” demanded Fysh, licking the sugar out of his pannikin audibly.
“Curse the shovel,” said Roddy.
Fysh stared. Then he rose and boxed Roddy’s ears.
“I got ’nother ’and for the other side if you give me any back-talk,” he said. “Come up out o’ that, an’ get to yer work.”
Roddy followed over the hill uncaring;
