THE SWAY OF GOLD.
The sounds of the eighteen voices, joined in the Palmer song, travelled
through the silent bush, back towards Boulder Creek, along the route
where many a camp-fire twinkled in the darkness as the marching army of
miners formed their bivouacs in twos and threes. And where it echoed,
men turned their heads to listen, and ceased even to smoke for the
moment, as they strove to gauge the distance the main camp was ahead,
and wondered if it were "good enough to shove along" in the dark. On
either side of the main camp, and all around, the sounds reverberated
amidst the tall, gaunt, scanty-leaved gums, till the 'possums scratched
and chattered as they danced along the boughs, and the slow-witted bears
sniffed the cool-scented air of the night to find some reason for the
unusual flood of melody. Farther ahead still it travelled, till the
lonely dingo heard it as he prowled, and, sitting on his haunches,
raised his throat towards the skies and poured forth a melancholy howl
in unison, rousing the suspicions of the night curlew that everything
was not as it should be, and inducing him in turn to give utterance to
his cry, mournful and weird as the wail of an outcast soul, to warn his
fellows to be on the alert, and to add to the unspeakably awe-inspiring
solemnity of the bush at night.
Farther still it travelled, until, little more than a faint echo, it
reached another camp-fire far ahead of the main camp, a fire beside
which two men sat. A blanket was spread between them, and upon it lay a
pile of small nuggets of gold, and, on a tin plate, a heap of gold-dust.
One of the two, a man whose eyebrows formed a black heavy band across
the forehead, held up his hand as the sound came to him. Then he
laughed.
"Hear that?" he asked, looking at his companion. "If we'd waited till
to-morrow where would our chance have been? They're barely two miles
away, and there's a mob of them, by the sound. The news of the great
find is out, Tap, my son, and the rush has begun. They'll be swarming
over the place to-morrow, swarming--and swearing," he added, as he again
laughed loudly.
His companion, a slim, long-limbed man, with a sharp-featured face and
shifty eyes, sat listening intently to the faint echo of the refrain of
Palmer Billy's song.
"They're less than two miles, less than one mile away," he said, with a
fleeting glance at the dark, heavy face of the other. "Look here--what
if some of them push on in the dark?"
"Well, what if they do? Do you think the first-comers will know where to
look? You're as weak in the nerves as ever, Tap, my son."
"The new-comers might not, but what about Gleeson and Walker? Are they
such new chums as to let the others get in ahead, do you think?" Tap
answered.
"I don't know either of them, and don't want to."
"Well, you'll find they're a bit too tough to handle----"
"See here, Tap," the other interrupted. "Ten years down yonder ain't
changed me for the better, and don't you forget it. I don't give a damn
for you nor your mates. See? I don't care if it's five or fifty, I'll
face the lot of you. Two words and your interest in this is----" he
pointed to the gold, and then snapped his fingers in the other man's
face. The black brows were lower over the eyes and the eyes flashed
brighter in the firelight, and Tap did what most men of his type do
before danger, real or imagined--shifted his ground and cringed.
"I didn't mean to say anything----"
"Then dry up," the other retorted quickly. "We'll finish dividing this
first, and then make the next move."
"But--some of them are bound to have horses--Gleeson will, if he's
there--and then they'll be on the ground before we are ten miles away,
and he'll track us as easy as a black-fellow."
"Will he? And you think----here," the man broke off impatiently, "what's
the use of talking to a soft-brain like you? If it weren't that I wanted
a mate, I'd have no shift with you. I've said we're square for old
times, and square it is--you take the dust and I take the nuggets."
"The dust ain't----"
"You'll take it or leave it," the other exclaimed in a bullying tone;
and Tap quietly reached for the tin plate, and proceeded to push the
dust into a small bag he produced from his pocket. The other man
stripped a coarse canvas belt from his waist, and stuffed the nuggets
into it through a small opening at the end.
"Now, Tap, my son," he said, when the last nugget was out of sight and
the belt was again round his waist, "we're ready for the next move. Pick
up the swags. We're going down to the next camp to look after their
horses, if they've got any."
