"Thanks," said Derek, taking it. "Go on with your game. I'll watch."
Jammery produced a bottle from under the table, and going to the cupboard in the lean-to, returned with a tumbler which Derek recognized as one from his own house. "It's the only glass we have," explained Jammery, "we like it just as well out of tin mugs."
Derek took the glass that Jammery handed him and sipped it critically. The flavour was so like his own that the thought crossed his mind that probably Fawnie had had something to do with the presence of this good Scotch in the shack. Nevertheless, he took his drink philosophically. He liked to watch the Indians as they played, their deep-set eyes glittering like jewels in their immobile swarthy faces, the movements of their hands as they shook the dice. Jammery continued to win. Presently young Charley began to pay his debts in packets of red picker's tickets with the name of Derek's uncle printed on them. At last they were gone, and the boy rose sulkily from the table, saying a few words in Indian to Jammery.
"Very well," replied Jammery, in English, "go to bed. Perhaps Mr. Vale would like to take your place."
"I shouldn't mind," said Derek. As a matter of fact, he had been wanting to take a hand for some time. . . .
So Grimstone folded him closer in its woods, and orchards, and streams, and in the lives of the aboriginal people who had once so barbarously dwelt there.
The women went to their bunks; and a slight silver moon rose above the orchard. An owl cried repeatedly in a mournful, downward trill. The men at the table noticed none of these things. Derek had had a considerable amount of money in his pockets and he was losing it slowly but surely to Jammery and Isaac. He did not mind, for
