that reeled away like drunken men. He held the path grimly; his eyes fastened on the writhe of the grade under the quivering lamp-light, and every sense answering in trained skill to the need.
The team breasted the top; unbeaten, undistressed and game. The macadam rolled through a green tableland where waked sheep and cattle fed in the long vernal scented grass. And here Randal dropped his hands and crouched. For the strain had been very cruel, and the blood-letting had weakened his grip.
Murray’s voice came through the window.
“Are you in charge yet, Randal?”
“Yes—think I’ve got them under. How’s Art?”
“Blest if I can make him out. I believe the young beggar is kidding us. He’s absolutely happy down there, singing Army hymns———”
“What! Do you think he’s all right, Murray? Do you think he’s all right?”
The ring in the voice called many things to Murray’s memory.
“I’d lay good long odds on it,” he said.
“Then I wish to goodness you could get him through there, and hang on to the strings while I come in and wallop him, Murray.”
Murray grinned.
“Pity to disturb him—listen———”
Above the uneven nervous gait whereby