He started as soon as the other man had the two swags slung over his
shoulder, walking away from the fire and into the bush in the direction
from whence the sound of the song had come. There was just light enough
from the stars to make the pale bark of the gums show against the sombre
shade of distance, and to reveal the presence of shrubs by a darker loom
on the black shadow. The heavy, brutal-shaped head turned from side to
side as the man walked, as though he were noting the lay of the land as
he passed; but in reality the eyes always looked back to see that Tap,
with the two swags on his shoulder, was still following. Neither
exchanged a word as they walked on, carefully and quietly, through the
gloomy mystery of the silent bush. The howl of a dingo in the distance,
the wail of a curlew, or the hum of a mosquito, were the only sounds
beyond the occasional crackle of a twig trodden under foot, or the swish
of a bent shrub swinging back to its original position.
A faint, ruddy gleam, which was reflected on the pale, smooth surface of
a white gum on his right, made the leader stop in his stride, with arms
held out like a semaphore--a danger-signal his follower saw just in time
to avoid colliding with him.
"There's the glow of their fire," he whispered, as Tap came beside him.
"Their camp's just to the left. If I haven't forgotten the country,
there's a creek runs that way through a belt of wattle, and beyond it
the ridge slopes down."
"That's right," Tap answered. "You didn't lose your memory in----"
"Dry up," the other exclaimed.
Then he stood silent for a few moments before he turned and laid his
hand on Tap's shoulder.
"There's the sound of a horse--hobbled--there," he whispered, pointing.
"We'll get round beyond that white gum and plant the swags. Then we'll
round up their horses and clear."
"But look here--hold on, Barber," Tap exclaimed, as the leader turned
away.
"What?" he said, as he came back.
"Walker's a man we'll want. He's just after your own heart. He's as fly
as they make 'em. It's better than trusting to luck to pick one up
after. Why not wake him?--he won't say a word, and he's an edge on
Gleeson. I know he's a lay of his own somewhere, and it might suit us to
chip in."
The leader thought for a moment.
"No; it ain't worth it," he replied. "We'll carry this through first as
we are. Bring the swags along."
He walked off, and Tap followed. Moving cautiously and noiselessly, they
crept from bush to bush, until they stood directly behind the gum which
caught some of the gleam of the fire, and peering over a low-growing
shrub, they looked across the level patch where the men had made their
camp.
The fire had burned down to a heap of glowing ashes, with a small tongue
of flame flickering and dancing here and there over the red mass, from
the edges of which, where some half-burned sticks lay, thin wisps of
light blue smoke floated lazily upwards. Round the fire the men lay in
slumber. Four had inverted saddles as pillows, and one or two had a
rolled-up coat for the same purpose; but the majority lay flat on the
ground, wrapped loosely in their blankets, some face downwards with
their heads on their folded arms, some on their backs with their hats
pulled over the face, and others on their sides facing the red glow of
the fire which lit up their features. Scattered around lay the
impedimenta of their swags, their billy-cans and mining tools, in the
unconcerned confusion that showed how little each one suspected his
neighbour's honesty. On a sapling near the creek hung the bridles which
Gleeson and his companions had taken from their horses, and Barber
pointed to them.
"Come on," he whispered, and led the way through the bush, skirting the
range of the glow, till they came to the open track, on the other side
of which was the sapling and the bridles.
Telling his companion to wait where he was, Barber crept over to the
sapling and removed the bridles noiselessly, returning with them to Tap.
"The tracks of the horses lead up the creek," he said. "There are four
bridles. Hurry along with the swags after me."
He turned away in the direction he had indicated, and walked quickly
into the shadow of the bush, while Tap, hampered by his double load,
moved more slowly along the course of the creek. In about a quarter of
an hour he came upon Barber standing with the four horses, bridled and
without hobbles. The swags were swung over the back of one, which
Barber, mounted on another, led, while Tap took charge of the other two.
They then made their way slowly through the bush until the grey dawn
appeared, when they turned in the direction of the track along which the
miners of Boulder Creek were marching to the newly found El Dorado. They
came upon it at a point where no one was in sight, but had not ridden
half a mile before they saw a straggling mob of men, with swags and
mining tools, toiling along. As the parties met, the miners crowded
round the two with questions as to whether they had come from the field,
whether many men were there, and what the prospects were. For answer
Barber slapped the canvas belt he wore round his waist.
"Nuggets, none less than four ounces," he cried. "There's men in
hundreds along the track, but the field will hold 'em all and hundreds
more. We're riding down for stores. Shove along, lads; we'll see you
when we get back, and good luck to you."
