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86 and over Ahlers, who was almost as drunk as himself. At last, between weeping and singing snatches of "Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay," he passed out.

Next morning, I was waked by the sound in the next room of Cameron trying to rouse Hughes. He had great difficulty in making any impression upon his fuddled mate. I heard him whisper hoarsely that Paddy's horse was still hitched to the post.

"Horse! What horse?" mumbled Hughes.

"Paddy's, you fool!"

"Who's a fool! What Paddy?"

"Paddy Fahey—he's not gone to Buchanan."

"What the hell's the use of talking to you!" muttered Cameron, leaving Hughes to himself.

"Gone Buchanan—who's gone Buchanan?"

I turned out and unostentatiously prepared for going to Mount Madden, where we had agreed to go and wait for Paddy on his way back. I had my horse run in and saddled, one with the packs and three for riding. I looked to the saddles, wiped down the horses and gave them a feed of Indian corn, at which luxury they whinnied with delight. Old Higgins loaded up the packs with tea, flour, sardines, jam, sugar, boiled beef, bread and condensed milk, enough to last a week. Every one was astir by the time we came from a good breakfast, lighted our pipes, and got into our saddles. Just as we were starting, Hughes came out looking like a piece of chewed string. He straightened up against one of the verandah posts and waved an arm to me in an uncertain sort of way.

"Off to Buchanan?"

"Yes." I nodded to him. "So long!"

"Well, so long! Good luck!"

"Thanks."

"Going to peg out?"

"Perhaps." I wondered if he were too drunk to remember that Kinnear and Wonacott had started out