“Yes!” yelled Andy.
“Well—you've done it!”
“Yes,” said Andy, hopelessly; “I've done it!”
Dave whistled now—a very long, low whistle. “Well, you're a bloomin' goat, Andy, after this. But this thing'll have to be fixed up!” and he cantered away. Poor Andy was too badly knocked to notice the abruptness of Dave's departure, or to see that he turned through the sliprails on to the track that led to Porter's.
. . . . .
Half an hour later Andy appeared at Porter's back door, with an expression on his face as though the funeral was to start in ten minutes. In a tone befitting such an occasion, he wanted to see Lizzie.
Dave had been there with the laudable determination of fixing the business up, and had, of course, succeeded in making it much worse than it was before. But Andy made it all right.
The Iron-Bark Chip
Dave Regan and party—bush-fencers, tank-sinkers, rough carpenters, &c.—were finishing the third and last culvert of their contract on the last section of the new railway line, and had already sent in their vouchers for the completed contract, so that there might be no excuse for extra delay in connection with the cheque.