It was quite enough to spur on the energies of the hungry gully-rakers,
and with brief good wishes they went on their way, hastening as much as
their burdens and the steepness of the track would allow.
Other mobs, some small, some large, were encountered as the two rode on,
and always Barber gave the same answer to the questions, and with the
same result. The men were too anxious to overtake those who were ahead,
and get their claims pegged out, to think of anything else.
They were in sight of Boulder Creek, and could see Cudlip's Rest showing
out on the slope the other side of the creek, when they met the last two
of the army, one of whom was Cudlip himself, who, having weighed the
chances, had decided to leave the hotel to run itself while he went and
had a look round the field. He and a brother, who had a small selection
near the Rest, had discussed it, and, deciding to start in the morning,
had gone to get their horses from the paddock, only to find that some
one else had secured them in advance. The appearance of Barber and Tap
and two spare horses altered the complexion of affairs considerably to
the brothers, for they had money with them, and the sooner they were on
the field the better the chance of their recovering their own stolen
mounts. They opened negotiations at once, and Barber, rousing their
enthusiasm by the nuggets he displayed, and working on their naturally
ruffled feelings (after hearing of the missing horses) by describing
just where the borrowers of them would be, managed to secure all the
money they had and an order from Cudlip for more on the manager of
Barellan Downs. Then they resumed their way, and while the two brothers
hastened up the track after fortune and their stolen horses, Barber and
his companion rode on to the deserted hotel, where they took possession
of a couple of saddles and such other articles as they fancied they
required.
In the camp by the creek there was turmoil when Gleeson and his three
companions awakened to find they had been robbed of both horses and
bridles, but left with the now useless saddles. Two of the men--the two
who had been the first of the pedestrians to arrive the evening before,
and who had enjoyed the hospitality of the four--had also disappeared,
and in no man's mind was there a question by whom the horses had been
taken. Samuel Walker, sitting disconsolately by his saddle, expressed
himself volubly to Gleeson upon the follies of generosity.
"First you gave the whole show away, then you gave half the tucker, and
now, here, you've given the horses and bridles. Why didn't you chuck in
the saddles? What's the good of them now? Why didn't you ask them if
they wouldn't be tired riding bare-backed all the way?" he grumbled to
Gleeson.
"It was all that smoke you gave them when they came up," Peters said,
with a twinkle in his eye.
"Well, what if they do get ahead of us? Tap is on the claim, and----"
Gleeson began.
"Tap? Yes. Will he collar my horse?" Walker snarled.
"He'll keep your claim, and that's better. Anyhow, _they_ can't find the
field till we're there; so hurry along with breakfast. There's the last
of the mob on the move."
While they had been bemoaning the robbery, of which they were satisfied
as soon as they saw the bridles were gone, Tony had wandered up the
creek watching the tracks the horses had made the night before. They
were still some miles from the field, and he had all the native
objection to walking while there was a chance of having a horse to ride.
He followed the track until he found the hobbles lying on the bank of
the creek, and the hoof-marks, with the footprints of a man beside them,
going from the stream and from the direction of the field. He saw where
another man's footprints joined them, and then only the marks of the
horses, going down the hill, were visible.
Hastening back to the camp, he reached there just as the last of the
fossickers, moving away from the fire, gave rise to Gleeson's remark.
"Some one's lifted the horses in the night and ridden them down the
hill," he explained, as he came up. "Here's the hobbles, and the tracks
are quite plain. There were two men, and they led two of the horses. I
followed their track a quarter of a mile down the slope, and it was
still showing clear."
Gleeson looked up quickly.
"They're old tracks you saw," he said.
"They're fresh tracks; the ground is still moist where it's turned up,"
Tony retorted.
"What did they want to go down the hill for? That ain't the way to the
field, and we told every one where it was," Walker put in.
"Anyway, that's where they're gone," Tony replied. "If you don't believe
it, go and look for yourself. I'm ready for breakfast."
Further news came to them as they were finishing the meal, for the
advance guard of the detachment Barber and Tap had met on the road
arrived at the camp. The pace at which they had been travelling for the
last few miles made a brief rest welcome, and they trooped up to the
fire.
"It's good enough, lads; it's good enough. There's whips of it there for
all of us. Two mates passed down the road this morning for stores with a
couple of horses loaded with gold," one of the new arrivals cried.
"How many?" Peters asked.
"Two, mate--two, with four horses."
