"Better get your pegs fixed quickly," I advised.
But he shook his head rather sadly. "I haven't got an axe," he said, "and—and I'm new to this sort of thing."
Mac had by this time obtained the four blazed posts necessary to denote our "three-men square," and Stewart promptly began to smite them into position in their proper places.
"If ye'll alloo me," said Mac, "I'll get the bitties o' sticks fur ye; I'd be vera sorry tae a bonnie rinner like you left in the cauld."
But there was no time now.
"Shift out our posts instead, Mac," I instructed, "we'll make a four-men lot of it and divide afterwards."
Our white-shirted associate looked at me gratefully, and held out his hand. "My name is Philip Morris," he said. "I am an Englishman, just out from the old country."
A swaying mob of perspiring and fiery-eyed men of all nationalities now flooded the valley as a tumultuous sea of humanity, and scattered in twos and fours throughout its entire length.
"You've struck a circus for a start, Morris," I said. "I think we'll all remember the Five-Mile Rush."