other nozzle, I tell you.” He swung the handles round with a jerk, and at the ceasing of the thunder Fysh spoke.
“Kiliat said as we was to use this beast;” he shook the dribbling nozzle: “said as how it was bigger.”
“Kiliat be—oh, all right. He didn’t know it was leaking, I suppose. Change over. Keep her at that, and I’ll overhaul this in the morning. Just the bolts worked loose, I expect.”
Fysh sniggered as he turned, and Ormond’s hands came out of his pockets in a flash. But he dropped them, swung on his heel, and tramped through clayey mullock until the tail of light flickered out over yellow wash in the boxes and the white of Roddy’s face. The understanding of Fysh’s half-laugh sung through Ormond’s head, and brought a roughness to his voice.
“Roddy! There’s heavy stuff in the corner. Watch it below the half-way, for one ripple is cracked.”
“Yes,” said Roddy, and hopped into the boxes, loosing a block with one masterly kick of the shovel.
Ormond dropped his head on his chest, and went down-hill with a sure swift foot among the raffle of dead scrub and fallen-in shafts and stones. The grate of wash and the snarl of the jet passed out behind, and down on the level of the Changing Creek was pale star-
