WHILE THE BILLY BOILS

By Henry Lawson

[Transcriber's note: In 'A Day on a Selection' a speech is attributed to"Tom"--in first edition as well as recent ones--which clearly belongs to"Corney" alias "neighbour". This has been noted in loc. ]

CONTENTS

First Series

An Old Mate of Your Father's

Settling on the Land

Enter Mitchell

Stiffner and Jim (Thirdly, Bill)

When the Sun Went Down

The Man who Forgot

Hungerford

A Camp-fire Yarn

His Country--After All

A Day on a Selection

That There Dog of Mine

Going Blind

Arvie Aspinall's Alarm Clock

Stragglers

The Union Buries its Dead

On the Edge of a Plain

In a Dry Season

He's Come Back

Another of Mitchell's Plans

Steelman

Drifted Back

Remailed

Mitchell Doesn't Believe in the Sack

Shooting the Moon

His Father's Mate

An Echo from the Old Bark School

The Shearing of the Cook's Dog

"Dossing Out" and "Camping"

Across the Straits

Some Day

Brummy Usen

Second Series

The Drover's Wife

Steelman's Pupil

An Unfinished Love Story

Board and Residence

His Colonial Oath

A Visit of Condolence

In a Wet Season

"Rats"

Mitchell: A Character Sketch

The Bush Undertaker

Our Pipes

Coming Across

The Story of Malachi

Two Dogs and a Fence

Jones's Alley

Bogg of Geebung

She Wouldn't Speak

The Geological Spieler

Macquarie's Mate

Baldy Thompson

For Auld Lang Syne

FIRST SERIES

AN OLD MATE OF YOUR FATHER'S

You remember when we hurried home from the old bush school how we weresometimes startled by a bearded apparition, who smiled kindly down onus, and whom our mother introduced, as we raked off our hats, as "Anold mate of your father's on the diggings, Johnny. " And he would patour heads and say we were fine boys, or girls--as the case may havebeen--and that we had our father's nose but our mother's eyes, or theother way about; and say that the baby was the dead spit of its mother, and then added, for father's benefit: "But yet he's like you, Tom. " Itdid seem strange to the children to hear him address the old man by hisChristian name---considering that the mother always referred to him as"Father. " She called the old mate Mr So-and-so, and father called himBill, or something to that effect. 

Occasionally the old mate would come dressed in the latest city fashion, and at other times in a new suit of reach-me-downs, and yet again hewould turn up in clean white moleskins, washed tweed coat, Crimeanshirt, blucher boots, soft felt hat, with a fresh-looking speckledhandkerchief round his neck. But his face was mostly round and brownand jolly, his hands were always horny, and his beard grey. Sometimeshe might have seemed strange and uncouth to us at first, but the oldman never appeared the least surprised at anything he said or did--theyunderstood each other so well--and we would soon take to this relic ofour father's past, who would have fruit or lollies for us--strange thathe always remembered them--and would surreptitiously slip "shilluns"into our dirty little hands, and tell us stories about the old days, "when me an' yer father was on the diggin's, an' you wasn't thought of, my boy. "

Sometimes the old mate would stay over Sunday, and in the forenoon orafter dinner he and father would take a walk amongst the deserted shaftsof Sapling Gully or along Quartz Ridge, and criticize old ground, andtalk of past diggers' mistakes, and second bottoms, and feelers, anddips, and leads--also outcrops--and absently pick up pieces of quartzand slate, rub them on their sleeves, look at them in an abstractedmanner, and drop them again; and they would talk of some old lead theyhad worked on: "Hogan's party was here on one side of us, Macintosh washere on the other, Mac was getting good gold and so was Hogan, and now, why the blanky blank weren't we on gold?" And the mate would alwaysagree that there was "gold in them ridges and gullies yet, if a man onlyhad the money behind him to git at it. " And then perhaps the guv'norwould show him a spot where he intended to put down a shaft someday--the old man was always thinking of putting down a shaft. And thesetwo old fifty-niners would mooch round and sit on their heels on thesunny mullock heaps and break clay lumps between their hands, and layplans for the putting down of shafts, and smoke, till an urchin was sentto "look for his father and Mr So-and-so, and tell 'em to come to theirdinner. "

And again--mostly in the fresh of the morning--they would hang about thefences on the selection and review the live stock: five dusty skeletonsof cows, a hollow-sided calf or two, and one shocking piece of equinescenery--which, by the way, the old mate always praised. But theselector's heart was not in farming nor on selections--it was far awaywith the last new rush in Western Australia or Queensland, or perhapsburied in the worked-out ground of Tambaroora, Married Man's Creek, orAraluen; and by-and-by the memory of some half-forgotten reef or leador Last Chance, Nil Desperandum, or Brown Snake claim would take theirthoughts far back and away from the dusty patch of sods and strugglingsprouts called the crop, or the few discouraged, half-dead slips whichcomprised the orchard. Then their conversation would be pointed withmany Golden Points, Bakery Hill, Deep Creeks, Maitland Bars, SpecimenFlats, and Chinamen's Gullies. And so they'd yarn till the youngstercame to tell them that "Mother sez the breakfus is gettin' cold, " andthen the old mate would rouse himself and stretch and say, "Well, wemustn't keep the missus waitin', Tom!"

And, after tea, they would sit on a log of the wood-heap, or the edgeof the veranda--that is, in warm weather--and yarn about Ballarat andBendigo--of the days when we spoke of being on a place oftener than atit: _on_ Ballarat, _on_ Gulgong, _on_ Lambing Flat, on _Creswick_--andthey would use the definite article before the names, as: "on The Turon;The Lachlan; The Home Rule; The Canadian Lead. " Then again they'dyarn of old mates, such as Tom Brook, Jack Henright, and poor MartinRatcliffe--who was killed in his golden hole--and of other men whomthey didn't seem to have known much about, and who went by the names of"Adelaide Adolphus, " "Corney George, " and other names which might havebeen more or less applicable. 

And sometimes they'd get talking, low and mysterious like, about "Th'Eureka Stockade;" and if we didn't understand and asked questions, "whatwas the Eureka Stockade?" or "what did they do it for?" father'd say:"Now, run away, sonny, and don't bother; me and Mr So-and-so want totalk. " Father had the mark of a hole on his leg, which he said he gotthrough a gun accident when a boy, and a scar on his side, that we sawwhen he was in swimming with us; he said he got that in an accident in aquartz-crushing machine. Mr So-and-so had a big scar on the side of hisforehead that was caused by a pick accidentally slipping out of a loopin the rope, and falling down a shaft where he was working. But how wasit they talked low, and their eyes brightened up, and they didn't lookat each other, but away over sunset, and had to get up and walk about, and take a stroll in the cool of the evening when they talked aboutEureka?

And, again they'd talk lower and more mysterious like, and perhapsmother would be passing the wood-heap and catch a word, and asked:

"Who was she, Tom?"

And Tom--father--would say:

"Oh, you didn't know her, Mary; she belonged to a family Bill knew athome. "

And Bill would look solemn till mother had gone, and then they wouldsmile a quiet smile, and stretch and say, "Ah, well!" and startsomething else. 

They had yarns for the fireside, too, some of those old mates of ourfather's, and one of them would often tell how a girl--a queen of thediggings--was married, and had her wedding-ring made out of the goldof that field; and how the diggers weighed their gold with the newwedding-ring--for luck--by hanging the ring on the hook of the scalesand attaching their chamois-leather gold bags to it (whereupon sheboasted that four hundred ounces of the precious metal passed throughher wedding-ring); and how they lowered the young bride, blindfolded, down a golden hole in a big bucket, and got her to point out the drivefrom which the gold came that her ring was made out of. The point ofthis story seems to have been lost--or else we forget it--but it wascharacteristic. Had the girl been lowered down a duffer, and asked topoint out the way to the gold, and had she done so successfully, therewould have been some sense in it. 

And they would talk of King, and Maggie Oliver, and G. V. Brooke, andothers, and remember how the diggers went five miles out to meet thecoach that brought the girl actress, and took the horses out and broughther in in triumph, and worshipped her, and sent her off in glory, andthrew nuggets into her lap. And how she stood upon the box-seat and toreher sailor hat to pieces, and threw the fragments amongst the crowd; andhow the diggers fought for the bits and thrust them inside their shirtbosoms; and how she broke down and cried, and could in her turn haveworshipped those men--loved them, every one. They were boys all, andgentlemen all. There were college men, artists, poets, musicians, journalists--Bohemians all. Men from all the lands and one. Theyunderstood art--and poverty was dead. 

And perhaps the old mate would say slyly, but with a sad, quiet smile:

"Have you got that bit of straw yet, Tom?"

Those old mates had each three pasts behind them. The two they told eachother when they became mates, and the one they had shared. 

And when the visitor had gone by the coach we noticed that the old manwould smoke a lot, and think as much, and take great interest in thefire, and be a trifle irritable perhaps. 

Those old mates of our father's are getting few and far between, andonly happen along once in a way to keep the old man's memory fresh, asit were. We met one to-day, and had a yarn with him, and afterwards wegot thinking, and somehow began to wonder whether those ancient friendsof ours were, or were not, better and kinder to their mates than we ofthe rising generation are to our fathers; and the doubt is painfully onthe wrong side. 

SETTLING ON THE LAND

The worst bore in Australia just now is the man who raves about gettingthe people on the land, and button-holes you in the street with a littlescheme of his own. He generally does not know what he is talking about. 

There is in Sydney a man named Tom Hopkins who settled on the land once, and sometimes you can get him to talk about it. He did very well at histrade in the city, years ago, until he began to think that he could dobetter up-country. Then he arranged with his sweetheart to be true tohim and wait whilst he went west and made a home. She drops out of thestory at this point. 

He selected on a run at Dry Hole Creek, and for months awaited thearrival of the government surveyors to fix his boundaries; but theydidn't come, and, as he had no reason to believe they would turn upwithin the next ten years, he grubbed and fenced at a venture, andstarted farming operations. 

Does the reader know what grubbing means? Tom does. He found thebiggest, ugliest, and most useless trees on his particular piece ofground; also the greatest number of adamantine stumps. He startedwithout experience, or with very little, but with plenty of advicefrom men who knew less about farming than he did. He found a softplace between two roots on one side of the first tree, made a narrow, irregular hole, and burrowed down till he reached a level where thetap-root was somewhat less than four feet in diameter, and not quite ashard as flint: then he found that he hadn't room to swing the axe, so heheaved out another ton or two of earth--and rested. Next day he sanka shaft on the other side of the gum; and after tea, over a pipe, itstruck him that it would be a good idea to burn the tree out, and souse up the logs and lighter rubbish lying round. So he widened theexcavation, rolled in some logs, and set fire to them--with no betterresult than to scorch the roots. 

Tom persevered. He put the trace harness on his horse, drew in all thelogs within half a mile, and piled them on the windward side of thatgum; and during the night the fire found a soft place, and the treeburnt off about six feet above the surface, falling on a squatter'sboundary fence, and leaving the ugliest kind of stump to occupy theselector's attention; which it did, for a week. He waited till the holecooled, and then he went to work with pick, shovel, and axe: and evennow he gets interested in drawings of machinery, such as are publishedin the agricultural weeklies, for getting out stumps without graft. Hethought he would be able to get some posts and rails out of thattree, but found reason to think that a cast-iron column would splitsooner--and straighter. He traced some of the surface roots to the otherside of the selection, and broke most of his trace-chains trying toget them out by horse-power--for they had other roots going down fromunderneath. He cleared a patch in the course of time and for severalseasons he broke more ploughshares than he could pay for. 

Meanwhile the squatter was not idle. Tom's tent was robbed severaltimes, and his hut burnt down twice. Then he was charged with killingsome sheep and a steer on the run, and converting them to his own use, but got off mainly because there was a difference of opinion between thesquatter and the other local J. P. Concerning politics and religion. 

Tom ploughed and sowed wheat, but nothing came up to speak of--theground was too poor; so he carted stable manure six miles from thenearest town, manured the land, sowed another crop, and prayed forrain. It came. It raised a flood which washed the crop clean off theselection, together with several acres of manure, and a considerableportion of the original surface soil; and the water brought down enoughsand to make a beach, and spread it over the field to a depth of sixinches. The flood also took half a mile of fencing from along thecreek-bank, and landed it in a bend, three miles down, on a dummyselection, where it was confiscated. 

Tom didn't give up--he was energetic. He cleared another piece of groundon the siding, and sowed more wheat; it had the rust in it, or thesmut--and averaged three shillings per bushel. Then he sowed lucerne andoats, and bought a few cows: he had an idea of starting a dairy. First, the cows' eyes got bad, and he sought the advice of a German cocky, andacted upon it; he blew powdered alum through paper tubes into the badeyes, and got some of it snorted and butted back into his own. He curedthe cows' eyes and got the sandy blight in his own, and for a week orso be couldn't tell one end of a cow from the other, but sat in a darkcorner of the hut and groaned, and soaked his glued eyelashes in warmwater. Germany stuck to him and nursed him, and saw him through. 

Then the milkers got bad udders, and Tom took his life in his handswhenever he milked them. He got them all right presently--and butterfell to fourpence a pound. He and the aforesaid cocky made arrangementsto send their butter to a better market; and then the cows contracteda disease which was known in those parts as "plooro permoanyer, " butgenerally referred to as "th' ploorer. "

Again Tom sought advice, acting upon which he slit the cows' ears, cuttheir tails half off to bleed them, and poured pints of "pain killer"into them through their nostrils; but they wouldn't make an effort, except, perhaps, to rise and poke the selector when he tried to tempttheir appetites with slices of immature pumpkin. They died peacefullyand persistently, until all were gone save a certain dangerous, barren, slab-sided luny bovine with white eyes and much agility in jumpingfences, who was known locally as Queen Elizabeth. 

Tom shot Queen Elizabeth, and turned his attention to agriculture again. Then his plough horses took bad with some thing the Teuton called "dershtranguls. " He submitted them to a course of treatment in accordancewith Jacob's advice--and they died. 

