"'Joy comes up through the Gates of Dawn,'" hummed Dan, wiping his face.
This mystical utterance was of course unintelligible to Tim, who looked up as though about to demand an explanation; but on second thoughts he threw himself down for a rest. He was not so young as he had been, and the violent exercise of the last sixty minutes had told slightly on his iron frame.
"That was a good un, rye," said he, referring to the combat; "but you're too much of the eel for me. It ain't at sixty years that a man should mash round after a slippery chap like you."
"Are you sixty years of age?" exclaimed Dan; and as Tim nodded, he continued, "Well, you don't look it, my man."
"Open air and exercise, plain fare and daily change," replied Tim, glibly running off his lists of arts for circumventing the enemy Time; "but I'm beginning to get on, brother. There's a hole as I'll fall into afore long. Yet there's work to be done and wrongs to be righted afore I am tripped up. When all's square, I'll tumble into Mother Earth's arms with the rest."
Engaged in getting victuals from the caravan, Dan did not at once comment on this mournful speech. When he did speak, his remark was more practical than sympathetic.
"No doubt you're hungry after that tussle, Tim."
"Ay, and thirsty. What have you to drink?"
"Bottled beer. Here! don't spoil your dinner by smoking."
Tim rapped the ashes out of his pipe, and with an assenting grin restored it to his pocket. Then he fell to caressing Peter.