Peter walked across and looked at Danny, who seemed to be sleeping as peacefully as could be expected of him.
Jack Barnes got up and walked slowly down the creek in the moonlight. He wanted to think.
Peter rolled out his blankets on the grass and arranged his saddle-bags for a pillow. Before he turned in Mitchell shook hands with him, a most unusual and unnecessary proceeding in camp. But there’s something in the bush grip which means “I know,” or “I understand.”
Joe Wilson rolled out his blankets close to Mitchell’s camp; he wanted to enjoy some of Mitchell’s quiet humour before he went to sleep, but Mitchell wasn’t in a philosophical mood. He wanted to reflect.
“I wonder who Gentleman Once was?” said Joe to Mitchell. “Could he have been Danny, or old Awful Example back there at the shanty?”
“Dunno,” said Mitchell. He puffed three long puffs at his pipe, and then said, reflectively:
“I’ve heard men tell their own stories before to-night Joe.”
It was Joe who wanted to think now.
About four o’clock Mitchell woke and stood up. Peter was lying rolled in his blanket with his face turned to the west. The moon was low, the shadows had shifted back, and the light was on Peter’s face. Mitchell stood looking at him reverently, as a grown son might who sees his father asleep for the first time. Then Mitchell quietly got some boughs and stuck them in the ground at a little distance from Peter’s head, to shade his face from the bright moonlight; and then he turned in again to sleep till the sun woke him.