Even then Tom didn't give in--there was grit in that man. He borrowed abroken-down dray-horse in return for its keep, coupled it with his ownold riding hack, and started to finish ploughing. The team wasn't asuccess. Whenever the draught horse's knees gave way and he stumbledforward, he jerked the lighter horse back into the plough, and somethingwould break. Then Tom would blaspheme till he was refreshed, mend upthings with wire and bits of clothes-line, fill his pockets with stonesto throw at the team, and start again. Finally he hired a dummy's childto drive the horses. The brat did his best he tugged at the head of theteam, prodded it behind, heaved rocks at it, cut a sapling, got up hisenthusiasm, and wildly whacked the light horse whenever the other showedsigns of moving--but he never succeeded in starting both horses at oneand the same time. Moreover the youth was cheeky, and the selector'stemper had been soured: he cursed the boy along with the horses, theplough, the selection, the squatter, and Australia. Yes, he cursedAustralia. The boy cursed back, was chastised, and immediately went homeand brought his father. 

Then the dummy's dog tackled the selector's dog and this precipitatedthings. The dummy would have gone under had his wife not arrived on thescene with the eldest son and the rest of the family. They all fell foulof Tom. The woman was the worst. The selector's dog chawed the other andcame to his master's rescue just in time---or Tom Hopkins would neverhave lived to become the inmate of a lunatic asylum. 

Next year there happened to be good grass on Tom's selection and nowhereelse, and he thought it wouldn't be a bad idea--to get a few poorsheep, and fatten them up for market: sheep were selling for aboutseven-and-sixpence a dozen at that time. Tom got a hundred or two, butthe squatter had a man stationed at one side of the selection with dogsto set on the sheep directly they put their noses through the fence(Tom's was not a sheep fence). The dogs chased the sheep across theselection and into the run again on the other side, where another manwaited ready to pound them. 

Tom's dog did his best; but he fell sick while chawing up the fourthcapitalistic canine, and subsequently died. The dummies had robbed thatcur with poison before starting it across--that was the only way theycould get at Tom's dog. 

Tom thought that two might play at the game, and he tried; but hisnephew, who happened to be up from the city on a visit, was arrestedat the instigation of the squatter for alleged sheep-stealing, andsentenced to two years' hard; during which time the selector himself gotsix months for assaulting the squatter with intent to do him grievousbodily harm-which, indeed, he more than attempted, if a broken nose, afractured jaw, and the loss of most of the squatters' teeth amounted toanything. The squatter by this time had made peace with the other localJustice, and had become his father-in-law. 

When Tom came out there was little left for him to live for; but he tooka job of fencing, got a few pounds together, and prepared to settle onthe land some more. He got a "missus" and a few cows during the nextyear; the missus robbed him and ran away with the dummy, and the cowsdied in the drought, or were impounded by the squatter while on theirway to water. Then Tom rented an orchard up the creek, and a hailstormdestroyed all the fruit. Germany happened to be represented at the time, Jacob having sought shelter at Tom's but on his way home from town. Tomstood leaning against the door post with the hail beating on him throughit all. His eyes were very bright and very dry, and every breath wasa choking sob. Jacob let him stand there, and sat inside with a dreamyexpression on his hard face, thinking of childhood and fatherland, perhaps. When it was over he led Tom to a stool and said, "You waitsthere, Tom. I must go home for somedings. You sits there still and waitstwenty minutes;" then he got on his horse and rode off muttering tohimself; "Dot man moost gry, dot man moost gry. " He was back inside oftwenty minutes with a bottle of wine and a cornet under his overcoat. Hepoured the wine into two pint-pots, made Tom drink, drank himself, andthen took his cornet, stood up at the door, and played a German marchinto the rain after the retreating storm. The hail had passed over hisvineyard and he was a ruined man too. Tom did "gry" and was all right. He was a bit disheartened, but he did another job of fencing, and wasjust beginning to think about "puttin' in a few vines an' fruit-trees"when the government surveyors--whom he'd forgotten all about--had aresurrection and came and surveyed, and found that the real selectionwas located amongst some barren ridges across the creek. Tom reckonedit was lucky he didn't plant the orchard, and he set about shifting hishome and fences to the new site. But the squatter interfered at thispoint, entered into possession of the farm and all on it, and tookaction against the selector for trespass--laying the damages at L2500. 

Tom was admitted to the lunatic asylum at Parramatta next year, and thesquatter was sent there the following summer, having been ruined by thedrought, the rabbits, the banks, and a wool-ring. The two became veryfriendly, and had many a sociable argument about the feasibility--orotherwise--of blowing open the flood-gates of Heaven in a dry seasonwith dynamite. 

Tom was discharged a few years since. He knocks about certain suburbsa good deal. He is seen in daylight seldom, and at night mostly inconnection with a dray and a lantern. He says his one great regret isthat he wasn't found to be of unsound mind before he went up-country. 

ENTER MITCHELL

The Western train had just arrived at Redfern railway station with a lotof ordinary passengers and one swagman. 

He was short, and stout, and bow-legged, and freckled, and sandy. He hadred hair and small, twinkling, grey eyes, and--what often goes with suchthings--the expression of a born comedian. He was dressed in a ragged, well-washed print shirt, an old black waistcoat with a calico back, apair of cloudy moleskins patched at the knees and held up by a plaitedgreenhide belt buckled loosely round his hips, a pair of well-worn, fuzzy blucher boots, and a soft felt hat, green with age, and with nobrim worth mentioning, and no crown to speak of. He swung a swag on tothe platform, shouldered it, pulled out a billy and water-bag, and thenwent to a dog-box in the brake van. 

Five minutes later he appeared on the edge of the cab platform, with ananxious-looking cattle-dog crouching against his legs, and one end ofthe chain in his hand. He eased down the swag against a post, turnedhis face to the city, tilted his hat forward, and scratched thewell-developed back of his head with a little finger. He seemedundecided what track to take. 

"Cab, Sir!"

The swagman turned slowly and regarded cabby with a quiet grin. 

"Now, do I look as if I want a cab?"

"Well, why not? No harm, anyway--I thought you might want a cab. "

Swaggy scratched his head, reflectively. 

"Well, " he said, "you're the first man that has thought so these tenyears. What do I want with a cab?"

"To go where you're going, of course. "

"Do I look knocked up?"

"I didn't say you did. "

"And I didn't say you said I did. .. . Now, I've been on the track thisfive years. I've tramped two thousan' miles since last Chris'mas, and Idon't see why I can't tramp the last mile. Do you think my old dog wantsa cab?"

The dog shivered and whimpered; he seemed to want to get away from thecrowd. 

"But then, you see, you ain't going to carry that swag through thestreets, are you?" asked the cabman. 

"Why not? Who'll stop me! There ain't no law agin it, I b'lieve?"

"But then, you see, it don't look well, you know. "

"Ah! I thought we'd get to it at last. "

The traveller up-ended his bluey against his knee, gave it anaffectionate pat, and then straightened himself up and looked fixedly atthe cabman. 

"Now, look here!" he said, sternly and impressively, "can you seeanything wrong with that old swag o' mine?"

It was a stout, dumpy swag, with a red blanket outside, patched withblue, and the edge of a blue blanket showing in the inner rings at theend. The swag might have been newer; it might have been cleaner;it might have been hooped with decent straps, instead of bits ofclothes-line and greenhide--but otherwise there was nothing the matterwith it, as swags go. 

"I've humped that old swag for years, " continued the bushman; "I'vecarried that old swag thousands of miles--as that old dog knows--an'no one ever bothered about the look of it, or of me, or of my old dog, neither; and do you think I'm going to be ashamed of that old swag, for a cabby or anyone else? Do you think I'm going to study anybody'sfeelings? No one ever studied mine! I'm in two minds to summon you forusing insulting language towards me!"

He lifted the swag by the twisted towel which served for ashoulder-strap, swung it into the cab, got in himself and hauled the dogafter him. 

"You can drive me somewhere where I can leave my swag and dog while Iget some decent clothes to see a tailor in, " he said to the cabman. "Myold dog ain't used to cabs, you see. "

Then he added, reflectively: "I drove a cab myself, once, for five yearsin Sydney. "

Stiffner and Jim

(Thirdly, Bill)

We were tramping down in Canterbury, Maoriland, at the time, swaggingit--me and Bill--looking for work on the new railway line. Well, one afternoon, after a long, hot tramp, we comes to Stiffner'sHotel--between Christchurch and that other place--I forget the nameof it--with throats on us like sunstruck bones, and not the price of astick of tobacco. 

We had to have a drink, anyway, so we chanced it. We walked right intothe bar, handed over our swags, put up four drinks, and tried to look asif we'd just drawn our cheques and didn't care a curse for any man. Welooked solvent enough, as far as swagmen go. We were dirty and haggardand ragged and tired-looking, and that was all the more reason why wemight have our cheques all right. 

This Stiffner was a hard customer. He'd been a spieler, fighting man, bush parson, temperance preacher, and a policeman, and a commercialtraveller, and everything else that was damnable; he'd been ajournalist, and an editor; he'd been a lawyer, too. He was an ugly bruteto look at, and uglier to have a row with--about six-foot-six, wide inproportion, and stronger than Donald Dinnie. 

He was meaner than a gold-field Chinaman, and sharper than a sewer rat:he wouldn't give his own father a feed, nor lend him a sprat--unlesssome safe person backed the old man's I. O. U. 

We knew that we needn't expect any mercy from Stiffner; but somethinghad to be done, so I said to Bill:

"Something's got to be done, Bill! What do you think of it?"

Bill was mostly a quiet young chap, from Sydney, except when he gotdrunk--which was seldom--and then he was a customer, from all round. Hewas cracked on the subject of spielers. He held that the population ofthe world was divided into two classes--one was spielers and the otherwas the mugs. He reckoned that he wasn't a mug. At first I thought hewas a spieler, and afterwards I thought that he was a mug. He used tosay that a man had to do it these times; that he was honest once anda fool, and was robbed and starved in consequences by his friends andrelations; but now he intended to take all that he could get. He saidthat you either had to have or be had; that men were driven to besharps, and there was no help for it. 

Bill said:

"We'll have to sharpen our teeth, that's all, and chew somebody's lug. "

"How?" I asked. 

There was a lot of navvies at the pub, and I knew one or two by sight, so Bill says:

"You know one or two of these mugs. Bite one of their ears. 

"So I took aside a chap that I knowed and bit his ear for ten bob, andgave it to Bill to mind, for I thought it would be safer with him thanwith me. 

"Hang on to that, " I says, "and don't lose it for your natural life'ssake, or Stiffner'll stiffen us. "

We put up about nine bob's worth of drinks that night--me and Bill--andStiffner didn't squeal: he was too sharp. He shouted once or twice. 

By-and-by I left Bill and turned in, and in the morning when I woke upthere was Bill sitting alongside of me, and looking about as livelyas the fighting kangaroo in London in fog time. He had a black eye andeighteen pence. He'd been taking down some of the mugs. 

"Well, what's to be done now?" I asked. "Stiffner can smash us both withone hand, and if we don't pay up he'll pound our swags and cripple us. He's just the man to do it. He loves a fight even more than he hatesbeing had. "

"There's only one thing to be done, Jim, " says Bill, in a tired, disinterested tone that made me mad. 

"Well, what's than" I said. 

"Smoke!"

"Smoke be damned, " I snarled, losing my temper. 

"You know dashed well that our swags are in the bar, and we can't smokewithout them. 

"Well, then, " says Bill, "I'll toss you to see who's to face thelandlord. "

"Well, I'll be blessed!" I says. "I'll see you further first. You havegot a front. You mugged that stuff away, and you'll have to get us outof the mess. "

It made him wild to be called a mug, and we swore and growled at eachother for a while; but we daren't speak loud enough to have a fight, soat last I agreed to toss up for it, and I lost. 

Bill started to give me some of his points, but I shut him up quick. 

"You've had your turn, and made a mess of it, " I said. "For God's sakegive me a show. Now, I'll go into the bar and ask for the swags, andcarry them out on to the veranda, and then go back to settle up. Youkeep him talking all the time. You dump the two swags together, andsmoke like sheol. That's all you've got to do. "

I went into the bar, got the swags front the missus, carried them out onto the veranda, and then went back. 

Stiffner came in. 

"Good morning!"

"Good morning, sir, " says Stiffner. 

"It'll be a nice day, I think?"

"Yes, I think so. I suppose you are going on?"

"Yes, we'll have to make a move to-day. "

Then I hooked carelessly on to the counter with one elbow, and lookeddreamy-like out across the clearing, and presently I gave a sort of sighand said: "Ah, well! I think I'll have a beer. "

"Right you are! Where's your mate?"

"Oh, he's round at the back. He'll be round directly; but he ain'tdrinking this morning. "

Stiffner laughed that nasty empty laugh of his. He thought Bill waswhipping the cat. 

"What's yours, boss?" I said. 

"Thankee!. .. Here's luck!"

"Here's luck!"

The country was pretty open round there--the nearest timber was betterthan a mile away, and I wanted to give Bill a good start across the flatbefore the go-as-you-can commenced; so I talked for a while, and whilewe were talking I thought I might as well go the whole hog--I might aswell die for a pound as a penny, if I had to die; and if I hadn't I'dhave the pound to the good, anyway, so to speak. Anyhow, the risk wouldbe about the same, or less, for I might have the spirit to run harderthe more I had to run for--the more spirits I had to run for, in fact, as it turned out--so I says:

"I think I'll take one of them there flasks of whisky to last us on theroad. "

"Right y'are, " says Stiffner. "What'll ye have--a small one or a bigone?"

"Oh, a big one, I think--if I can get it into my pocket. "

"It'll be a tight squeeze, " he said, and he laughed. 

"I'll try, " I said. "Bet you two drinks I'll get it in. "

"Done!" he says. "The top inside coat-pocket, and no tearing. "

It was a big bottle, and all my pockets were small; but I got it intothe pocket he'd betted against. It was a tight squeeze, but I got it in. 

