chest-breathing that carried light snatches of song. The tinkle of frost-thinned creeks murmured alongside, and shy tentative trills and flutters in the deeps of the scented gullies told to men that the birds were mating.
Lou swung forward, and his breath brushed Steve’s face. It was whiskey-tainted; but his eyes were clear blue as the sky, and the white skin that showed where the loose shirt gaped was no whiter than his even teeth.
“It’s nice to think we’re good friends, isn’t it?” he said. “There’s whips of places on a logging-track where a man might come to grief—by accident.”
The mockery of the light tone hit Steve. He gripped at the handles.
“I never had nuthin’ ter do wi’ them kind o’ accidents,” he answered.
“Nor I.” Lou blinked up at the welter of gold in the branches. “Hear that tui! He’s making love to his mate. D’you think he’ll ever get her, Steve? They are clumsy beggars, you know.”
“Id is nod dey is de only clumsy beggar,” growled Hoffman. “You did near haf us ofer der culvert! Sit oop, man, und put your back indo id.”
The jigger rocked round a steep angle, and Lou swung to balance with the ease of the saddle-bred. Right and left the old logging-tracks lay on the slopes. In years past they
