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On the Track by Henry Lawson
page 45 of 160 (28%)
say iron-bark? Ours does, anyway. I--I'll git the papers from the tent
and show yer, if yer like."

It was not necessary. The inspector admitted the fact slowly. He stooped,
and with an absent air picked up a chip. He looked at it abstractedly
for a moment, blinked his threefold blink; then, seeming to recollect
an appointment, he woke up suddenly and asked briskly:

"Did this chip come off that girder?"

Blank silence. The inspector blinked six times, divided in threes, rapidly,
mounted his horse, said "Day," and rode off.

Regan and party stared at each other.

"Wha--what did he do that for?" asked Andy Page, the third in the party.

"Do what for, you fool?" enquired Dave.

"Ta--take that chip for?"

"He's taking it to the office!" snarled Jack Bentley.

"What--what for? What does he want to do that for?"

"To get it blanky well analysed! You ass! Now are yer satisfied?"
And Jack sat down hard on the timber, jerked out his pipe, and said to Dave,
in a sharp, toothache tone:

"Gimmiamatch!"
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