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"All right?" I asked.

He looked at my hand. He half extended his. Then: "No!" he said and swore in Italian.

"Oh, all right," I said, and we pushed on, rounded the bend, and came back to where the gang worked on the gravel slope.

Douglas stood by the track-side; the gang toiled up on the hill-face. As we passed Douglas I squinted up at him, where I bent pushing the load, and he looked round hastily, was just going to look away again—and then he saw our faces, wheeled about, looked at Pietro—at me—back again—then chuckled to himself. That was all. But the incident was not closed.

When we had unloaded beside the cook's car and lifted the push-car off the wheels, and the wheels off the track, we returned to the gang and clambered to our places on the hill. Immediately Pietro began to talk wildly in Italian while using his pick. But he became so excited anon that he ceased to wield the pick.

"Pietro, you so-and-so," came Douglas's voice. "I've got my eye on you."

Pietro cursed under his breath, but either wonderful is the carrying capacity of atmosphere in the Dry Belt or else wonderfully accurate was Douglas's knowledge of his man.