Evidently it was not a night for pleasant conversations, and tempers seemed to be more or less on edge, so little more was said until the launch ran quietly alongside the old, unused wharf a quarter of a mile east of the new one at Redmans.
The men got out, one after another, leaving Allison to make his way back to his own side, alone; as they did not require him further.
Jim led the way through the bush and up the trail toward the main highway.
They had not gone more than two hundred yards, when a muttered oath, a noise of stumbling, and a crash, brought them to a stand-still. It was Brenchfield who had stumbled into a hole or over a log. Ready hands helped him up, but he immediately dropped back on the ground with a groan, in evident pain from his ankle.
“Hell mend it!” he growled. “I’ve turned my ankle in a blasted gopher hole or something.”
He writhed about in agony.
“Guess I’m out this trip,” he moaned.
“Toots!” put in Jim. “You’ll be all right in a minute. Let us give your foot a bit of a rub!”
“Strike a light and let me see what’s what,” suggested the Mayor.
Someone started in to do so.