jumped the five-foot tail-race with a stagger; dragged on the hip-boots and the oilskins, and stood by the boxes until the moment when Gordon should toss him the shovel. The Lion had been ground-sluicing these seven months, and Roddy loathed box-work above all things invented. He turned his back on the jet and the great sullen pipes, and stared downhill at the yellow of the tail-race where it touched the zinc-blue of the Creek. In the manuka below he heard the complaining voice of Kiliat, and Ormond’s quick virile answers. Then the wet shovel met his hands, and his eyes fell on the boxes mechanically.
There was heavy stuff coming down, and the shake of the trestles and the spume of the water made him giddy. Twice the race ran abrim, choking. Once she slopped over with a roar that brought Kiliat up to see. He said that to Roddy which set the boy’s fingers itching on the shovel and his eyes drawing to the sleek head under the check cap. Ormond guessed the desire for connection, and sympathised.
“Sheer clumsiness and inattention,” wound up Kiliat. “I’ve had my eye on you for some time; and—ah—I could do your work better myself.”
“Do it, then,” said Roddy, and cast down the shovel.
Ormond was weary and irritated himself;
