He glanced
about, seeking some way of recrossing the stream.
"If you require any new equipment," he said tersely, "we can probably
supply you at the camp. How do you manage to get across here?"
Murphy, walking stiffly, led the way down the steep slope, and silently
pointed out a log bridging the narrow stream. He stood watching while
the officer picked his steps across, but made no responsive motion when
the other waved his hand from the opposite shore, his sallow face
looking grim and unpleasant.
"Damn--the luck!" he grumbled, shambling back up the bank. "It
don't--look--right. Three of 'em--all here--at once--in this--cussed
hole. Seems if--this yere world--ought ter be--big 'nough--ter keep
'em apart;--but hell--it ain't. Might make--some trouble--if
them--people--ever git--their heads--tergether talkin'. Hell of a
note--if the boy--falls in love with--her. Likely to do it--too.
Curse such--fool luck. Maybe I--better talk--it over again--with
Red--he's in it--damn near--as deep as--I am." And he sank down again
in his old position before the tent, continuing to mutter, his chin
sunk into his chest, his whole appearance that of deep dejection,
perhaps of dread.
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