Then we both laughed, but his laugh was nastier than usual, because itwas meant to be pleasant, and he'd lost two drinks; and my laugh wasn'teasy--I was anxious as to which of us would laugh next. 

Just then I noticed something, and an idea struck me--about the mostup-to-date idea that ever struck me in my life. I noticed that Stiffnerwas limping on his right foot this morning, so I said to him:

"What's up with your foot?" putting my hand in my pocket. "Oh, it's acrimson nail in my boot, " he said. "I thought I got the blanky thing outthis morning; but I didn't. "

There just happened to be an old bag of shoemaker's tools in the bar, belonging to an old cobbler who was lying dead drunk on the veranda. SoI said, taking my hand out of my pocket again:

"Lend us the boot, and I'll fix it in a minute. That's my old trade. "

"Oh, so you're a shoemaker, " he said. "I'd never have thought it. "

He laughs one of his useless laughs that wasn't wanted, and slips offthe boot--he hadn't laced it up--and hands it across the bar to me. It was an ugly brute--a great thick, iron-bound, boiler-plated navvy'sboot. It made me feel sore when I looked at it. 

I got the bag and pretended to fix the nail; but I didn't. 

"There's a couple of nails gone from the sole, " I said. "I'll put 'emin if I can find any hobnails, and it'll save the sole, " and I rooted inthe bag and found a good long nail, and shoved it right through the soleon the sly. He'd been a bit of a sprinter in his time, and I thoughtit might be better for me in the near future if the spikes of hisrunning-shoes were inside. 

"There, you'll find that better, I fancy, " I said, standing the boot onthe bar counter, but keeping my hand on it in an absent-minded kind ofway. Presently I yawned and stretched myself, and said in a carelessway:

"Ah, well! How's the slate?" He scratched the back of his head andpretended to think. 

"Oh, well, we'll call it thirty bob. "

Perhaps he thought I'd slap down two quid. 

"Well, " I says, "and what will you do supposing we don't pay you?"

He looked blank for a moment. Then he fired up and gasped and chokedonce or twice; and then he cooled down suddenly and laughed his nastiestlaugh--he was one of those men who always laugh when they're wild--andsaid in a nasty, quiet tone:

"You thundering, jumped-up crawlers! If you don't (something) well partup I'll take your swags and (something) well kick your gory pants so youwon't be able to sit down for a month--or stand up either!"

"Well, the sooner you begin the better, " I said; and I chucked the bootinto a corner and bolted. 

He jumped the bar counter, got his boot, and came after me. He pausedto slip the boot on--but he only made one step, and then gave a howl andslung the boot off and rushed back. When I looked round again he'd gota slipper on, and was coming--and gaining on me, too. I shifted scenerypretty quick the next five minutes. But I was soon pumped. My heartbegan to beat against the ceiling of my head, and my lungs all chokedup in my throat. When I guessed he was getting within kicking distanceI glanced round so's to dodge the kick. He let out; but I shied just intime. He missed fire, and the slipper went about twenty feet up in theair and fell in a waterhole. 

He was done then, for the ground was stubbly and stony. I seen Bill onahead pegging out for the horizon, and I took after him and reached forthe timber for all I was worth, for I'd seen Stiffner's missus comingwith a shovel--to bury the remains, I suppose; and those two were a goodmatch--Stiffner and his missus, I mean. 

Bill looked round once, and melted into the bush pretty soon after that. When I caught up he was about done; but I grabbed my swag and we pushedon, for I told Bill that I'd seen Stiffner making for the stables whenI'd last looked round; and Bill thought that we'd better get lost in thebush as soon as ever we could, and stay lost, too, for Stiffner was aman that couldn't stand being had. 

The first thing that Bill said when we got safe into camp was: "I toldyou that we'd pull through all right. You need never be frightened whenyou're travelling with me. Just take my advice and leave things to me, and we'll hang out all right. Now-. "

But I shut him up. He made me mad. 

"Why, you--! What the sheol did _you_ do?"

"Do?" he says. "I got away with the swags, didn't I? Where'd they be nowif it wasn't for me?"

Then I sat on him pretty hard for his pretensions, and paid him out forall the patronage he'd worked off on me, and called him a mug straight, and walked round him, so to speak, and blowed, and told him never topretend to me again that he was a battler. 

Then, when I thought I'd licked him into form, I cooled down and soapedhim up a bit; but I never thought that he had three climaxes and acrisis in store for me. 

He took it all pretty cool; he let me have my fling, and gave me time toget breath; then he leaned languidly over on his right side, shoved hisleft hand down into his left trouserpocket, and brought up a boot-lace, a box of matches, and nine-and-six. 

As soon as I got the focus of it I gasped:

"Where the deuce did you get that?"

"I had it all along, " he said, "but I seen at the pub that you had theshow to chew a lug, so I thought we'd save it--nine-and-sixpences ain'tpicked up every day. "

Then he leaned over on his left, went down into the other pocket, andcame up with a piece of tobacco and half-a-sovereign. 

My eyes bulged out. 

"Where the blazes did you get that from?" I yelled. 

"That, " he said, "was the half-quid you give me last night. Half-quidsain't to be thrown away these times; and, besides, I had a down onStiffner, and meant to pay him out; I reckoned that if we wasn't sharpenough to take him down we hadn't any business to be supposed to bealive. Anyway, I guessed we'd do it; and so we did--and got a bottle ofwhisky into the bargain. "

Then he leaned back, tired-like, against the log, and dredged his upperleft-hand waistcoat-pocket, and brought up a sovereign wrapped in apound note. Then he waited for me to speak; but I couldn't. I got mymouth open, but couldn't get it shut again. 

"I got that out of the mugs last night, but I thought that we'd want it, and might as well keep it. Quids ain't so easily picked up, nowadays;and, besides, we need stuff more'n Stiffner does, and so--"

"And did he know you had the stuff?" I gasped. 

"Oh, yes, that's the fun of it. That's what made him so excited. He wasin the parlour all the time I was playing. But we might as well have adrink!

"We did. I wanted it. "

Bill turned in by-and-by, and looked like a sleeping innocent in themoonlight. I sat up late, and smoked, and thought hard, and watchedBill, and turned in, and thought till near daylight, and then went tosleep, and had a nightmare about it. I dreamed I chased Stiffner fortymiles to buy his pub, and that Bill turned out to be his nephew. 

Bill divvied up all right, and gave me half a crown over, but I didn'ttravel with him long after that. He was a decent young fellow as far aschaps go, and a good mate as far as mates go; but he was too far aheadfor a peaceful, easy-going chap like me. It would have worn me out in ayear to keep up to him. 

P. S. --The name of this should have been:'Bill and Stiffner (thirdly, Jim)'

WHEN THE SUN WENT DOWN

Jack Drew sat on the edge of the shaft, with his foot in the loop andone hand on the rope, ready to descend. His elder brother, Tom, stoodat one end of the windlass and the third mate at the other. Jack pausedbefore swinging off, looked up at his brother, and impulsively held outhis hand:

"You ain't going to let the sun go down, are you, Tom?"

But Tom kept both hands on the windlass-handle and said nothing. 

"Lower away!"

They lowered him to the bottom, and Tom shouldered his pick in silenceand walked off to the tent. He found the tin plate, pint-pot, and thingsset ready for him on the rough slab table under the bush shed. The teawas made, the cabbage and potatoes strained and placed in a billy nearthe fire. He found the fried bacon and steak between two plates in thecamp-oven. He sat down to the table but he could not eat. He felt mean. The inexperience and hasty temper of his brother had caused the quarrelbetween them that morning; but then Jack admitted that, and apologizedwhen he first tried to make it up. 

Tom moved round uneasily and tried to smoke: he could not get Jack'slast appeal out of his ears--"You ain't going to let the sun go down, Tom?"

Tom found himself glancing at the sun. It was less than two hours fromsunset. He thought of the words of the old Hebrew--or Chinese--poet; hewasn't religious, and the authorship didn't matter. The old poet's wordsbegan to haunt him "Let not the sun go down upon your wrath--Let not thesun go down upon your wrath. "

The line contains good, sound advice; for quick-tempered men are oftenthe most sensitive, and when they let the sun go down on the aforesaidwrath that quality is likely to get them down and worry them during thenight. 

Tom started to go to the claim, but checked himself, and sat downand tried to draw comfort from his pipe. He understood his brotherthoroughly, but his brother never understood him--that was where thetrouble was. Presently he got thinking how Jack would worry about thequarrel and have no heart for his work. Perhaps he was fretting over itnow, all alone by himself, down at the end of the damp, dark drive. Tomhad a lot of the old woman about him, in spite of his unsociable waysand brooding temper. 

He had almost made up his mind to go below again, on some excuse, whenhis mate shouted from the top of the shaft:

"Tom! Tom! For Christ's sake come here!"

Tom's heart gave a great thump, and he ran like a kangaroo to the shaft. All the diggers within hearing were soon on the spot. They saw at aglance what had happened. It was madness to sink without timber in suchtreacherous ground. _The sides of the shaft were closing in_. Tom sprangforward and shouted through the crevice:

"To the face, Jack! To the face, for your life!"

"The old Workings!" he cried, turning to the diggers. "Bring a fan andtools. We'll dig him out. "

A few minutes later a fan was rigged over a deserted shaft close by, where fortunately the windlass had been left for bailing purposes, and men were down in the old drive. Tom knew that he and his mates haddriven very close to the old workings. 

He knelt in the damp clay before the face and worked like a madman; herefused to take turn about, and only dropped the pick to seize a shovelin his strong hands, and snatch back the loose clay from under his feet;he reckoned that he had six or, perhaps, eight feet to drive, and heknew that the air could not last long in the new drive--even if thathad not already fallen in and crushed his brother. Great drops ofperspiration stood out on Tom's forehead, and his breath began to comein choking sobs, but he still struck strong, savage blows into the claybefore him, and the drive lengthened quickly. Once he paused a momentto listen, and then distinctly heard a sound as of a tool or stone beingstruck against the end of the new drive. Jack was safe!

Tom dug on until the clay suddenly fell away from his pick and left ahole, about the size of a plate, in the "face" before him. "Thank God!"said a hoarse, strained voice at the other side. 

"All right, Jack!"

"Yes, old man; you are just in time; I've hardly got room to stand in, and I'm nearly smothered. " He was crouching against the "face" of thenew drive. 

Tom dropped his pick and fell back against the man behind him. 

"Oh, God! my back!" he cried. 

Suddenly he struggled to his knees, and then fell forward on his handand dragged himself close to the hole in the end of the drive. 

"Jack!" he gasped, "Jack!"

"Right, old man; what's the matter?"

"I've hurt my heart, Jack!--Put your hand--quick!. .. The sun's goingdown. "

Jack's hand came out through the hole, Tom gripped it, and then fellwith his face in the damp clay. 

They half carried, half dragged him from the drive, for the roof was lowand they were obliged to stoop. They took him to the shaft and sent himup, lashed to the rope. 

A few blows of the pick, and Jack scrambled from his prison and wentto the surface, and knelt on the grass by the body of his brother. Thediggers gathered round and took off their hats. And the sun went down. 

THE MAN WHO FORGOT

"Well, I dunno, " said Tom Marshall--known as "The Oracle"--"I've heerdo' sich cases before: they ain't commin, but--I've heerd o' sichcases before, " and he screwed up the left side of his face whilst hereflectively scraped his capacious right ear with the large blade of apocket-knife. 

They were sitting at the western end of the rouseabouts' hut, enjoyingthe breeze that came up when the sun went down, and smoking and yarning. The "case" in question was a wretchedly forlorn-looking specimen of theswag-carrying clan whom a boundary-rider had found wandering aboutthe adjacent plain, and had brought into the station. He was a small, scraggy man, painfully fair, with a big, baby-like head, vacant wateryeyes, long thin hairy hands, that felt like pieces of damp seaweed, andan apologetic cringe-and-look-up-at-you manner. He professed to haveforgotten who he was and all about himself. 

The Oracle was deeply interested in this case, as indeed he was inanything else that "looked curious. " He was a big, simple-mindedshearer, with more heart than brains, more experience than sense, andmore curiosity than either. It was a wonder that he had not profited, even indirectly, by the last characteristic. His heart was filled witha kind of reverential pity for anyone who was fortunate or unfortunateenough to possess an "affliction;" and amongst his mates had beencounted a deaf man, a blind man, a poet, and a man who "had rats. " Tomhad dropped across them individually, when they were down in theworld, and had befriended them, and studied them with greatinterest--especially the poet; and they thought kindly of him, and weregrateful--except the individual with the rats, who reckoned Tom had anaxe to grind--that he, in fact, wanted to cut his (Rat's) liver out as abait for Darling cod--and so renounced the mateship. 

It was natural, then, for The Oracle to take the present case under hiswing. He used his influence with the boss to get the Mystery on "pickingup, " and studied him in spare time, and did his best to assist the poorhushed memory, which nothing the men could say or do seemed able to pushfurther back than the day on which the stranger "kind o' woke up" onthe plain, and found a swag beside him. The swag had been prospectedand fossicked for a clue, but yielded none. The chaps were sceptical atfirst, and inclined to make fun of the Mystery; but Tom interfered, andintimated that if they were skunks enough to chyack or try on any oftheir "funny business" with a "pore afflicted chap, " he (Tom) wouldbe obliged to "perform. " Most of the men there had witnessed Tom'sperformance, and no one seemed ambitious to take a leading part in it. They preferred to be in the audience. 

"Yes, " reflected The Oracle, "it's a curious case, and I dare say someof them big doctors, like Morell Mackenzie, would be glad to give athousand or two to get holt on a case like this. "

"Done, " cried Mitchell, the goat of the shed. "I'll go halves!--or stay, let's form a syndicate and work the Mystery. "

Some of the rouseabouts laughed, but the joke fell as flat with Tom asany other joke. 

