play horseshoe quoits,
and Sanford pulled the mare to a walk on the fringes of this half-circle
as old friends hailed him and shy lads with hair already sun-bleached
wriggled out of the crowd to shake hands, Camerons, Jansens, Nattiers,
Keenans, sons of the faithful. Bill Varian strolled up, his medical case
under an arm.

"I'm eating with you. The boss asked me. He feels better already. Come
in and speak to dad. He's hurt because _he's_ not seen you, and you
stopped to see Ian at the forge. Hi, Dad!" he called over the felt hats
of the ring, "here's San."

"Fetch him in, then," cried the foreman.

Bill and Ling led the nervous mare through the group of pipe-smoking,
friendly lumbermen, and Varian hugged his fosterling's son.

"Stop an' watch," he whispered. "They'll like seein' you, San. Onnie's
been tellin' the women you've growed a yard."

Sanford settled to the monotony of the endless sport, saluting known
brown faces and answering yelps of pleasure from the small boys who
squatted against the high fence behind the stake.

"That's Percival," said Ling, as a man swaggered out to the
pitching-mark.

"Six foot three," Bill said, "and strong as an ox. Drinks all the time.
Think he dopes, too."

Sanford looked at the fellow with a swift dislike for his vacant, heavy
face and his greasy, saffron hair. His bare arms were tattooed boldly
and in many colors, distorted with ropes of muscle. He seemed a little
drunk, and the green clouds cast a copper shade into his lashless eyes.

"Can't pitch for beans," said Ling as the first shoe went wide. When the
second fell beside it, the crowd laughed.

"Now," said Ian Cameron, "he'll be mad wi' vainglory. He's a camstearlie
ring' it an' a claverin' fu'."

"Ho! larf ahead!" snapped the giant. "'Ow's a man to 'eave a bloody
thing at a bloody stike?"

The experts chuckled, and he ruffled about the ring, truculent,
sneering, pausing before Varian, with a glance at Sanford.

"Give me something with some balance. Hi can show yer. Look!"

"I'm looking," said the foreman; "an' I ain't deaf, neither."

"'Ere's wot you blighters carn't 'eave. Learned it in Auckland, where
there's _real_ men." He fumbled in his shirt, and the mare snorted as
the eight-inch blade flashed out of its handle under her nose. "See?
That's the lidy! Now watch! There's a knot-'ole up the palings there."

The crowd fixed a stare on the green, solid barrier, and the knife
soared a full twenty yards,