"Give y' three," Watty said.
"Take 'em." George Woods did not turn. He was carefully working round a brilliantly fired seam through black potch in the shin cracker he had been breaking through two or three days before.
It was about lunch time, and Watty had crawled from his drive to the centre of the mine. Cash was still at work, crouched against a corner of the alley, a hundred yards or so from George; but he laid down his pick when he heard Watty's voice, and went towards him.
"Who d'you think Michael's got as third man?"
"Snow-Shoes?"
"No."
"Old Bill Olsen?"
Watty could not contain himself to the third guess.
"Rum-Enough!" he said.
"He would." George chipped at the stone round his colour. "It was bound to be a lame dog, anyhow—and it might as well've been Rummy as anybody."