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The breeze had moved several times down the valley, and as often as it passed the people of Surprise turned gratefully in their seats. Mr. Robson, shift-boss, found heart to swear appreciation and light a pipe; Mrs. Boulder, brisk and brawny, reached from her chair to slap the youngest child; and Mr. Horrington, general agent—unappreciated cousin of Sir James Horrington, Bart., of Such-and-such Hall, England—pledged again his lost relatives in whisky and a dash of water. The members of the staff, telling smoking-room stories from their long chairs outside the mess-room, re-settled for something newer and choicer.

Two sounds were repeated, and helped to make the stillness live. They were the stamp of horses near the creek, and the cornet of Mr. Wells, storeman. The cornet player was feeling the way, with poor luck but an honest persistence, through the pitfalls and crooked ways of "The Death of Nelson." He had reached the thirteenth verse. The thirteenth verse was the unlucky verse: unlucky for him, because he broke down, unlucky for his listeners, because he repeated it. The notes fell slowly, uncertainly, mournfully upon the night. As the fourteenth verse began, Mr. Neville, manager of Surprise, swore with feeling.