"Ain't got no caulks!" ran the lamentations. "The ---- of a ---- of
a pole-trail, anyways!"

He walked ahead gingerly, threw his hands aloft, bent forward, then
suddenly protruded his stomach, held out one foot in front of him,
spasmodically half turned, and then, realising the case hopeless,
wilted like a wet rag, to clasp the pole trail both by arm and leg.
This saved him from falling off altogether, but swung him
underneath, where he hung like the sloths in the picture-books. A
series of violent wriggles brought him, red-faced and panting,
astride the pole, whence, his feelings beyond mere speech, he sadly
eyed his precious derby, which lay, crown up, in the mud below.

Orde contemplated the spectacle seriously.

"Sorry I haven't got time to enjoy you just now, Charlie," he
remarked. "I'd take it slower, if I were you."

He departed, catching fragments of vows anent never going on any
more errands for nobody, and getting his time if ever again he went
away from his wanigan.

Orde stopped short outside the fringe of brush to utter another
irrepressible chuckle of amusement.

The centre of the dam was occupied by Reed. The old man was still
in full regalia, his plug hat fuzzier than ever, and thrust even
farther back on his head, his coat-tails and loose trousers flapping
at his every movement as he paced back and forth with military