“I ain’t goin’ to hev my hoss harrered. I’ll take him up ter the bush———”
“By the Lord Harry—here—scrag him, somebody———”
Came a quick rustle among the blankets and chopped tussock, and a spurt of rain across Danny’s face where he lay by the flap. Then the unbelieving silence of the men. Lou broke it. He leapt for the opening.
“Come on, you fools. He’ll do it, sure as———”
Steve was shouting for his boots, and five pairs of feet battered Danny as they passed him. He grabbed the last ankle, and came out with it, sending a wild shout before him into the night. In the eight-by-twelve whare that made breakwind for the tent slept Ted Douglas, with Randal and Mogger. Douglas had the special comprehensive understanding of the ruler, and the bunk next the door as well. He cast on coat and boots with his senses half-waked, passed Conlon at the first creek, and learned essentials by one curt sentence flung piece-meal.
A wild half-lit sky was over the hills, with straight slivers of rain pelting through it, and a giddy dance of storm-clouds red above the bush. With the shout of the wind came the grunt of flying Paradise duck and the peculiar whish of blown birch-leaves. A tossing cabbage-tree marked out the yard-gate; and, head
