Meanwhile Andy was suffering a reaction. He started to fill the hole before he put the post in; then to ram the post before the rails were in position. Dubbing off the ends of the rails, he was in danger of amputating a toe or a foot with every stroke of the adze. And, at last, trying to squint along the little lumps of clay which he had placed in the centre of the top of each post for several panels back—to assist him to take a line—he found that they swam and doubled, and ran off in watery angles, for his eyes were too moist to see straight and single.
Then he threw down the tools hopelessly, and was standing helplessly undecided whether to go home or go down to the creek and drown himself, when Dave turned up again.
“Seen her?” asked Dave.
“Yes,” said Andy.
“Did you chuck her?”
“Look here, Dave; are you sure the feller was Mick Kelly?”
“I never said I was. How was I to know? It was dark. You don't expect I'd 'fox' a feller I see doing a bit of a bear-up to a girl, do you? It might have been you, for all I knowed. I suppose she's been talking you round?”
“No, she ain't,” said Andy. “But, look here, Dave; I was properly gone on that girl, I was, and—and I want to be sure I'm right.”
The business was getting altogether too psychological for Dave Bentley. “You might as well,” he rapped out, “call me a liar at once!”
“'Taint that at all, Dave. I want to get at who the feller is; that's what I want to get at now. Where did you see them, and when?”