Another of the men sat down close by, and Grenfell waved his hand to the others as they moved away.
“Bless you! You’re good boys,” he said.
The man who remained grinned at Weston.
“We’ve packed the blame old deadbeat ’most three miles. If Tom hadn’t promised to see him through I’d have felt tempted to dump him into the river. The boys were trying to fill him up at the Sprotson House.”
Grenfell, who did not appear to hear him, thrust a hand into his pocket, and pulling out a few silver coins counted them deliberately.
“Two—four—six,” he said. “Six dollars to face an unkind world with. It isn’t very much.”
He sighed and turned to Weston.
“You know I’ve got to quit?”
“That’s right,” interposed the other man. “Cassidy’s had ’most enough of him. He never could cook, anyway, and the boys are getting thin. Last thing he did was to put the indurated plates on the stove to warm. Filled the thing right up and left them. When he came back the plates had gone.”
Weston, who had been sent to work some distance from the camp that day and had not heard of this mishap, felt sorry for Grenfell. The man evidently had always been somewhat frail, and now he was past his prime; indulgence in deleterious whisky had further shaken him. He could not chop or ply the shovel, and it was with difficulty that his companions had borne his cooking, while it seemed scarcely likely that anybody would have much use for him in a country that is run by the young and strong. He sat still regarding the money ruefully.