into excellent firewood. “But I very sincerely hope he’s had his neck broken. Didn’t you hear me trying to get through the window?”
“This is a short cut into Three Corners,” said Art Scannell, coming out of a bank of bracken with scratches blood-lined across his cheek. “Come along down, you two, and have a nip. I’ll shout.”
Murray fell on a white tree bole and rocked with laughter.
“I’ll bet you will, my innocent. Just wait till Randal gets his hands on you———”
“Just put your back into this, and shut up,” said Randal, in vivid command; and Murray went where the noise of straining leather and burst wood was calling. Randal loosed the four, and slashed at the latest with a curse.
“They’ll go home,” he said, “and Conroy will have to send an engine or firestick for the coach. Come on. I’ve got to hunt up a horse to get back with.”
“Couldn’t you have ridden———”
“No, thanks. Nor could you. I know those four. Besides———”
He staggered a little, pulled himself up, and trudged forward. Art Scannell followed, singing after his kind, and Murray tailed in the rear, marvelling that he did not slay young Art and bury him in a decayed log.
The angels had strung all their diamond
