Randal—more be token as he’s shankin’ down-hill wid all the power lef’ to him.”
“Randal was allers a fool,” said Scott, falling out of a dispute that had been over-hot. “He’s workin’ a hatter’s claim up Chinaman’s Gully now, and gittin’ his washups from the Lion drainage. Makes a colour p’raps once in four days, he does. A fine sort o’ life, that.”
Someone spoke above the murmur of voices where the tobacco clouds hung on the dusk.
“Oh, go it! We’re mighty ready to jump on a man for goin’ lame. Suppose you hunt round for the last his boot was made on, next time.”
“It’s wise ye are,” said Tod, dryly. “We buys thim ready-made, me bosthoon; an’ wan lasht does for the lot—until it is worn out. Bhut it does not pinch us all.”
Ted Douglas smoked slowly.
“You allers talk clever when you’re not meanin’ it. Tod,” he said. “Till our feet is all made on one last, too, I reckin there’ll gene’ly be some on us goin’ lame.”
A Queenslander sat up with a crackle of the brushwood stack at his foot.
“There’s a time comin’ when we’ll make our own bloomin’ lasts an’ our own bloomin’ laws,” he said. “No ready-made foolery. We won’t hev no corns then.”
Danny rolled over, and pulled the accordeon toward him.