"The worst of it is, " said the Mystery himself, in the whine that wasnatural to him, and with a timid side look up at Tom--"the worst of itis I might be a lord or duke, and don't know anything about it. I mightbe a rich man, with a lot of houses and money. I might be a lord. "

The chaps guffawed. 

"Wot'yer laughing at?" asked Mitchell. "I don't see anythingunreasonable about it; he might be a lord as far as looks go. I've seentwo. "

"Yes, " reflected Tom, ignoring Mitchell, "there's something in that; butthen again, you see, you might be Jack the Ripper. Better let it slide, mate; let the dead past bury its dead. Start fresh with a clean sheet. "

"But I don't even know my name, or whether I'm married or not, " whinedthe outcast. "I might have a good wife and little ones. "

"Better keep on forgetting, mate, " Mitchell said, "and as for a name, that's nothing. I don't know mine, and I've had eight. There's plentygood names knocking round. I knew a man named Jim Smith that died. Takehis name, it just suits you, and he ain't likely to call round for it;if he does, you can say you was born with it. "

So they called him Smith, and soon began to regard him as a harmlesslunatic and to take no notice of his eccentricities. Great interest wastaken in the case for a time, and even Mitchell put in his oar andtried all sorts of ways to assist the Mystery in his weak, helpless, and almost pitiful endeavours to recollect who he was. A similar casehappened to appear in the papers at this time, and the thing caught onto such an extent that The Oracle was moved to impart some advice fromhis store of wisdom. 

"I wouldn't think too much over it if I was you, " said he to Mitchell, "hundreds of sensible men went mad over that there Tichborne case whodidn't have anything to do with it, but just through thinking on it; andyou're ratty enough already, Jack. Let it alone and trust me to find outwho's Smith just as soon as ever we cut out. "

Meanwhile Smith ate, worked, and slept, and borrowed tobacco and forgotto return it--which was made a note of. He talked freely about his casewhen asked, but if he addressed anyone, it was with the air of the timidbut good young man, who is fully aware of the extent and power of thisworld's wickedness, and stands somewhat in awe of it, but yet wouldbeg you to favour a humble worker in the vineyard by kindly accepting atract, and passing it on to friends after perusal. 

One Saturday morning, about a fortnight before cut out, The Oracle camelate to his stand, and apparently with something on his mind. Smithhadn't turned up, and the next rouseabout was doing his work, to themutual dissatisfaction of all parties immediately concerned. 

"Did you see anything of Smith?" asked Mitchell of The Oracle. "Seems tohave forgot to get up this morning. "

Tom looked disheartened and disappointed. _"He's forgot again_, " saidhe, slowly and impressively. 

"Forgot what? We know he's blessed well forgot to come to graft. "

"He's forgot again, " repeated Tom. "He woke up this morning and wantedto know who he was and where he was. " Comments. 

"Better give him best, Oracle, " said Mitchell presently. "If he can'tfind out who he is and where he is, the boss'll soon find it out forhim. "

"No, " said Tom, "when I take a thing in hand I see it through. "

This was also characteristic of the boss-over-the-board, though inanother direction. He went down to the but and inquired for Smith. 

"Why ain't you at work?"

"Who am I, sir? Where am I?" whined Smith. "Can you please tell me who Iam and where I am?"

The boss drew a long breath and stared blankly at the Mystery; then heerupted. 

"Now, look here!" he howled, "I don't know who the gory sheol you are, except that you're a gory lunatic, and what's more, I don't care a damn. But I'll soon show you where you are! You can call up at the store andget your cheque, and soon as you blessed well like; and then take awalk, and don't forget to take your lovely swag with you. "

The matter was discussed at the dinner-table. The Oracle swore that itwas a cruel, mean way to treat a "pore afflicted chap, " and cursed theboss. Tom's admirers cursed in sympathy, and trouble seemed threatening, when the voice of Mitchell was heard to rise in slow, deliberate tonesover the clatter of cutlery and tin plates. 

"I wonder, " said the voice, "I wonder whether Smith forgot his cheque?"

It was ascertained that Smith hadn't. 

There was some eating and thinking done. Soon Mitchell's voice was heardagain, directed at The Oracle. 

It said "Do you keep any vallabels about your bunk, Oracle?"

Tom looked hard at Mitchell. "Why?"

"Oh, nothin': only I think it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to look atyour bunk and see whether Smith forgot. "

The chaps grew awfully interested. They fixed their eyes on Tom, and helooked with feeling from one face to another; then he pushed his plateback, and slowly extracted his long legs from between the stool and thetable. He climbed to his bunk, and carefully reviewed the ingredients ofhis swag. Smith hadn't forgot. 

When The Oracle's face came round again there was in it a strangeexpression which a close study would have revealed to be more of angerthan of sorrow, but that was not all. It was an expression such as a manmight wear who is undergoing a terrible operation, without chloroform, but is determined not to let a whimper escape him. Tom didn't swear, andby that token they guessed how mad he was. 'Twas a rough shed, witha free and lurid vocabulary, but had they all sworn in chorus, withOne-eyed Bogan as lead, it would not have done justice to Tom'sfeelings--and they realized this. 

The Oracle took down his bridle from its peg, and started for the dooramid a respectful and sympathetic silence, which was only partly brokenonce by the voice of Mitchell, which asked in an awed whisper:

"Going ter ketch yer horse, Tom?" The Oracle nodded, and passed on; hespake no word--he was too full for words. 

Five minutes passed, and then the voice of Mitchell was heard again, uninterrupted by the clatter of tinware. It said in impressive tones:

"It would not be a bad idea for some of you chaps that camp in the bunksalong there, to have a look at your things. Scotty's bunk is next toTom's. "

Scotty shot out of his place as if a snake had hold of his leg, startinga plank in the table and upsetting three soup plates. He reached for hisbunk like a drowning man clutching at a plank, and tore out the bedding. Again, Smith hadn't forgot. 

Then followed a general overhaul, and it was found in most cases thatSmith had remembered. The pent-up reservoir of blasphemy burst forth. 

The Oracle came up with Smith that night at the nearest shanty, andfound that he had forgotten again, and in several instances, and wasforgetting some more under the influence of rum and of the flatteringinterest taken in his case by a drunken Bachelor of Arts who happened tobe at the pub. Tom came in quietly from the rear, and crooked his fingerat the shanty-keeper. They went apart from the rest, and talked togethera while very earnestly. Then they secretly examined Smith's swag, thecore of which was composed of Tom's and his mate's valuables. 

Then The Oracle stirred up Smith's recollections and departed. 

Smith was about again in a couple of weeks. He was damaged somewhatphysically, but his memory was no longer impaired. 

HUNGERFORD

One of the hungriest cleared roads in New South Wales runs to within acouple of miles of Hungerford, and stops there; then you strike throughthe scrub to the town. There is no distant prospect of Hungerford--youdon't see the town till you are quite close to it, and then two or threewhite-washed galvanized-iron roofs start out of the mulga. 

They say that a past Ministry commenced to clear the road from Bourke, under the impression that Hungerford was an important place, and wenton, with the blindness peculiar to governments, till they got to withintwo miles of the town. Then they ran short of rum and rations, and senta man on to get them, and make inquiries. The member never came back, and two more were sent to find him--or Hungerford. Three days laterthe two returned in an exhausted condition, and submitted a motion ofwant-of-confidence, which was lost. Then the whole House went on and waslost also. Strange to relate, that Government was never missed. 

However, we found Hungerford and camped there for a day. The town isright on the Queensland border, and an interprovincial rabbit-prooffence--with rabbits on both sides of it--runs across the main street. 

This fence is a standing joke with Australian rabbits--about the onlyjoke they have out there, except the memory of Pasteur and poison andinoculation. It is amusing to go a little way out of town, about sunset, and watch them crack Noah's Ark rabbit jokes about that fence, andburrow under and play leap-frog over it till they get tired. One oldbuck rabbit sat up and nearly laughed his ears off at a joke of his ownabout that fence. He laughed so much that he couldn't get away whenI reached for him. I could hardly eat him for laughing. I never saw arabbit laugh before; but I've seen a 'possum do it. 

Hungerford consists of two houses and a humpy in New South Wales, andfive houses in Queensland. Characteristically enough, both the pubs arein Queensland. We got a glass of sour yeast at one and paid sixpence forit--we had asked for English ale. 

The post office is in New South Wales, and the police-barracks inBananaland. The police cannot do anything if there's a row going onacross the street in New South Wales, except to send to Brisbane andhave an extradition warrant applied for; and they don't do much ifthere's a row in Queensland. Most of the rows are across the border, where the pubs are. 

At least, I believe that's how it is, though the man who told me mighthave been a liar. Another man said he was a liar, but then _he_ mighthave been a liar himself--a third person said he was one. I heard thatthere was a fight over it, but the man who told me about the fight mightnot have been telling the truth. 

One part of the town swears at Brisbane when things go wrong, and theother part curses Sydney. 

The country looks as though a great ash-heap had been spread out there, and mulga scrub and firewood planted--and neglected. The country looksjust as bad for a hundred miles round Hungerford, and beyond that itgets worse--a blasted, barren wilderness that doesn't even howl. If ithowled it would be a relief. 

I believe that Bourke and Wills found Hungerford, and it's a pity theydid; but, if I ever stand by the graves of the men who first travelledthrough this country, when there were neither roads nor stations, nortanks, nor bores, nor pubs, I'll--I'll take my hat off. There were bravemen in the land in those days. 

It is said that the explorers gave the district its name chiefly becauseof the hunger they found there, which has remained there ever since. Idon't know where the "ford" comes in--there's nothing to ford, except inflood-time. Hungerthirst would have been better. The town is supposedto be situated on the banks of a river called the Paroo, but we saw nowater there, except what passed for it in a tank. The goats and sheepand dogs and the rest of the population drink there. It is dangerous totake too much of that water in a raw state. 

Except in flood-time you couldn't find the bed of the river without theaid of a spirit-level and a long straight-edge. There is a Custom-houseagainst the fence on the northern side. A pound of tea often costssix shillings on that side, and you can get a common lead pencil forfourpence at the rival store across the street in the mother province. Also, a small loaf of sour bread sells for a shilling at the humpyaforementioned. Only about sixty per cent of the sugar will melt. 

We saw one of the storekeepers give a dead-beat swagman five shillings'worth of rations to take him on into Queensland. The storekeepers oftendo this, and put it down on the loss side of their books. I hope therecording angel listens, and puts it down on the right side of his book. 

We camped on the Queensland side of the fence, and after tea had a yarnwith an old man who was minding a mixed flock of goats and sheep; and weasked him whether he thought Queensland was better than New South Wales, or the other way about. 

He scratched the back of his head, and thought a while, and hesitatedlike a stranger who is going to do you a favour at some personalinconvenience. 

At last, with the bored air of a man who has gone through the sameperformance too often before, he stepped deliberately up to the fenceand spat over it into New South Wales. After which he got leisurelythrough and spat back on Queensland. 

"That's what I think of the blanky colonies!" he said. 

He gave us time to become sufficiently impressed; then he said:

"And if I was at the Victorian and South Australian border I'd do thesame thing. "

He let that soak into our minds, and added: "And the same with WestAustralia--and--and Tasmania. " Then he went away. 

The last would have been a long spit--and he forgot Maoriland. 

We heard afterwards that his name was Clancy and he had that day beenoffered a job droving at "twenty-five shillings a week and find yourown horse. " Also find your own horse feed and tobacco and soap and otherluxuries, at station prices. Moreover, if you lost your own horse youwould have to find another, and if that died or went astray you wouldhave to find a third--or forfeit your pay and return on foot. Theboss drover agreed to provide flour and mutton--when such things wereprocurable. 

Consequently, Clancy's unfavourable opinion of the colonies. 

My mate and I sat down on our swags against the fence to talk thingsover. One of us was very deaf. Presently a black tracker went past andlooked at us, and returned to the pub. Then a trooper in Queenslanduniform came along and asked us what the trouble was about, and wherewe came from and were going, and where we camped. We said we werediscussing private business, and he explained that he thought it wasa row, and came over to see. Then he left us, and later on we saw himsitting with the rest of the population on a bench under the hotelveranda. Next morning we rolled up our swags and left Hungerford to thenorth-west. 

A CAMP-FIRE YARN

"This girl, " said Mitchell, continuing a yarn to his mate, "was aboutthe ugliest girl I ever saw, except one, and I'll tell you about herdirectly. The old man had a carpenter's shop fixed up in a shed at theback of his house, and he used to work there pretty often, and sometimesI'd come over and yarn with him. One day I was sitting on the end ofthe bench, and the old man was working away, and Mary was standing theretoo, all three of us yarning--she mostly came poking round where I wasif I happened to be on the premises--or at least I thought so--andwe got yarning about getting married, and the old cove said he'd getmarried again if the old woman died. 

"'_You_ get married again!' said Mary. 'Why, father, you wouldn't getanyone to marry you--who'd have you?'

"'Well, ' he said, 'I bet I'll get someone sooner than you, anyway. You don't seem to be able to get anyone, and it's pretty near time youthought of settlin' down and gettin' married. I wish _someone_ wouldhave you. '

"He hit her pretty hard there, but it served her right. She got as goodas she gave. She looked at me and went all colours, and then she wentback to her washtub. 

"She was mighty quiet at tea-time--she seemed hurt a lot, and I began tofeel sorry I'd laughed at the old man's joke, for she was really a good, hard-working girl, and you couldn't help liking her. 

"So after tea I went out to her in the kitchen, where she was washingup, to try and cheer her up a bit. She'd scarcely speak at first, exceptto say 'Yes' or 'No', and kept her face turned away from me; and I couldsee that she'd been crying. I began to feel sorry for her and mad at theold man, and I started to comfort her. But I didn't go the right way towork about it. I told her that she mustn't take any notice of the oldcove, as he didn't mean half he said. But she seemed to take it harderthan ever, and at last I got so sorry for her that I told her that _I'd_have her if she'd have me. "

"And what did she say?" asked Mitchell's mate, after a pause. 

"She said she wouldn't have me at any price!"

The mate laughed, and Mitchell grinned his quiet grin. 

