'Old Nelson! the
hardest, savagest, toughest old sinner in the camp, on his knees before
a lot of men!'
'Before God,' I could not help saying, for the thing seemed very real to
me. The old man evidently felt himself talking to some one.
'Yes, I suppose you're right,' said Graeme doubtfully; 'but there's a
lot of stuff I can't swallow.'
'When you take medicine you don't swallow the bottle,' I replied, for
his trouble was not mine.
'If I were sure of the medicine, I wouldn't mind the bottle, and yet it
acts well enough,' he went on. 'I don't mind Lachlan; he's a Highland
mystic, and has visions, and Sandy's almost as bad, and Baptiste is an
impulsive little chap. Those don't count much. But old man Nelson is a
cool-blooded, level-headed old fellow; has seen a lot of life, too.
And then there's Craig. He has a better head than I have, and is as
hot-blooded, and yet he is living and slaving away in that hole, and
really enjoys it. There must be something in it.'
'Oh, look here, Graeme,' I burst out impatiently; 'what's the use of
your talking like that? Of course there's something in it.
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