“Fluming’s broke in Paddy’s Gully,” said the Packer. “Yer could hear Ormond swearin’ from here till day before yest’d’y if yer stood out in the wind. ’Sides, it’s Guise’s blame—an’ Tod’s.”
“Bedad, if it’s foight ye’re spilin’ for, come here,” cried Tod. “I’ll be afther aitin’ ye up wan be wan, an’ niver knowin’ it.”
“Go an’ hit somethin’ yer own size, little man. Where’s Danny?”
“Where should he be but tellin’ Suse ’bout his ballotin’? He’s in for land what they say’ll carry three sheep to the acre, an’ p’raps a calf———”
“Sure then, he’s a sheep-farmer a’ready,” crowed Tod. “Catched a tick on to himself yesterday an’ sint clane away for his wool-sacks. Nothin’ loike takin’ toime be the tail—an’ hangin’ on—if ye want to git there.”
The amble of hoofs came down the street, and Rogers spoke with the certainty of observation.
“That’s Pipi Wepeha’s old hoss. Bring him along in, Blake. He’s a three-act comic hopra when he gits goin’.”
The Packer blinked over to Murray.
“He’s come along ter thank yer fur givin’ his son free lodgin’, Murray,” he wheezed.
Murray yawned, his head against the chimney-piece.
“Let him,” he said wearily. His shield was