"Well, this set me thinking, " he continued. "I always knew I was adashed ugly cove, and I began to wonder whether any girl would reallyhave me; and I kept on it till at last I made up my mind to find out andsettle the matter for good--or bad. 

"There was another farmer's daughter living close by, and I met herpretty often coming home from work, and sometimes I had a yarn with her. She was plain, and no mistake: Mary was a Venus alongside of her. Shehad feet like a Lascar, and hands about ten sizes too large for her, and a face like that camel--only red; she walked like a camel, too. Shelooked like a ladder with a dress on, and she didn't know a great A froma corner cupboard. 

"Well, one evening I met her at the sliprails, and presently I askedher, for a joke, if she'd marry me. Mind you, I never wanted to marry_her_; I was only curious to know whether any girl would have me. 

"She turned away her face and seemed to hesitate, and I was just turningaway and beginning to think I was a dashed hopeless case, when all of asudden she fell up against me and said she'd be my wife. .. . And it wasn'ther fault that she wasn't. "

"What did she do?"

"Do! What didn't she do? Next day she went down to our place when Iwas at work, and hugged and kissed mother and the girls all round, andcried, and told mother that she'd try and be a dutiful daughter to her. Good Lord! You should have seen the old woman and the girls when I camehome. 

"Then she let everyone know that Bridget Page was engaged to JackMitchell, and told her friends that she went down on her knees everynight and thanked the Lord for getting the love of a good man. Didn'tthe fellows chyack me, though! My sisters were raving mad about it, fortheir chums kept asking them how they liked their new sister, and whenit was going to come off, and who'd be bridesmaids and best man, andwhether they weren't surprised at their brother Jack's choice; and thenI'd gammon at home that it was all true. 

"At last the place got too hot for me. I got sick of dodging that girl. I sent a mate of mine to tell her that it was all a joke, and that I wasalready married in secret; but she didn't see it, then I cleared, andgot a job in Newcastle, but had to leave there when my mates sent me theoffice that she was coming. I wouldn't wonder but what she is humpingher swag after me now. In fact, I thought you was her in disguise whenI set eyes on you first. .. . You needn't get mad about it; I don't mean tosay that you're quite as ugly as she was, because I never saw a man thatwas--or a woman either. Anyway, I'll never ask a woman to marry me againunless I'm ready to marry her. "

Then Mitchell's mate told a yarn. 

"I knew a case once something like the one you were telling me about;the landlady of a hash-house where I was stopping in Albany told me. There was a young carpenter staying there, who'd run away from Sydneyfrom an old maid who wanted to marry him. He'd cleared from the churchdoor, I believe. He was scarcely more'n a boy--about nineteen--and asoft kind of a fellow, something like you, only good-looking--that is, he was passable. Well, as soon as the woman found out where he'd gone, she came after him. She turned up at the boarding-house one Saturdaymorning when Bobbie was at work; and the first thing she did was to renta double room from the landlady and buy some cups and saucers to starthousekeeping with. When Bobbie came home he just gave her one look andgave up the game. 

"'Get your dinner, Bobbie, ' she said, after she'd slobbered over him abit, 'and then get dressed and come with me and get married!'

"She was about three times his age, and had a face like that picture ofa lady over Sappho Smith's letters in the Sydney _Bulletin_. 

"Well, Bobbie went with her like a--like a lamb; never gave a kick ortried to clear. "

"Hold on, " said Mitchell, "did you ever shear lambs?"

"Never mind. Let me finish the yarn. Bobbie was married; but shewouldn't let him out of her sight all that afternoon, and he had to putup with her before them all. About bedtime he sneaked out and startedalong the passage to his room that he shared with two or three mates. But she'd her eye on him. 

"'Bobbie, Bobbie!' she says, 'Where are you going?'

"'I'm going to bed, ' said Bobbie. 'Good night!'

"'Bobbie, Bobbie, ' she says, sharply. 'That isn't our room; _this_ isour room, Bobbie. Come back at once! What do you mean, Bobbie? _Do youhear me, Bobbie?_'

"So Bobbie came back, and went in with the scarecrow. Next morning shewas first at the breakfast table, in a dressing-gown and curl papers. And when they were all sitting down Bobbie sneaked in, looking awfullysheepish, and sidled for his chair at the other end of the table. Butshe'd her eyes on him. 

"'Bobbie, Bobbie!' she said, 'Come and kiss me, Bobbie!'" And he had todo it in front of them all. 

"But I believe she made him a good wife. "

HIS COUNTRY-AFTER ALL

The Blenheim coach was descending into the valley of the AvetereRiver--pronounced Aveterry--from the saddle of Taylor's Pass. Acrossthe river to the right, the grey slopes and flats stretched away tothe distant sea from a range of tussock hills. There was no native bushthere; but there were several groves of imported timber standing wideapart---sentinel-like--seeming lonely and striking in their isolation. 

"Grand country, New Zealand, eh?" said a stout man with a brown face, grey beard, and grey eyes, who sat between the driver and anotherpassenger on the box. 

"You don't call this grand country!" exclaimed the other passenger, whoclaimed to be, and looked like, a commercial traveller, and might havebeen a professional spieler--quite possibly both. "Why, it's about thepoorest country in New Zealand! You ought to see some of the country inthe North Island--Wairarapa and Napier districts, round about Pahiatua. I call this damn poor country. "

"Well, I reckon you wouldn't, if you'd ever been in Australia--back inNew South Wales. The people here don't seem to know what a grand countrythey've got. You say this is the worst, eh? Well, this would make anAustralian cockatoo's mouth water-the worst of New Zealand would. "

"I always thought Australia was all good country, " mused the driver--aflax-stick. "I always thought--"

"Good country!" exclaimed the man with the grey beard, in a tone ofdisgust. "Why, it's only a mongrel desert, except some bits round thecoast. The worst dried-up and God-forsaken country I was ever in. "

There was a silence, thoughtful on the driver's part, and aggressive onthat of the stranger. 

"I always thought, " said the driver, reflectively, after the pause--"Ialways thought Australia was a good country, " and he placed his foot onthe brake. 

They let him think. The coach descended the natural terraces above theriver bank, and pulled up at the pub. 

"So you're a native of Australia?" said the bagman to the grey-beard, asthe coach went on again. 

"Well, I suppose I am. Anyway, I was born there. That's the main thingI've got against the darned country. "

"How long did you stay there?"

"Till I got away, " said the stranger. Then, after a think, he added, "Iwent away first when I was thirty-five--went to the islands. I swore I'dnever go back to Australia again; but I did. I thought I had a kind ofaffection for old Sydney. I knocked about the blasted country for fiveor six years, and then I cleared out to 'Frisco. I swore I'd never goback again, and I never will. "

"But surely you'll take a run over and have a look at old Sydney andthose places, before you go back to America, after getting so near?"

"What the blazes do I want to have a look at the blamed country for?"snapped the stranger, who had refreshed considerably. "I've got nothingto thank Australia for--except getting out of it. It's the best countryto get out of that I was ever in. "

"Oh, well, I only thought you might have had some friends over there, "interposed the traveller in an injured tone. 

"Friends! That's another reason. I wouldn't go back there for all thefriends and relations since Adam. I had more than quite enough of itwhile I was there. The worst and hardest years of my life were spentin Australia. I might have starved there, and did do it half my time. Iworked harder and got less in my own country in five years than I everdid in any other in fifteen"--he was getting mixed--"and I've been ina few since then. No, Australia is the worst country that ever the Lordhad the sense to forget. I mean to stick to the country that stuck tome, when I was starved out of my own dear native land--and that countryis the United States of America. What's Australia? A big, thirsty, hungry wilderness, with one or two cities for the convenience of foreignspeculators, and a few collections of humpies, called towns--also forthe convenience of foreign speculators; and populated mostly by mongrelsheep, and partly by fools, who live like European slaves in the towns, and like dingoes in the bush--who drivel about 'democracy, ' and yethaven't any more spunk than to graft for a few Cockney dudes thatrazzle-dazzle most of the time in Paris. Why, the Australians haven'teven got the grit to claim enough of their own money to throw a few damsacross their watercourses, and so make some of the interior fit to livein. America's bad enough, but it was never so small as that. .. . Bah! Thecurse of Australia is sheep, and the Australian war cry is Baa!"

"Well, you're the first man I ever heard talk as you've been doing abouthis own country, " said the bagman, getting tired and impatient of beingsat on all the time. "'Lives there a man with a soul so dead, who neversaid--to--to himself'. .. I forget the darned thing. "

He tried to remember it. The man whose soul was dead cleared his throatfor action, and the driver--for whom the bagman had shouted twice asagainst the stranger's once--took the opportunity to observe that healways thought a man ought to stick up for his own country. 

The stranger ignored him and opened fire on the bagman. He proceeded toprove that that was all rot--that patriotism was the greatest curse onearth; that it had been the cause of all war; that it was the false, ignorant sentiment which moved men to slave, starve, and fight for thecomfort of their sluggish masters; that it was the enemy of universalbrotherhood, the mother of hatred, murder, and slavery, and that theworld would never be any better until the deadly poison, called thesentiment of patriotism, had been "educated" out of the stomachs of thepeople. "Patriotism!" he exclaimed scornfully. "My country! The darnedfools; the country never belonged to them, but to the speculators, the absentees, land-boomers, swindlers, gangs of thieves--the men thepatriotic fools starve and fight for--their masters. Ba-a!"

The opposition collapsed. 

The coach had climbed the terraces on the south side of the river, andwas bowling along on a level stretch of road across the elevated flat. 

"What trees are those?" asked the stranger, breaking the aggressivesilence which followed his unpatriotic argument, and pointing to a groveahead by the roadside. "They look as if they've been planted there. There ain't been a forest here surely?"

"Oh, they're some trees the Government imported, " said the bagman, whoseknowledge on the subject was limited. "Our own bush won't grow in thissoil. "

"But it looks as if anything else would--"

Here the stranger sniffed once by accident, and then several times withinterest. 

It was a warm morning after rain. He fixed his eyes on those trees. 

They didn't look like Australian gums; they tapered to the tops, thebranches were pretty regular, and the boughs hung in shipshape fashion. There was not the Australian heat to twist the branches and turn theleaves. 

"Why!" exclaimed the stranger, still staring and sniffing hard. "Why, dang me if they ain't (sniff) Australian gums!"

"Yes, " said the driver, flicking his horses, "they are. "

"Blanky (sniff) blanky old Australian gums!" exclaimed theex-Australian, with strange enthusiasm. 

"They're not old, " said the driver; "they're only young trees. But theysay they don't grow like that in Australia--'count of the difference inthe climate. I always thought--"

But the other did not appear to hear him; he kept staring hard at thetrees they were passing. They had been planted in rows and cross-rows, and were coming on grandly. 

There was a rabbit trapper's camp amongst those trees; he had made afire to boil his billy with gum-leaves and twigs, and it was the scentof that fire which interested the exile's nose, and brought a wave ofmemories with it. 

"Good day, mate!" he shouted suddenly to the rabbit trapper, and to theastonishment of his fellow passengers. 

"Good day, mate!" The answer came back like an echo--it seemed tohim--from the past. 

Presently he caught sight of a few trees which had evidently beenplanted before the others--as an experiment, perhaps--and, somehow, one of them had grown after its own erratic native fashion--gnarled andtwisted and ragged, and could not be mistaken for anything else but anAustralian gum. 

"A thunderin' old blue-gum!" ejaculated the traveller, regarding thetree with great interest. 

He screwed his neck to get a last glimpse, and then sat silently smokingand gazing straight ahead, as if the past lay before him--and it _was_before him. 

"Ah, well!" he said, in explanation of a long meditative silence onhis part; "ah, well--them saplings--the smell of them gum-leaves set methinking. " And he thought some more. 

"Well, for my part, " said a tourist in the coach, presently, in acondescending tone, "I can't see much in Australia. The bally coloniesare--"

"Oh, that be damned!" snarled the Australian-born--they had finished thesecond flask of whisky. "What do you Britishers know about Australia?She's as good as England, anyway. "

"Well, I suppose you'll go straight back to the States as soon as you'vedone your business in Christchurch, " said the bagman, when near theirjourney's end they had become confidential. 

"Well, I dunno. I reckon I'll just take a run over to Australia first. There's an old mate of mine in business in Sydney, and I'd like to havea yarn with him. "

A DAY ON A SELECTION

The scene is a small New South Wales western selection, the holderwhereof is native-English. His wife is native-Irish. Time, Sunday, about8 a. M. A used-up looking woman comes from the slab-and-bark house, turnsher face towards the hillside, and shrieks:

"T-o-o-m_may_!"

No response, and presently she draws a long breath and screams again:

"_Tom_m-a-a-y!"

A faint echo comes from far up the siding where Tommy's presence isvaguely indicated by half a dozen cows moving slowly--very slowly--downtowards the cow-yard. 

The woman retires. Ten minutes later she comes out again and screams:

"_Tom_my!

"Y-e-e-a-a-s-s!" very passionately and shrilly. 

"Ain't you goin' to bring those cows down to-day?"

"Y-e-e-a-a-s-s-s!--carn't yer see I'm comin'?"

A boy is seen to run wildly along the siding and hurl a missile at afeeding cow; the cow runs forward a short distance through the trees, and then stops to graze again while the boy stirs up another milker. 

An hour goes by. 

The rising Australian generation is represented by a thin, lanky youthof about fifteen. He is milking. The cow-yard is next the house, and ismostly ankle-deep in slush. The boy drives a dusty, discouraged-lookingcow into the bail, and pins her head there; then he gets tackle on toher right hind leg, hauls it back, and makes it fast to the fence. There are eleven cows, but not one of them can be milked out of thebail--chiefly because their teats are sore. The selector does notknow what makes the teats sore, but he has an unquestioning faith in acertain ointment, recommended to him by a man who knows less aboutcows than he does himself, which he causes to be applied at irregularintervals--leaving the mode of application to the discretion of his son. Meanwhile the teats remain sore. 

