Michael wondered where he was going. There was a purposeful hunch about his shoulders as if he had a definite goal in view. Michael had intended asking his new mate to go down to the New Town and get the meat for their tea, but he went himself after he had yarned with Archie and Ted Cross for a while.
When he returned to the hut, Potch was not there. Michael made a fire, unwrapped his steak, hung it on a hook over the fire, and spread out the pannikins, tin plates and knives and forks for his meal, putting a plate and pannikin for Potch. He was kneeling before the fire giving the steak a turn when Potch came in. Potch stood in the doorway, looking at Michael as doubtfully as a stray kitten which did not know whether it might enter.
"That you, Potch?" Michael called.
"Yes," Potch said.
Michael got up from the fire and carried the grilled steak on a plate to the table.
"Well, you were nearly late for dinner," he remarked, as he cut the steak in half and put a piece on the other plate for Potch. "You better come along and tuck in now ... there's a great old crowd down at Nancarrow's this evening. First time for nearly a month he's killed a beast, and everybody wants a bit of steak. Sam gave me this as a sort of treat; and it smells good."
Potch came into the kitchen and sat on the box Michael had drawn up to the table for him.
"Been bringing in the goats for Sophie," he jerked out, looking at Michael as if there were some need of explanation.
"Oh, that was it, was it?" Michael replied, getting on with his meal. "Thought you'd flitted!"
Potch met his smile with a shadowy one. A big, clumsy-looking fellow, with a dull, colourless face and dingy hair, he sat facing Michael, his eyes anxious, as though he would like to explain further, but was afraid to, or could not find words. His eyes were beautiful; but they were his father's eyes, and Michael recoiled to qualms of misgiving, a faint distrust, as he looked in them.