against the half door. The drover spat a chewed straw from his mouth and grinned.
“Jes’ lookin’ roun’ fur suthin’ ter worry,” he said. “It’s a common enough caper when they’ve been doin’ ’emselves pretty well. P’raps they’ll quiet down; p’raps they’ll hev knives goin’ direckly. We jes’ keeps our eyes skinned—but it’s best ter light out ef they gits nasty.”
There were some white men in the shouting half-maddened crush. Randal’s glance dropped on a little thin face under a big-brimmed hat hung round with bobbing corks, and he started.
“Know who that little chap is?” he demanded. “The fellow with the corks to keep the flies off. New to the country, eh?”
“You’ll be wearin’ them yerself nex’ month—what chap? No—dun’t know his name. He’s slabbin’ in with the Chows. A rotter, by the look o’ him.”
Randal agreed without hesitation. For the little man was Jimmie Blaine.
Jimmie wore union shirting and dirty corduroys. He was unkempt, and the shifty lines on his face had deepened. Moreover, the sidelong look in his small eyes told of a dogging fear. He stood with hands thrust in his pockets on the rim of the crowd, and Randal shrugged his shoulders.
“You’re scum even of that lot, my friend