Having made the cow fast, the youngster cautiously takes hold of theleast sore teat, yanks it suddenly, and dodges the cow's hock. When hegets enough milk to dip his dirty hands in, he moistens the teats, andthings go on more smoothly. Now and then he relieves the monotony ofhis occupation by squirting at the eye of a calf which is dozing in theadjacent pen. Other times he milks into his mouth. Every time the cowkicks, a burr or a grass-seed or a bit of something else falls into themilk, and the boy drowns these things with a well-directed stream--onthe principle that what's out of sight is out of mind. 

Sometimes the boy sticks his head into the cow's side, hangs on by ateat, and dozes, while the bucket, mechanically gripped between hisknees, sinks lower and lower till it rests on the ground. Likely asnot he'll doze on until his mother's shrill voice startles him with aninquiry as to whether he intends to get that milking done to-day; othertimes he is roused by the plunging of the cow, or knocked over by a calfwhich has broken through a defective panel in the pen. In the lattercase the youth gets tackle on to the calf, detaches its head from theteat with the heel of his boot, and makes it fast somewhere. Sometimesthe cow breaks or loosens the leg-rope and gets her leg into the bucketand then the youth clings desperately to the pail and hopes she'll gether hoof out again without spilling the milk. Sometimes she does, moreoften she doesn't--it depends on the strength of the boy and the pailand on the strategy of the former. Anyway, the boy will lam the cow downwith a jagged yard shovel, let her out, and bail up another. 

When he considers that he has finished milking he lets the cows outwith their calves and carries the milk down to the dairy, where he hasa heated argument with his mother, who--judging from the quantity ofmilk--has reason to believe that he has slummed some of the milkers. This he indignantly denies, telling her she knows very well the cows aregoing dry. 

The dairy is built of rotten box bark--though there is plenty of goodstringy-bark within easy distance--and the structure looks as if itwants to lie down and is only prevented by three crooked props on theleaning side; more props will soon be needed in the rear for the dairyshows signs of going in that direction. The milk is set in dishes madeof kerosene-tins, cut in halves, which are placed on bark shelves fittedround against the walls. The shelves are not level and the dishes arebrought to a comparatively horizontal position by means of chips andbits of bark, inserted under the lower side. The milk is covered bysoiled sheets of old newspapers supported on sticks laid across thedishes. This protection is necessary, because the box bark in the roofhas crumbled away and left fringed holes--also because the fowls roostup there. Sometimes the paper sags, and the cream may have to be scrapedoff an article on dairy farming. 

The selector's wife removes the newspapers, and reveals a thick, yellowlayer of rich cream, plentifully peppered with dust that has drifted insomehow. She runs a forefinger round the edges of the cream to detach itfrom the tin, wipes her finger in her mouth, and skims. If the milk andcream are very thick she rolls the cream over like a pancake with herfingers, and lifts it out in sections. The thick milk is poured into aslop-bucket, for the pigs and calves, the dishes are "cleaned"--by theaid of a dipper full of warm water and a rag--and the wife proceedsto set the morning's milk. Tom holds up the doubtful-looking rag thatserves as a strainer while his mother pours in the milk. Sometimes theboy's hands get tired and he lets some of the milk run over, and getsinto trouble; but it doesn't matter much, for the straining-cloth hasseveral sizable holes in the middle. 

The door of the dairy faces the dusty road and is off its hinges and hasto be propped up. The prop is missing this morning, and Tommy is accusedof having been seen chasing old Poley with it at an earlier hour. Henever seed the damn prop, never chased no cow with it, and wants to knowwhat's the use of always accusing him. He further complains that he'salways blamed for everything. The pole is not forthcoming, and so an olddray is backed against the door to keep it in position. There is moretrouble about a cow that is lost, and hasn't been milked for two days. The boy takes the cows up to the paddock sliprails and lets the top raildown: the lower rail fits rather tightly and some exertion isrequired to free it, so he makes the animals jump that one. Then he"poddies"-hand-feeds--the calves which have been weaned too early. He carries the skim-milk to the yard in a bucket made out of anoil-drum--sometimes a kerosene-tin--seizes a calf by the nape of theneck with his left hand, inserts the dirty forefinger of his rightinto its mouth, and shoves its head down into the milk. The calf sucks, thinking it has a teat, and pretty soon it butts violently--as calves doto remind their mothers to let down the milk--and the boy's wrist getsbarked against the jagged edge of the bucket. He welts that calf in thejaw, kicks it in the stomach, tries to smother it with its nose in themilk, and finally dismisses it with the assistance of the calf rope anda shovel, and gets another. His hand feels sticky and the cleaned fingermakes it look as if he wore a filthy, greasy glove with the forefingertorn off. 

The selector himself is standing against a fence talking to a neighbour. His arms rest on the top rail of the fence, his chin rests on his hands, his pipe rests between his fingers, and his eyes rest on a whitecow that is chewing her cud on the opposite side of the fence. Theneighbour's arms rest on the top rail also, his chin rests on his hands, his pipe rests between his fingers, and his eyes rest on the cow. Theyare talking about that cow. They have been talking about her for threehours. She is chewing her cud. Her nose is well up and forward, and hereyes are shut. She lets her lower jaw fall a little, moves it to oneside, lifts it again, and brings it back into position with a springingkind of jerk that has almost a visible recoil. Then her jaws stayperfectly still for a moment, and you would think she had stoppedchewing. But she hasn't. Now and again a soft, easy, smooth-goingswallow passes visibly along her clean, white throat and disappears. Shechews again, and by and by she loses consciousness and forgets to chew. She never opens her eyes. She is young and in good condition; she hashad enough to eat, the sun is just properly warm for her, and--well, ifan animal can be really happy, she ought to be. 

Presently the two men drag themselves away from the fence, fill theirpipes, and go to have a look at some rows of forked sticks, apparentlystuck in the ground for some purpose. The selector calls these sticksfruit-trees, and he calls the place "the orchard. " They fool round thesewretched sticks until dinnertime, when the neighbour says he must begetting home. "Stay and have some dinner! Man alive! Stay and have somedinner!" says the selector; and so the friend stays. 

It is a broiling hot day in summer, and the dinner consists of hotroast meat, hot baked potatoes, hot cabbage, hot pumpkin, hot peas, andburning-hot plum-pudding. The family drinks on an average four cups oftea each per meal. The wife takes her place at the head of thetable with a broom to keep the fowls out, and at short intervals sheinterrupts the conversation with such exclamations as "Shoo! shoo!""Tommy, can't you see that fowl? Drive it out!" The fowls evidently passa lot of their time in the house. They mark the circle described by thebroom, and take care to keep two or three inches beyond it. Every nowand then you see a fowl on the dresser amongst the crockery, and thereis great concern to get it out before it breaks something. While dinneris in progress two steers get into the wheat through a broken rail whichhas been spliced with stringy-bark, and a calf or two break intothe vineyard. And yet this careless Australian selector, who is tooshiftless to put up a decent fence, or build a decent house and whoknows little or nothing about farming, would seem by his conversationto have read up all the great social and political questions of theday. Here are some fragments of conversation caught at thedinner-table. Present--the selector, the missus, the neighbour, Corney George--nicknamed "Henry George"--Tommy, Jacky, and the youngerchildren. The spaces represent interruptions by the fowls and children:

Corney George (continuing conversation): "But Henry George says, in'Progress and Poverty, ' he says--"

Missus (to the fowls): "Shoo! Shoo!"

Corney: "He says--"

Tom: "Marther, jist speak to this Jack. "

Missus (to Jack): "If you can't behave yourself, leave the table. "

Tom [Corney, probably]: "He says in Progress and--"

Missus: "Shoo!"

Neighbour: "I think 'Lookin' Backwards' is more--"

Missus: "Shoo! Shoo! Tom, can't you see that fowl?"

Selector: "Now I think 'Caesar's Column' is more likely--Just look at--"

Missus: "Shoo! Shoo!"

Selector: "Just look at the French Revolution. "

Corney: "Now, Henry George-"

Tom: "Marther! I seen a old-man kangaroo up on--"

Missus: "Shut up! Eat your dinner an' hold your tongue. Carn't you seesomeone's speakin'?"

Selector: "Just look at the French--"

Missus (to the fowls): "Shoo! Shoo!" (turning suddenly and unexpectedlyon Jacky): "Take your fingers out of the sugar!--Blast yer! that Ishould say such a thing. "

Neighbour: "But 'Lookin' Backwards"'

Missus: "There you go, Tom! Didn't I say you'd spill that tea? Go awayfrom the table!"

Selector: "I think 'Caesar's Column' is the only natural--"

Missus: "Shoo! Shoo!" She loses patience, gets up and fetches a youngrooster with the flat of the broom, sending him flying into the yard; hefalls with his head towards the door and starts in again. Later on theconversation is about Deeming. 

Selector: "There's no doubt the man's mad--"

Missus: "Deeming! That Windsor wretch! Why, if I was in the law I'd havehim boiled alive! Don't tell me he didn't know what he was doing! Why, I'd have him--"

Corney: "But, missus, you--"

Missus (to the fowls): "Shoo! Shoo!"

THAT THERE DOG O' MINE

Macquarie the shearer had met with an accident. To tell the truth, hehad been in a drunken row at a wayside shanty, from which he had escapedwith three fractured ribs, a cracked head, and various minor abrasions. His dog, Tally, had been a sober but savage participator in the drunkenrow, and had escaped with a broken leg. Macquarie afterwards shoulderedhis swag and staggered and struggled along the track ten miles to theUnion Town hospital. Lord knows how he did it. He didn't exactly knowhimself. Tally limped behind all the way, on three legs. 

The doctors examined the man's injuries and were surprised at hisendurance. Even doctors are surprised sometimes--though they don'talways show it. Of course they would take him in, but they objected toTally. Dogs were not allowed on the premises. 

"You will have to turn that dog out, " they said to the shearer, as hesat on the edge of a bed. 

Macquarie said nothing. 

"We cannot allow dogs about the place, my man, " said the doctor in alouder tone, thinking the man was deaf. 

"Tie him up in the yard then. "

"No. He must go out. Dogs are not permitted on the grounds. "

Macquarie rose slowly to his feet, shut his agony behind his setteeth, painfully buttoned his shirt over his hairy chest, took up hiswaistcoat, and staggered to the corner where the swag lay. 

"What are you going to do?" they asked. 

"You ain't going to let my dog stop?"

"No. It's against the rules. There are no dogs allowed on premises. "

He stooped and lifted his swag, but the pain was too great, and heleaned back against the wall. 

"Come, come now! man alive!" exclaimed the doctor, impatiently. "Youmust be mad. You know you are not in a fit state to go out. Let thewardsman help you to undress. "

"No!" said Macquarie. "No. If you won't take my dog in you don't takeme. He's got a broken leg and wants fixing up just--just as much as--asI do. If I'm good enough to come in, he's good enough--and--and better. "

He paused awhile, breathing painfully, and then went on. 

"That--that there old dog of mine has follered me faithful and true, these twelve long hard and hungry years. He's about--about the onlything that ever cared whether I lived or fell and rotted on the cursedtrack. "

He rested again; then he continued: "That--that there dog was puppedon the track, " he said, with a sad sort of a smile. "I carried him formonths in a billy, and afterwards on my swag when he knocked up. .. . Andthe old slut--his mother--she'd foller along quite contented--and sniffthe billy now and again--just to see if he was all right. .. . She folleredme for God knows how many years. She follered me till she was blind--andfor a year after. She follered me till she could crawl along through thedust no longer, and--and then I killed her, because I couldn't leave herbehind alive!"

He rested again. 

"And this here old dog, " he continued, touching Tally's upturned nosewith his knotted fingers, "this here old dog has follered me for--forten years; through floods and droughts, through fair times and--andhard--mostly hard; and kept me from going mad when I had no mate normoney on the lonely track; and watched over me for weeks when I wasdrunk--drugged and poisoned at the cursed shanties; and saved my lifemore'n once, and got kicks and curses very often for thanks; and forgaveme for it all; and--and fought for me. He was the only living thing thatstood up for me against that crawling push of curs when they set onterme at the shanty back yonder--and he left his mark on some of 'em too;and--and so did I. "

He took another spell. 

Then he drew in his breath, shut his teeth hard, shouldered his swag, stepped into the doorway, and faced round again. 

The dog limped out of the corner and looked up anxiously. 

"That there dog, " said Macquarie to the hospital staff in general, "is abetter dog than I'm a man--or you too, it seems--and a better Christian. He's been a better mate to me than I ever was to any man--or any manto me. He's watched over me; kep' me from getting robbed many a time;fought for me; saved my life and took drunken kicks and curses forthanks--and forgave me. He's been a true, straight, honest, and faithfulmate to me--and I ain't going to desert him now. I ain't going to kickhim out in the road with a broken leg. I--Oh, my God! my back!"

He groaned and lurched forward, but they caught him, slipped off theswag, and laid him on a bed. 

Half an hour later the shearer was comfortably fixed up. 

"Where's my dog!" he asked, when he came to himself. 

"Oh, the dog's all right, " said the nurse, rather impatiently. "Don'tbother. The doctor's setting his leg out in the yard. "

GOING BLIND

I met him in the Full-and-Plenty Dining Rooms. It was a cheap place inthe city, with good beds upstairs let at one shilling per night--"Boardand residence for respectable single men, fifteen shillings per week. "I was a respectable single man then. I boarded and resided there. Iboarded at a greasy little table in the greasy little corner under thefluffy little staircase in the hot and greasy little dining-room orrestaurant downstairs. They called it dining-rooms, but it was only oneroom, and them wasn't half enough room in it to work your elbows whenthe seven little tables and forty-nine chairs were occupied. There wasnot room for an ordinary-sized steward to pass up and down between thetables; but our waiter was not an ordinary-sized man--he was a livingskeleton in miniature. We handed the soup, and the "roast beef one, " and"roast lamb one, " "corn beef and cabbage one, " "veal and stuffing one, "and the "veal and pickled pork, " one--or two, or three, as the casemight be--and the tea and coffee, and the various kinds of puddings--wehanded them over each other, and dodged the drops as well as we could. The very hot and very greasy little kitchen was adjacent, and itcontained the bathroom and other conveniences, behind screens ofwhitewashed boards. 

