Chapter Thirty Seven.
Castles in the Air.
“Don’t try to find any more adjectives, boy,” said the convict about an hour later. “Be content with beautiful. That’s what it is.”
They were sitting in front of a loosely made bark gunyah, bare-footed, and with their shoes and well-worn stockings placed upon a scorching sheet of rock to dry. The wallet was empty, for they had made a hearty meal; after which Nic had been piling up all the words he could think of to express his admiration for the valley shut in by those tremendous walls, or his delight with the beauty and novelty of the place.
The troubles of his life seemed to have dropped from the convict, who laughed and talked as if he were a dozen years younger, and free from care. The hard, bitter look had gone from his eyes, and he entered with boyish zest into the proposals his young companion made.
“Oh yes,” he cried, “we must have plenty of shooting and fishing. How many birds have you collected and skinned?”
“Two,” said Nic, making a grimace. “I’ve been so busy.”
“Never mind; you can come here and shoot. I’ll skin for you, and you can get a fine collection.”