"Would you?" he said. "Would you? Randal, my friend, I thought there was better stuff in you than that! But — after to-night — I think I'll take charge of these — for the pres- ent, anyway."
He raked six from the blanket heap, picked up another on the floor, dropped them into his trouser pocket, and set about making a fire. A half -filled billy swung from the hook, and it suggested something. Ormond grunted and slipped his coat.
"You've washed up for me before now, Ran- dal," he said. "Suppose it's up to me to do it for you. And — seeing that I've come to hurt you pretty severely, I'U serve you a clean feed, anyway."
He gathered greasy pannikins and dishes; tipped them into a deep meat pan, and cleared decks with a deft foot. . . . "And I think you're not taking much pride in yourself just now, old man, for you're not a pig by nature. Now where the dickens is that smelling hide?"
He went to work like a man accustomed; while the afterglow on the hills ripened to pur- ple and claret, and sank through mouse-colour and canary to a windy black. Then the grate of pick and shovel sounded as they fell together by the door, and Randal came in, kicking the clay of the wash from his hip boots. He had grown older in the month that had brought