"Saddled?" Tony asked.
"No, mate, save for the swags of nuggets."
"Were the horses three bays and a grey?" Gleeson asked quickly.
"That's so. Thanks; I'll set her here," the man went on, as Tony moved
on one side for him to put his billy by the fire.
"We'll shove along," Walker said, as he and Gleeson exchanged looks.
The saddles having already been "planted" under a hollow log, the four
swung their swags over their shoulders and set off through the bush,
Gleeson and Walker keeping together in front, and Peters and Tony a few
yards behind.
They had not gone half a mile when ahead they saw two of the men who had
hastened on earlier in the day coming towards them.
"Them two chaps ain't got your horses," one of them called out as he
came near. "We found them having their breakfast sitting by a fire, the
ashes of which they said was hot when they got there, and alongside of
which they picked up a nugget, a good half-ounce. The boys are waiting
anxious like for you to come up and show where the dirt lies, so as to
have a go at it right off the reel, and to see if more half-ouncers are
to be picked up. Half an ounce! Why, it's more than a man could make in
a month in the holes on Boulder Creek."
Again Gleeson and Walker exchanged looks.
"Oh, there's heaps of half-ounce lumps about," Gleeson answered. "We'll
soon show you where."
They pushed on till they came to a fire, burning where it had burned
when, the night before, Barber and Tap had heard the sound of the Palmer
chorus steal through the quiet, dark bush. Round about the men were
resting, waiting for those to come up who knew the country; and as
Gleeson and his companions arrived, every one rose and picked up swags
and tools ready to march.
"Who was it found the nugget?" Gleeson asked; and one of the men stepped
forward, holding it out in his hand.
"Here it is--half an ouncer--good enough for stores for a month as we
did it on Boulder Creek, salt horse once a day and flap-jack on
Sundays," he said, with a laugh.
Gleeson and Walker looked at it critically and gave it back. Without a
word they resumed the march through the bush. The ground sloped down in
front of them, sparsely timbered and well grassed, and in the distance
they could see where it rose into a long rolling ridge. They were close
at the foot of the rise before they noticed a small creek running over
a gravelly bed and, beyond it, the framework of a tent and a lean-to
covered with boughs.
Gleeson and Walker both uttered exclamations as they saw the bare forks
and ridge-pole of the tent-frame, but the men behind did not pay any
heed. They wanted no telling the creek was where the gold was to be
found, and they scattered right and left as they rushed as fast as they
could to the banks of the stream, each man, directly he came to the
water, driving his pick into the ground and sitting on it. Two of them
had met just by the ruins of the tent, and while one stuck his pick into
the ground on one side of the stream, the other splashed through the
water and performed the same operation on the other side, so close to
where a hole had been dug that when he sat on his pick-handle, he
dangled his legs over the edge of the hole.
"Here, that's our claim. You'll have to clear out of that," Gleeson
shouted as he rushed up.
"That's our shaft," Walker yelled as he rushed up to the man sitting
over the hole.
A shout of derision came from the two men, and was echoed up and down
the creek as each fossicker turned round to enjoy the spectacle of a
"jump" at the outset of the field. Most of the men having stuck their
picks in their claims, sat on them, and adorned them with various bits
of rag to serve as banners of occupation. Being all neighbours from
Boulder Creek, they could trust one another, and were satisfied to leave
their patches under the protection of their "pegs," more especially as
things were becoming decidedly lively round what was already referred
to as the "reward" claim.
From shouting at one another, one side threatening and the other
defying, Walker had made a feint at the man by the hole. He, having
lived for many a year in the hope of one day pegging out his own patch
of alluvial on a new rush, would have defied dynamite to move him now
that he had his pick in the ground, now that he had performed all that
the unwritten but eternal laws of the mining fraternity needed to give
him sole and absolute rights over the few square yards of earth and all
the precious mineral he could win from it. He took the feint seriously,
and, being at a disadvantage in his sitting position, he threw up one
leg to guard himself and equalize matters. The heavy boot he was wearing
carried his foot farther than he intended, or Walker was nearer than
_he_ intended, for the boot came into violent contact with the pit of
his stomach, and he rolled over on the other man's ground, gurgling and
gasping.
Gleeson, only seeing him fall, thought an attack was imminent, and
flashed out a revolver from his pocket. In a moment the attack was
imminent, and in full swing. The Boulder Creekers had had many a quarrel
and many a row amongst themselves, but never had a man drawn a revolver
or a knife. Gleeson's action decided his chances.
