quarters on the hill. He had just unshipped the last joint, when he
became aware that one of his men was approaching him. He inquired his
business, and was informed in return that Dempsey, his sub, would be
glad to see him at the Ford. Handing his rod to the man he set off in
the direction of the crossing in question, to become aware, as he
approached it, of a disreputable figure propped up against a tree on the
nearer bank.

"What's the matter, Dempsey?" he inquired. "What on earth have you got
there, man?"

"Well, that's more than I can say," the other replied. "He's evidently
a white man, and I fancy an Englishman. At home we should call him a
scarecrow. He turned up from across the Ford just now, and tumbled down
in the middle of the stream like a shot rabbit. Never saw such a thing
before. He's not a pretty sight, is he?"

"Poor devil," said Gregory. "He seems to be on his last legs. I wonder
who the deuce he is, and what brought him into this condition."

[Illustration: "'POOR DEVIL,' SAID GREGORY. 'HE SEEMS TO BE ON HIS LAST
LEGS.'"]

"I've searched, and there's nothing about to tell us," said Dempsey.
"What do you think we had better do with him?"

"Get him up the hill," said his superior, without hesitation. "When he's
a bit stronger we'll have his story out of him. I'll bet a few years'
pay it will be interesting."