Dave meditated, while he kicked up splinters from the rotting logs. 'There's old man Roberts. You mind him, Alf?'
The Factor nodded, while Dave continued carelessly, 'He's tumbled off the perch. All his truck went by auction. I bought up his white pony—one he used to ride every day, summer or winter. He was a queer old chap, warn't he, Alf? I'd meet him crawling along the fence of his half section, wrapped up in all the rags he could lay claws on, if 'twas winter. His old jaws would be shifting, and the brown juice freezing in solid chunks on his dirty bunch of beard—'
'Goldam!' shouted McAuliffe. 'Think I care whether old man Roberts's alive or dead, or gone up like Elijah? What have the nitchies been up to? Tell us that, Dave.'
'Coming to that. You're in an everlasting twitter, Alf; don't give a fellow chance to open his lips. Young Munn's dead, too—'
'Well, well, what did he die of?'
'Overdose of lead. Riel's slick shot fixed him at Fish Creek.'
'Bad for his old folks. How goes the Rebellion?'
'There ain't none to speak on—not now, anyway.'
'Not quieted down? You don't say it's over, Dave?'
'That's what. It's the Archbishop's racket. He told 'em not to rise, and, by the powers, they didn't.'