"A darned dirty I-talyan," Palmer Billy shouted; "_and_ on a white man's
claim. Roll in, diggers."
A dozen outraged and indignant diggers responded. The revolver was
knocked up and out of Gleeson's hand, and went spinning high into the
air through a well-aimed blow from a spare pick-handle. It went off as
it struck the ground, and the bullet whizzed over the heads of the men
in the _melee_; but they were too busy to notice it. A couple of fists
hit one another in their haste to reach Gleeson's eyes; several more
went home on different parts of his body at the same moment; and
thereafter, for the space of a few minutes, the first arrivals on the
new field, with the exception of Walker, who was knocked out, were a
perspiring, swearing, struggling pile of humanity.
When they managed to extricate themselves, Palmer Billy was the last to
rise from the ground. He had suffered somewhat in the scrimmage, and his
nose was bleeding freely, but he looked round without malice upon his
panting comrades as he said, slowly and savagely--
"A darned dirty I-talyan; _and_ on a white man's claim."
Then it was that they had time to observe what had escaped their notice
in the rough-and-tumble of the _melee_. As the men crowded round
Gleeson, like bees round a sugar-bag, thirsting to wreak their vengeance
upon him for introducing into the community weapons which were not
possessed by all, they forgot the prostrate Walker, as well as Peters
and Tony. That there were neither revolvers nor knives among the
Creekers was more due to lack of means to purchase them than to moral
superiority, or any religious qualms as to the shedding of another man's
blood. Revolvers were useless without ammunition, and ammunition cost
money; knives which were useful in a fight, were also eligible for
trading purposes as a medium of exchange for flour and tobacco:
consequently both were absent from the movable property of the average
fossicker of Boulder Creek. That they were in the possession of the men
who had stumbled on payable gold within a day's march of the creek was a
further incentive to envy on the part of the Creekers; hence the haste
of each man to vent his anger on Gleeson.
It was their very haste which defeated their object. Peters and Tony,
standing back from the others, saw how it was going with Gleeson the
moment he showed his revolver. As the mob closed in on him and bore him
down by sheer force of numbers, Peters darted for the revolver when it
struck the earth, and Tony, rushing to the rescue of Gleeson, saw how
the crowd, in their hurry to reach their victim, were hitting and
pushing one another, while he was struggling to escape between their
legs. There were more on one side than the other, and to the weakest
side Tony ran, succeeding, with Peters's help, in extricating the
struggling Gleeson while yet the mob meted out severe punishment on one
another. By the time that they had separated and Palmer Billy had picked
himself up, the four were grouped round the ruins of the deserted camp,
each with a revolver in his hand. The picks that had been driven in the
ground were lying on the other side of the creek.
The Creekers, convinced individually that they had effectually disposed
of Gleeson, stood for a few moments, forgetful of the blows and bruises
they had received in the scuffle, as they saw their victim standing
unharmed before them. Palmer Billy moved a few steps towards the four,
and the others, formed into an irregular line behind him, advanced at
the same time.
"Stop where you are, or----" Gleeson cried, as he raised the revolver
and covered Palmer Billy.
There was silence amongst the Creekers, for the situation had changed
since the moment when they yelled for revenge in unison with Palmer
Billy. "The darned dirty I-talyan" was alone and practically unprepared
then--he was back with his mates now; and while they were armed, the
Creekers were not. Palmer Billy sized up the situation quickly and
shrewdly. He turned slowly to his comrades, with one arm extended and
pointing to the four.
"What sort!" he exclaimed hilariously. "They've jumped the jumpers!
We're bluffed at our own game, boys; bluffed at our own game. They've
chucked the pegs out, and there was no one there to stop 'em. It's their
claim."
A murmur, half-assenting, passed through the crowd, till it was checked
by the man who had stuck his pick in the ground by the deserted hole.
"My pegs was in," he exclaimed, "and if any one's took them out----"
"When you wasn't there," Palmer Billy interrupted, "why, them as shifted
the pegs jumps the claim."
