"What?"
"Oh, that—you know—that—I don't know quite how to put it so it'll sound as orthodox as it might be, bein' true; but it looks pretty clear even to me"—again the big hand brushing at the unmoted sunshine—"that the only reason men got over bein' beasts was because they began to be brothers."
"Don't," said the Boy.
"Don't what?"
"I've always known I should have to tell you some time. I won't be able to put it off if I stay ... and I hate tellin' you now. See here: I b'lieve I'll get a pack-mule and go over to Indian River."
The Colonel looked round angrily. Standing high against the sky, Seymour, with the gateman up at the lock, was moderating the strong head of water. It began to flow sluggishly over the gravel-clogged riffles, and Scowl Austin was coming down the hill.
"I don't know what you're drivin' at, about somethin' to tell. I know one thing, though, and I learned it up here in the North: men were meant to stick to one another."
"Don't, I say."
"Here's Austin," whispered the Colonel.
The Silesian philosopher stood in his "gum-boots" in the puddling-box as on a rostrum; but silent now, as ever, when Scowl Austin was in sight. With the great sluice-fork, the philosopher took up, washed, and threw out the few remaining big stones that they might not clog the narrow boxes below.