t have to wait so long."

"It's a fact, Irish," laughed Bill. "I go on at 4 A.M. to-morrow."

"Fure A.M., is ut? An' phwat'll ye be doin'? Peelin' praties fer that
dommed pisener in th' kitchen. Ye've only been laid up t'ree days an'
talk av goin' to wor-rk. Man! Av Oi was lucky enough to git squose
loike that, Oi'd make ut lasht a month av Oi had to pour ink on me foot
to kape up th' color."

"I'm going to Hilarity for a cook," insisted Bill. "Moncrossen says
there is a real one down there--Daddy Dunnigan, he called him."

"Sure, Dunnigan'll not come into th' woods. An' phy shud he? Wid money
in th' bank, an' her majesty's--Oi mane, his nibs's pension comin' in
ivery month, an' his insides broke in to Hod Burrage's whisky--phwat
more c'd a man want?"

"The boss thinks maybe he'll come. Anyway, I am going after him."

"Ye shud av towld um to go to hell! Wor-rkin' a man wid a foot loike
that is croolty to animals; av ye was a harse he'd be arrested."

"He didn't tell me to go. He is crowded for men; the grub is rotten;
something has to be done; and he asked me if I thought I could make
it."

Irish pulled thoughtfully at his pipe, and slowly his brows drew
together in a frown.

"He said ye c'd make ut in two days?" he inquired.

"Yes. The tote-road is well broken, and forty miles traveling light
with that rangy team is not such an awful pull."

"An' he towld ye phwere to camp. It'll be Melton's awld No. 8, where ye
camped comin' in?"

"Yes."

Fallon nodded thoughtfully, and Bill wondered what was passing in his
mind. For a long time he was silent, and the injured man responded to
the hearty greetings and inquiries of the men returning from the
grub-shack.

When these later had disposed themselves for the evening, the Irishman
hunched his chair closer to the bunk upon which Bill was sitting.

"At Melton's No. 8, Oi moind, th' shtables is a good bit av a way from
th' rist av th' buildin's, an' hid from soight be a knowl av ground."

"I don't remember the stables, but they can't be very far; they are in
the clearing, and Moncrossen had the blacksmith make me a crutch."

"A crutch, is ut? A crutch! Well, a man ud play hell makin' foorty
moiles on a crutch in th' winter--no mather how good th' thrail was
broke."

"Forty miles! Look here, Irish--what are you talking about? I thought
your bottle had been empty for a week."

"Impty ut is--which me head ain't. Listen: S'posin'--just s'posin',
moind yez Oi'