Hayhurst sat up, and then got upon his feet.
“Not all hogs this journey,” he said. And added: “The bed where that pillow came from will serve me better than the floor.”
Lawless nodded.
“There’s a bed apiece,” he answered. “The floor to-night is good enough for these.”
He flung on fresh logs, and stepping between the closely packed forms, took up the lamp from the table and led the way to the bedrooms. Before separating for the night Hayhurst held out his hand.
“To show there’s no ill-feeling,” he explained with a self-conscious laugh.
Notwithstanding the late carousal of the previous night, the morning found the men early astir. Rentoul awoke only half sober, and had to sharpen his faculties with a nip before he rose, and, despite his overnight homily on personal cleanliness, wiped the dust from his hair and beard with a grimy hand and sat down to breakfast unwashed. In the clear light of day they were a rough, strangely assorted lot; only the older man, Graves, with his air of distinction and education, stood out from the rest, like a man-of-war among a flotilla of “tramps”—but a man-of-war that has been in battle and come out of it badly damaged.
“Rum go, our meeting again, like this,” he said to Lawless, while they stood in the sunshine together and watched the others inspanning the mules. “I’d ask you to make a return call, only,”—he lifted his shoulders and smiled—“I’m a descendant of Cain—a wanderer upon the earth. I’ll own my six feet some day, I suppose, and come to anchor.”
Lawless glanced at the speaker with interest.
“I’m something of a rolling stone myself,” he answered. “I doubt I shall ever lay claim to greater acreage than you.”