Who slips to the seat of question and melts all Into one potch of folly!
There was not much more than potch and colour in the bundle.
Then Potch would know what perhaps he ought to have known already.
Slowly and surely Potch had lived down that distrust and contempt.
Potch Was holding his spider off from a surface of opal his pick had clipped.
But there was no resentment in Potch's bearing to him, Michael had convinced himself.
Yet Potch must know about the stones; he must have seen them.
Nobody knew just where to put a hand on them—not even Potch.
Michael and Potch were finishing their tea when Watty burst in on them.
Mr. Armitage had fixed his eyes on Potch from the moment he came into the hut.
