Gaunt had gone, and followed his fast fading figure, calling and crying with choked voice. He could chop wood, too—that is, a little, you know, because he was not very strong, and the axe was heavy. A very hot day up in the ranges, too. For, when they had forgotten the mosquitoes and the heat, and the many pleasant things that live in the crevices between the slabs of the hut, and gone to sleep, up he came again, hotter than ever, without the least warning, and sent them away to work again. All this time he was staggering on,—not daring to look to right or left, or anywhere but straight on—traight on always. He had nothing to do either.
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