necklaces across the purple velvet of the sky; and their pure breath was in the night air, and the shadow of their wings on the far hills. Randal stumbled between the shed pits of the matai trunks and the long slivers of ribbonwood bark; climbed a wire fence; crossed a paddock with bog and a smell of pigs, and came to anchor before the Three Corners Hotel. Murray, closing up, saw the horrible white of his face under the kerosene lamp hung out for the 2 a. m. train. He caught at the shoulder that swayed, as Art Scannell passed to the bar whistling.
“What have you done to yourself? Randal, you owl, you’re hurt———”
Randal was assured that his words came through a thick blanket.
“How—how’s Art?” he asked, for the third time.
“Art,” said Murray, distinctly, “was very drunk to-night, and tried a game on. He’s gone into the bar to get drunk again; but if he tries any more games, I’ll know why. Now, come in here, Randal, and let’s see what is wrong.”
Within the two ends of a half-hour Randal had quarrelled with Wallace of the hotel, with Murray, and with the three men who had turned up at the siding for the train. For he sat on the horse-hair sofa with twenty-one