He looked round for applause and support, and, receiving it, was
satisfied, until laughter mingled with the sounds of approval. The man
had profited by the judgment pronounced, and had dashed away to the
claim which Palmer Billy had pegged out for himself. He was in the act
of flinging away the pick which had been planted there when Palmer Billy
looked towards him. It was out of his hands and another one stuck in its
place by the time the indignant jurist and vocalist had reached the
spot. The remainder of the fossickers, also profiting by the judgment
and also by the example, scurried right and left to their respective
claims, and from the safety of their own ground proffered advice,
picturesque and soothing, to Palmer Billy, who was arguing and
gesticulating violently to the man who had jumped his claim.
Walker, still suffering from the kick he had received, took advantage of
the lull to sit down and abuse Gleeson.
"Call yourself a leader!" he grumbled. "Here's a pretty state of things!
If we ain't all killed in half an hour it won't be _your_ fault. I'm
full of your tricks, first losing our horses, then our----"
"If you don't like it, clear," Gleeson exclaimed, wheeling round
sharply. The treatment he had received at the hands of the fossickers
had not improved his temper, and there was trouble enough ahead from the
others without having it in his own camp.
"Clear?" Walker retorted. "Do you think I'm a jackeroo, or what? I'm on
my own claim. You and your mates can get off it as soon as you like."
"It's our claim; it belongs to the four of us," Gleeson answered
angrily.
"I pegged it out, and I was on it before you, and I'm not going any more
shares with you and your mates," Walker shouted; and the men on the
claims nearest caught the words, and withdrew their attention from the
wrangle between Palmer Billy and the jumper of his ground, in favour of
the squabble between the four discoverers of the field.
A wealth of suggestions came from every side, first to one set of
disputants, and then to the other, until the arrival of another party
added to the confusion.
Gathering the nature of the babel, the new-comers quietly passed up and
down the creek, pegging out their claims on either side of those already
occupied before they turned their attention to the disputes, yelling out
their views and opinions until the noise of the shouting reached other
approaching parties and hastened their advance.
"It seems to me it's no use fooling round like this," Peters exclaimed,
when for a moment there was silence between Gleeson and Walker. "If he
wants the claim, let him have it, and we'll shove along up the creek.
Come on, Tony, my lad; there's no points in this game."
He slung his swag over his shoulder, and Tony did the same. Their action
was greeted with derisive cheers from the men scattered along the banks
of the creek. Palmer Billy, beaten in the matter of words, came to meet
them as they started up the rise beyond the creek.
"There's no luck where there ain't no 'armony," he said, with aggressive
earnestness in his voice. "If me and my accordion gets the shove-along,
we takes it; and as for them hungry gully-scrapers--darned dirty
I-talyans, _I_ call them--why, let 'em rake the creek by theirselves;
there's water in it, and some of that won't hurt some of them, either
outside or in. Misters, if you likes 'armony, I'm with you; if you
don't----"
Gleeson, seeing the other two set out up the rise, hurried after them,
his departure also being greeted with a burst of derisive cheers. He
came up with them in time to interrupt Palmer Billy's sentence.
Recognizing the leader of the recent attack on himself, Gleeson looked
at him angrily.
"Darned dirty I-talyans, _I_ call 'em," Palmer Billy said, as his eyes
met those of Gleeson. "It's no white man's field, no place for us to
stay--only fit for I-talyans and such-like coloured labour."
Gleeson turned away to Peters.
"Which route are you taking?" he asked.
"Over the rise," Peters answered.
"It's good enough," Gleeson replied.
"Oh, good enough? You bet, mister; this is a miner or I'm a
rouse-about," Palmer Billy put in, with a nod towards Peters. "A white
man, mister, if I make no error, and, as such, a mate of mine."
"See here," Gleeson exclaimed angrily, facing him.
"That's all right, mister," Palmer Billy interrupted quickly. "I
understand how it was. You never meant to lose me my claim, seeing
you're a white man and me another, and these here, too. But you didn't
know them darned dirty I-talyans as I did, mister; so, as the song has
it, 'kick at troubles when they come, boys,' and we'll set up a
four-handed camp of our own, and take the shine out of everywhere.
You've got the tucker and I've got the 'armony, and we've all got the
savee of white men and the grit of miners. Come along, boys; there's no
malice on my side."
He set off as he spoke, and Peters looked round at Gleeson.
"It's an improvement on Walker," he said. "What do you say, Tony?"
"I'm on," Tony answered.
"Then it's good enough," Gleeson replied; and the three followed after
Palmer Billy up the rise.