Justin merely expectorated skilfully across the flat of the white blade.
'May have been monkey work going on,' continued McAuliffe. 'I was too everlastingly raddled to know anything. See here, boy, you were around best part of the time. Anyone cutting a crooked dido, you reckon?'
The half-breed shook his head slowly. 'Lightning, thunder, wind, rain.' He waved his hands towards the white rolling cloud masses. 'I in the hut—all night.'
'Did Peter shift his carcase outside any time?'
The decided shake of the half-breed's head was sufficient to exonerate the ex-minister.
McAuliffe pulled a deadwood stick from the bush, then brought the paddle to shore. 'One fellow gains by another's loss. It's a first-class paddle, boy.'
They continued along the shingle, worked up the cliff, and were already within sight of the fort, when the old Chief crawled painfully from the dim forest track and waited for the representative of justice to come up. With his great hand McAuliffe screened his eyes from the white stream of light, and presently observed the bent figure.
'Hello, whisky bottle! What're you after?'
The old man replied in his weak tones, 'I wish to speak to the white father. Now I have found him on the way.'
'That's what. No charge for talking to-day. Pump it out quick, though, for I'm wanting my grub.' He stopped, but Justin went on to the fort. Then the Chief came nearer, and stretched out a skinny hand.