man, Murray. If you want to make an example of some of ’em leave me him. I can’t do without Pug.”
Beyond Lonely Hill and beyond North-of-Sunday, Purdey contracted the working of the saw-mill in the Big Bush for Scannell. The strait years through he ruled near a hundred men, all told; and it was only when the frost struck the heavy snow to flint for perhaps a clipped week in the winter, or again when spring floods swamped them out, that Purdey’s camp ran wild; taking payment in the township bars for lean labour-filled days, and grinding Murray down to the bed-rock of desperation and profanity.
“For not all Mains and Behar on an election-night—no, nor on a race-night, either—can see the way your men go when they foregather down here, Purdey. Though I will say you make ’em sweat for it once you’ve got them into the chains.”
Purdey grinned slowly. He was young and soft-voiced and quiet. But the wills of eighteen men out of twenty broke before his when they followed him over the severing tide-way of two worlds, and came under the dominion of the bush.
“I take delivery up at camp,” he said. “They’re to your interest down here—not mine.”
A blast of sound rolled down the street,