I resided upstairs in a room where there were five beds and onewash-stand; one candle-stick, with a very short bit of soft yellowcandle in it; the back of a hair-brush, with about a dozen bristles init; and half a comb--the big-tooth end--with nine and a half teeth atirregular distances apart. 

He was a typical bushman, not one of those tall, straight, wiry, brownmen of the West, but from the old Selection Districts, where manydrovers came from, and of the old bush school; one of those slightactive little fellows whom we used to see in cabbage-tree hats, Crimeanshirts, strapped trousers, and elastic-side boots--"larstins, " theycalled them. They could dance well; sing indifferently, and mostlythrough their noses, the old bush songs; play the concertina horribly;and ride like--like--well, they _could_ ride. 

He seemed as if he had forgotten to grow old and die out with this oldcolonial school to which he belonged. They _had_ careless and forgetfulways about them. His name was Jack Gunther, he said, and he'd come toSydney to try to get something done to his eyes. He had a portmanteau, a carpet bag, some things in a three-bushel bag, and a tin bog. I satbeside him on his bed, and struck up an acquaintance, and he told meall about it. First he asked me would I mind shifting round to the otherside, as he was rather deaf in that ear. He'd been kicked by a horse, hesaid, and had been a little dull o' hearing on that side ever since. 

He was as good as blind. "I can see the people near me, " he said, "butI can't make out their faces. I can just make out the pavement and thehouses close at hand, and all the rest is a sort of white blur. " Helooked up: "That ceiling is a kind of white, ain't it? And this, "tapping the wall and putting his nose close to it, "is a sort of green, ain't it?" The ceiling might have been whiter. The prevalent tints ofthe wall-paper had originally been blue and red, but it was mostly greenenough now--a damp, rotten green; but I was ready to swear that theceiling was snow and that the walls were as green as grass if it wouldhave made him feel more comfortable. His sight began to get bad aboutsix years before, he said; he didn't take much notice of it at first, and then he saw a quack, who made his eyes worse. He had already themanner of the blind--the touch of every finger, and even the gentlenessin his speech. He had a boy down with him--a "sorter cousin of his, " andthe boy saw him round. "I'll have to be sending that youngster back, "he said, "I think I'll send him home next week. He'll be picking up andlearning too much down here. "

I happened to know the district he came from, and we would sit by thehour and talk about the country, and chaps by the name of this and chapsby the name of that--drovers mostly, whom we had met or had heard of. He asked me if I'd ever heard of a chap by the name of Joe Scott--a bigsandy-complexioned chap, who might be droving; he was his brother, or, at least, his half-brother, but he hadn't heard of him for years;he'd last heard of him at Blackall, in Queensland; he might have goneoverland to Western Australia with Tyson's cattle to the new country. 

We talked about grubbing and fencing and digging and droving andshearing--all about the bush--and it all came back to me as we talked. "I can see it all now, " he said once, in an abstracted tone, seeming tofix his helpless eyes on the wall opposite. But he didn't see the dirtyblind wall, nor the dingy window, nor the skimpy little bed, nor thegreasy wash-stand; he saw the dark blue ridges in the sunlight, thegrassy sidings and flats, the creek with clumps of she-oak here andthere, the course of the willow-fringed river below, the distant peaksand ranges fading away into a lighter azure, the granite ridge inthe middle distance, and the rocky rises, the stringy-bark and theapple-tree flats, the scrubs, and the sunlit plains--and all. I couldsee it, too--plainer than ever I did. 

He had done a bit of fencing in his time, and we got talking abouttimber. He didn't believe in having fencing-posts with big butts; hereckoned it was a mistake. "You see, " he said, "the top of the buttcatches the rain water and makes the post rot quicker. I'd back postswithout any butt at all to last as long or longer than posts with'em--that's if the fence is well put up and well rammed. " He hadsupplied fencing stuff, and fenced by contract, and--well, you can getmore posts without butts out of a tree than posts with them. He alsoobjected to charring the butts. He said it only made more work--andwasted time--the butts lasted longer without being charred. 

I asked him if he'd ever got stringy-bark palings or shingles out ofmountain ash, and he smiled a smile that did my heart good to see, andsaid he had. He had also got them out of various other kinds of trees. 

We talked about soil and grass, and gold-digging, and many other thingswhich came back to one like a revelation as we yarned. 

He had been to the hospital several times. "The doctors don't say theycan cure me, " he said, "they say they might, be able to improve my sightand hearing, but it would take a long time--anyway, the treatment wouldimprove my general health. They know what's the matter with my eyes, "and he explained it as well as he could. "I wish I'd seen a gooddoctor when my eyes first began to get weak; but young chaps are alwayscareless over things. It's harder to get cured of anything when you'redone growing. "

He was always hopeful and cheerful. "If the worst comes to the worst, "he said, "there's things I can do where I come from. I might do a bito' wool-sorting, for instance. I'm a pretty fair expert. Or else whenthey're weeding out I could help. I'd just have to sit down and they'dbring the sheep to me, and I'd feel the wool and tell them what itwas--being blind improves the feeling, you know. "

He had a packet of portraits, but he couldn't make them out very wellnow. They were sort of blurred to him, but I described them and he toldme who they were. "That's a girl o' mine, " he said, with referenceto one--a jolly, good-looking bush girl. "I got a letter from heryesterday. I managed to scribble something, but I'll get you, if youdon't mind, to write something more I want to put in on another piece ofpaper, and address an envelope for me. "

Darkness fell quickly upon him now--or, rather, the "sort of white blur"increased and closed in. But his hearing was better, he said, and he wasglad of that and still cheerful. I thought it natural that his hearingshould improve as he went blind. 

One day he said that he did not think he would bother going to thehospital any more. He reckoned he'd get back to where he was known. He'dstayed down too long already, and the "stuff" wouldn't stand it. He wasexpecting a letter that didn't come. I was away for a couple of days, and when I came back he had been shifted out of the room and had a bedin an angle of the landing on top of the staircase, with the peoplebrushing against him and stumbling over his things all day on their wayup and down. I felt indignant, thinking that--the house being full--theboss had taken advantage of the bushman's helplessness and good natureto put him there. But he said that he was quite comfortable. "I can geta whiff of air here, " he said. 

Going in next day I thought for a moment that I had dropped suddenlyback into the past and into a bush dance, for there was a concertinagoing upstairs. He was sitting on the bed, with his legs crossed, anda new cheap concertina on his knee, and his eyes turned to the patch ofceiling as if it were a piece of music and he could read it. "I'm tryingto knock a few tunes into my head, " he said, with a brave smile, "incase the worst comes to the worst. " He tried to be cheerful, but seemedworried and anxious. The letter hadn't come. I thought of the many blindmusicians in Sydney, and I thought of the bushman's chance, standing ata corner swanking a cheap concertina, and I felt sorry for him. 

I went out with a vague idea of seeing someone about the matter, andgetting something done for the bushman--of bringing a little influenceto his assistance; but I suddenly remembered that my clothes were wornout, my hat in a shocking state, my boots burst, and that I owed for aweek's board and lodging, and was likely to be thrown out at any momentmyself; and so I was not in a position to go where there was influence. 

When I went back to the restaurant there was a long, gauntsandy-complexioned bushman sitting by Jack's side. Jack introduced himas his brother, who had returned unexpectedly to his native district, and had followed him to Sydney. The brother was rather short with meat first, and seemed to regard the restaurant people--all of us, infact--in the light of spielers who wouldn't hesitate to take advantageof Jack's blindness if he left him a moment; and he looked readyto knock down the first man who stumbled against Jack, or over hisluggage--but that soon wore off. Jack was going to stay with Joe at theCoffee Palace for a few weeks, and then go back up-country, he told me. He was excited and happy. His brother's manner towards him was as ifJack had just lost his wife, or boy or someone very dear to him. Hewould not allow him to do anything for himself, nor try to--not evenlace up his boot. He seemed to think that he was thoroughly helpless, and when I saw him pack up Jack's things, and help him at the table andfix his tie and collar with his great brown hands, which trembled allthe time with grief and gentleness, and make Jack sit down on thebed whilst he got a cab and carried the trap down to it, and takehim downstairs as if he were made of thin glass, and settle with thelandlord--then I knew that Jack was all right. 

We had a drink together--Joe, Jack, the cabman, and I. Joe was verycareful to hand Jack the glass, and Jack made joke about it for Joe'sbenefit. He swore he could see a glass yet, and Joe laughed, but lookedextra troubled the next moment. 

I felt their grips on my hand for five minutes after we parted. 

ARVIE ASPINALL'S ALARM CLOCK

In one of these years a paragraph appeared in a daily paper to theeffect that a constable had discovered a little boy asleep on the stepsof Grinder Bros' factory at four o'clock one rainy morning. He awakenedhim, and demanded an explanation. 

The little fellow explained that he worked there, and was frightenedof being late; he started work at six, and was apparently greatlyastonished to hear that it was only four. The constable examined a smallparcel which the frightened child had in his hand. It contained a cleanapron and three slices of bread and treacle. 

The child further explained that he woke up and thought it was late, and didn't like to wake mother and ask her the time "because she'd beenwashin'. " He didn't look at the clock, because they "didn't have one. "He volunteered no explanations as to how he expected mother to know thetime, but, perhaps, like many other mites of his kind, he had unboundedfaith in the infinitude of a mother's wisdom. His name was ArvieAspinall, please sir, and he lived in Jones's Alley. Father was dead. 

A few days later the same paper took great pleasure in stating, inreference to that "Touching Incident" noticed in a recent issue, thata benevolent society lady had started a subscription among her friendswith the object of purchasing an alarm-clock for the little boy foundasleep at Grinder Bros' workshop door. 

Later on, it was mentioned, in connection with the touching incident, that the alarm-clock had been bought and delivered to the boy's mother, who appeared to be quite overcome with gratitude. It was learned, also, from another source, that the last assertion was greatly exaggerated. 

The touching incident was worn out in another paragraph, which left nodoubt that the benevolent society lady was none other than a charmingand accomplished daughter of the House of Grinder. 

It was late in the last day of the Easter Holidays, during which ArvieAspinall had lain in bed with a bad cold. He was still what he called"croopy. " It was about nine o'clock, and the business of Jones's Alleywas in full swing. 

"That's better, mother, I'm far better, " said Arvie, "the sugar andvinegar cuts the phlegm, and the both'rin' cough gits out. It got out tosuch an extent for the next few minutes that he could not speak. When herecovered his breath, he said:

"Better or worse, I'll have to go to work to-morrow. Gimme the clock, mother. "

"I tell you you shall not go! It will be your death. "

"It's no use talking, mother; we can't starve--and--s'posin' somebodygot my place! Gimme the clock, mother. "

"I'll send one of the children round to say you're ill. They'll surelylet you off for a day or two. "

"Tain't no use; they won't wait; I know them--what does Grinder Broscare if I'm ill? Never mind, mother, I'll rise above 'em all yet. _Giveme the clock_, mother. "

She gave him the clock, and he proceeded to wind it up and set thealarm. 

"There's somethin' wrong with the gong, " he muttered, "it's gone wrongtwo nights now, but I'll chance it. I'll set the alarm at five, that'llgive me time to dress and git there early. I wish I hadn't to walk sofar. "

He paused to read some words engraved round the dial:

 Early to bed and early to rise Makes a man healthy and wealthy and wise. 

He had read the verse often before, and was much taken with the swingand rhythm of it. He had repeated it to himself, over and over again, without reference to the sense or philosophy of it. He had never dreamedof doubting anything in print--and this was engraved. But now a newlight seemed to dawn upon him. He studied the sentence awhile, and thenread it aloud for the second time. He turned it over in his mind againin silence. 

"Mother!" he said suddenly, "I think it lies. " She placed the clock onthe shelf, tucked him into his little bed on the sofa, and blew out thelight. 

Arvie seemed to sleep, but she lay awake thinking of her troubles. Ofher husband carried home dead from his work one morning; of her eldestson who only came to loaf on her when he was out of jail; of the secondson, who had feathered his nest in another city, and had no use for herany longer; of the next--poor delicate little Arvie--struggling manfullyto help, and wearing his young life out at Grinder Bros when he shouldbe at school; of the five helpless younger children asleep in the nextroom: of her hard life--scrubbing floors from half-past five tilleight, and then starting her day's work--washing!--of having to rear herchildren in the atmosphere of the slums, because she could not afford tomove and pay a higher rent; and of the rent. 

Arvie commenced to mutter in his sleep. 

"Can't you get to sleep, Arvie?" she asked. "Is your throat sore? Can Iget anything for you?"

"I'd like to sleep, " he muttered, dreamily, "but it won't seem more'n amoment before--before--"

"Before what, Arvie?" she asked, quickly, fearing that he was becomingdelirious. 

"Before the alarm goes off!"

 He was talking in his sleep. 

She rose gently and put the alarm on two hours. "He can rest now, " shewhispered to herself. 

Presently Arvie sat bolt upright, and said quickly, "Mother! I thoughtthe alarm went off!" Then, without waiting for an answer, he lay down assuddenly and slept. 

The rain had cleared away, and a bright, starry dome was over sea andcity, over slum and villa alike; but little of it could be seen from thehovel in Jones's Alley, save a glimpse of the Southern Cross and a fewstars round it. It was what ladies call a "lovely night, " as seen fromthe house of Grinder--"Grinderville"--with its moonlit terraces andgardens sloping gently to the water, and its windows lit up for anEaster ball, and its reception-rooms thronged by its own exclusive set, and one of its charming and accomplished daughters melting a selectparty to tears by her pathetic recitation about a little crossingsweeper. 

