Mahony's day had not come to an end with the finding of Purdy.

Barely stretched on his palliasse he had been routed out to attend to Long Jim, who had missed his footing and pitched into a shaft.

The poor old tipsy idiot hauled up--luckily for him it was a dry, shallow hole--there was a broken collar-bone to set.

Mahony had installed him in his own bed, and had spent the remainder of the night dozing in a chair.
So now he was heavy-eyed, uncommunicative.

As they climbed the shoulder and came to the rich, black soil that surrounded the ancient cone of Warrenheip, he mused on his personal relation to the place he had just left.