Presently this gang rolled round an abrupt corner, to collide heavily with a thickset man, buttoned up to the chin in a thick blue coat, and smoking a cigar of abnormal dimensions. With difficulty he retained his balance, though he completely failed to preserve contact with the undue length of tobacco, which was dashed from his jaws by the force of impact, and lay in the white dust. Before the owner could reclaim it, McAuliffe had seized him in a bear-like grip.
'It's Captain!' he bellowed. 'Darned if 'tisn't old Captain Robinson.'
'Why! why! Alf McAuliffe, if I'm not a liar,' gasped the other. 'Well! well! Hold on there, Alf. There's an hour's smoke lying on the trail. Wait till I get my fist round it.'
'Boys!' said McAuliffe, turning to his companions, 'I'm going off for a while. Want to have a talk with Captain here. Pass over the basket, Pete.'
'You'll turn up later?' cried the satellites in unison, one of them handing over a small brown hamper, which he seemed to relinquish not unwillingly.
''Course. I'll meet you round the tent. Think I'm going to miss the fun?'
Every beard wagged, each eye twinkled, at the prospect of approaching diversion.
'Come on. Captain,' shouted the Factor, 'So long, boys. You're spoiling for a good scrap, the whole derned crowd of you.'
'S'long, Alf.' Then the chorus, influenced by entire mutual understanding, wheeled into an adjacent saloon, whither McAuliffe followed them wistfully with his eyes.
He was, indeed, consuming with badly suppressed excitement. 'What do you think is the last racket. Captain?'