There _was_ something wrong with the alarm-clock, or else Mrs Aspinallhad made a mistake, for the gong sounded startlingly in the dead ofnight. She woke with a painful start, and lay still, expecting to hearArvie get up; but he made no sign. She turned a white, frightened facetowards the sofa where he lay--the light from the alley's solitary lampon the pavement above shone down through the window, and she saw that hehad not moved. 

Why didn't the clock wake him? He was such a light sleeper! "Arvie!"she called; no answer. "Arvie!" she called again, with a strange ringof remonstrance mingling with the terror in her voice. Arvie neveranswered. 

"Oh! my God!" she moaned. 

She rose and stood by the sofa. Arvie lay on his back with his armsfolded--a favourite sleeping position of his; but his eyes were wideopen and staring upwards as though they would stare through ceiling androof to the place where God ought to be. 

STRAGGLERS

An oblong hut, walled with blue-grey hardwood slabs, adzed at the endsand set horizontally between the round sapling studs; high roof of theeternal galvanized iron. A big rubbish heap lies about a yard to theright of the door, which opens from the middle of one of the side walls;it might be the front or the back wall--there is nothing to fix it. Two rows of rough bunks run round three sides of the interior; and afire-place occupies one end--the kitchen end. Sleeping, eating, gamblingand cooking accommodation for thirty men in about eighteen by fortyfeet. 

The rouseabouts and shearers use the hut in common during shearing. Down the centre of the place runs a table made of stakes driven into theground, with cross-pieces supporting a top of half-round slabs set withthe flat sides up, and affording a few level places for soup-plates; oneach side are crooked, unbarked poles laid in short forks, to serve asseats. The poles are worn smoothest opposite the level places on thetable. The floor is littered with rubbish--old wool-bales, newspapers, boots, worn-out shearing pants, rough bedding, etc. , raked out of thebunks in impatient search for missing articles--signs of a glad andeager departure with cheques when the shed last cut out. 

To the west is a dam, holding back a broad, shallow sheet of grey water, with dead trees standing in it. 

Further up along this water is a brush shearing-shed, a rough frameworkof poles with a brush roof. This kind of shed has the advantage of beingcooler than iron. It is not rain-proof, but shearers do not work inrainy weather; shearing even slightly damp sheep is considered thesurest and quickest way to get the worst kind of rheumatism. The flooris covered with rubbish from the roof, and here and there lies a rustypair of shears. A couple of dry tar-pots hang by nails in the posts. The"board" is very uneven and must be bad for sweeping. The pens are formedby round, crooked stakes driven into the ground in irregular lines, andthe whole business reminds us of the "cubby-house" style of architectureof our childhood. 

Opposite stands the wool-shed, built entirely of galvanized iron; ablinding object to start out of the scrub on a blazing, hot day. Godforgive the man who invented galvanized iron, and the greed whichintroduced it into Australia: you could not get worse roofing materialfor a hot country. 

The wool-washing, soap-boiling, and wool-pressing arrangements arefurther up the dam. "Government House" is a mile away, and is nothingbetter than a bush hut; this station belongs to a company. And thecompany belongs to a bank. And the banks belong to England, mostly. 

Mulga scrub all round, and, in between, patches of reddish sand wherethe grass ought to be. 

It is New Year's Eve. Half a dozen travellers are camping in the hut, having a spell. They need it, for there are twenty miles of dry lignumplain between here and the government bore to the east; and abouteighteen miles of heavy, sandy, cleared road north-west to the nextwater in that direction. With one exception, the men do not seem hardup; at least, not as that condition is understood by the swagmen ofthese times. The least lucky one of the lot had three weeks' work in ashed last season, and there might probably be five pounds amongst thewhole crowd. They are all shearers, or at least they say they are. Somemight be only "rousers. "

These men have a kind of stock hope of getting a few stragglers to shearsomewhere; but their main object is to live till next shearing. In orderto do this they must tramp for tucker, and trust to the regulation--andpartly mythical--pint of flour, and bit of meat, or tea and sugar, andto the goodness of cooks and storekeepers and boundary-riders. You canonly depend on getting tucker _once_ at one place; then you must trampon to the next. If you cannot get it once you must go short; but thereis a lot of energy in an empty stomach. If you get an extra supply youmay camp for a day and have a spell. To live you must walk. To ceasewalking is to die. 

The Exception is an outcast amongst bush outcasts, and looks betterfitted for Sydney Domain. He lies on the bottom of a galvanized-ironcase, with a piece of blue blanket for a pillow. He is dressed in a bluecotton jumper, a pair of very old and ragged tweed trousers, and oneboot and one slipper. He found the slipper in the last shed, and theboot in the rubbish-heap here. When his own boots gave out he walkeda hundred and fifty miles with his feet roughly sewn up in pieces ofsacking from an old wool-bale. No sign of a patch, or an attempt atmending anywhere about his clothes, and that is a bad sign; when aswagman leaves off mending or patching his garments, his case is abouthopeless. The Exception's swag consists of the aforesaid bit of blanketrolled up and tied with pieces of rag. He has no water-bag; carrieshis water in a billy; and how he manages without a bag is known only tohimself. He has read every scrap of print within reach, and now lies onhis side, with his face to the wall and one arm thrown up over hishead; the jumper is twisted back, and leaves his skin bare from hip toarm-pit. His lower face is brutal, his eyes small and shifty, and uglystraight lines run across his low forehead. He says very little, butscowls most of the time--poor devil. He might be, or at least _seem_, atotally different man under more favourable conditions. He is probably afree labourer. 

A very sick jackaroo lies in one of the bunks. A sandy, sawney-lookingBourke native takes great interest in this wreck; watches his everymovement as though he never saw a sick man before. The men lie about inthe bunks, or the shade of the hut, and rest, and read all the soiledand mutilated scraps of literature they can rake out of the rubbish, andsleep, and wake up swimming in perspiration, and growl about the heat. 

It _is_ hot, and two shearers' cats--a black and a white one--sit in oneof the upper bunks with their little red tongues out, panting like dogs. These cats live well during shearing, and take their chances the rest ofthe year--just as shed rouseabouts have to do. They seem glad to seethe traveller come; he makes things more homelike. They curl and sidleaffectionately round the table-legs, and the legs of the men, and purr, and carry their masts up, and regard the cooking with feline interestand approval, and look as cheerful as cats can--and as contented. Godknows how many tired, dusty, and sockless ankles they rub against intheir time. 

Now and then a man takes his tucker-bags and goes down to the stationfor a bit of flour, or meat, or tea, or sugar, choosing the time whenthe manager is likely to be out on the run. The cook here is a "goodcook, " from a traveller's point of view; too good to keep his placelong. 

Occasionally someone gets some water in an old kerosene-tin and washesa shirt or pair of trousers, and a pair or two of socks--orfoot-rags--(Prince Alfreds they call them). That is, he soaks some ofthe stiffness out of these articles. 

Three times a day the black billies and cloudy nose-bags are placed onthe table. The men eat in a casual kind of way, as though it were onlya custom of theirs, a matter of form--a habit which could be left off ifit were worth while. 

The Exception is heard to remark to no one in particular that he'll giveall he has for a square meal. 

"An' ye'd get it cheap, begod!" says a big Irish shearer. "Come and havedinner with us; there's plenty there. "

But the Exception only eats a few mouthfuls, and his appetite is gone;his stomach has become contracted, perhaps. 

The Wreck cannot eat at all, and seems internally disturbed by the sightof others eating. 

One of the men is a cook, and this morning he volunteered good-naturedlyto bake bread for the rest. His mates amuse themselves by chyacking him. 

"I've heard he's a dirty and slow cook, " says one, addressing Eternity. 

"Ah!" says the cook, "you'll be glad to come to me for a pint of flourwhen I'm cooking and you're on the track, some day. "

Sunset. Some of the men sit at the end of the hut to get the fullbenefit of a breeze which comes from the west. A great bank ofrain-clouds is rising in that direction, but no one says he thinks itwill rain; neither does anybody think we're going to have some rain. None but the greenest jackaroo would venture that risky and foolishobservation. Out here, it can look more like rain without raining, andcontinue to do so for a longer time, than in most other places. 

The Wreck went down to the station this afternoon to get some medicineand bush medical advice. The Bourke sawney helped him to do up his swag;he did it with an awed look and manner, as though he thought it a greatdistinction to be allowed to touch the belongings of such a curiosity. It was afterwards generally agreed that it was a good idea for the Wreckto go to the station; he would get some physic and, a bit of tucker totake him on. "For they'll give tucker to a sick man sooner than to achap what's all right. "

The Exception is rooting about in the rubbish for the other blucherboot. 

The men get a little more sociable, and "feel" each other to find outwho's "Union, " and talk about water, and exchange hints as to goodtucker-tracks, and discuss the strike, and curse the squatter (whichis all they have got to curse), and growl about Union leaders, and telllies against each other sociably. There are tally lies; and lies aboutgetting tucker by trickery; and long-tramp-with-heavy-swag-and-no-waterlies; and lies about getting the best of squatters andbosses-over-the-board; and droving, fighting, racing, gambling anddrinking lies. Lies _ad libitum_; and every true Australian bushman musttry his best to tell a bigger out-back lie than the last bush-liar. 

Pat is not quite easy in his mind. He found an old pair of pants in thescrub this morning, and cannot decide whether they are better than hisown, or, rather, whether his own are worse--if that's possible. He doesnot want to increase the weight of his swag unnecessarily by taking bothpairs. He reckons that the pants were thrown away when the shed cut outlast, but then they might have been lying out exposed to the weatherfor a longer period. It is rather an important question, for it is veryannoying, after you've mended and patched an old pair of pants, to find, when a day or two further on the track, that they are more rotten thanthe pair you left behind. 

There is some growling about the water here, and one of the men makes abilly of tea. The water is better cooked. Pint-pots and sugar-bagsare groped out and brought to the kitchen hut, and each man fills hispannikin; the Irishman keeps a thumb on the edge of his, so as toknow when the pot is full, for it is very dark, and there is no morefirewood. You soon know this way, especially if you are in the habit ofpressing lighted tobacco down into your pipe with the top of your thumb. The old slush-lamps are all burnt out. 

Each man feels for the mouth of his sugar-bag with one hand while hekeeps the bearings of his pot with the other. 

The Irishman has lost his match-box, and feels for it all over the tablewithout success. He stoops down with his hands on his knees, gets thetable-top on a level with the flicker of firelight, and "moons" theobject, as it were. 

Time to turn in. It is very dark inside and bright moonlight without;every crack seems like a ghost peering in. Some of the men will rollup their swags on the morrow and depart; some will take another day'sspell. It is all according to the tucker. 

THE UNION BURIES ITS DEAD

While out boating one Sunday afternoon on a billabong across the river, we saw a young man on horseback driving some horses along the bank. Hesaid it was a fine day, and asked if the Water was deep there. The jokerof our party said it was deep enough to drown him, and he laughed androde farther up. We didn't take-much notice of him. 

Next day a funeral gathered at a corner pub and asked each other in tohave a drink while waiting for the hearse. They passed away some of thetime dancing jigs to a piano in the bar parlour. They passed away therest of the time skylarking and fighting. 

The defunct was a young Union labourer, about twenty-five, who hadbeen drowned the previous day while trying to swim some horses across abillabong of the Darling. 

He was almost a stranger in town, and the fact of his having been aUnion man accounted for the funeral. The police found some Union papersin his swag, and called at the General Labourers' Union Office forinformation about him. That's how we knew. The secretary had very littleinformation to give. The departed was a "Roman, " and the majority ofthe town were otherwise--but Unionism is stronger than creed. Liquor, however, is stronger than Unionism; and, when the hearse presentlyarrived, more than two-thirds of the funeral were unable to follow. 

The procession numbered fifteen, fourteen souls following the brokenshell of a soul. Perhaps not one of the fourteen possessed a soul anymore than the corpse did--but that doesn't matter. 

Four or five of the funeral, who were boarders at the pub, borrowed atrap which the landlord used to carry passengers to and from the railwaystation. They were strangers to us who were on foot, and we to them. Wewere all strangers to the corpse. 

A horseman, who looked like a drover just returned from a big trip, dropped into our dusty wake and followed us a few hundred yards, dragging his packhorse behind him, but a friend made wild anddemonstrative signals from a hotel veranda--hooking at the air in frontwith his right hand and jobbing his left thumb over his shoulder in thedirection of the bar--so the drover hauled off and didn't catch up to usany more. He was a stranger to the entire show. 

We walked in twos. There were three twos. It was very hot and dusty;the heat rushed in fierce dazzling rays across every iron roof andlight-coloured wall that was turned to the sun. One or two pubs closedrespectfully until we got past. They closed their bar doors and thepatrons went in and out through some side or back entrance for a fewminutes. Bushmen seldom grumble at an inconvenience of this sort, whenit is caused by a funeral. They have too much respect for the dead. 

On the way to the cemetery we passed three shearers sitting on the shadyside of a fence. One was drunk--very drunk. The other two covered theirright ears with their hats, out of respect for the departed--whoever hemight have been--and one of them kicked the drunk and muttered somethingto him. 

He straightened himself up, stared, and reached helplessly for his hat, which he shoved half off and then on again. Then he made a great effortto pull himself together--and succeeded. He stood up, braced his backagainst the fence, knocked off his hat, and remorsefully placed his footon it--to keep it off his head till the funeral passed. 

A tall, sentimental drover, who walked by my side, cynically quotedByronic verses suitable to the occasion--to death--and asked withpathetic humour whether we thought the dead man's ticket would berecognized "over yonder. " It was a G. L. U. Ticket, and the generalopinion was that it would be recognized. 

Presently my friend said:

"You remember when we were in the boat yesterday, we saw a man drivingsome horses along the bank?"

"Yes. "

He nodded at the hearse and said "Well, that's him. "

I thought awhile. 

"I didn't take any particular notice of him, " I said. "He saidsomething, didn't he?"

"Yes; said it was a fine day. You'd have taken more notice if you'dknown that he was doomed to die in the hour, and that those were thelast words he would say to any man in this world. "

"To be sure, " said a full voice from the rear. "If ye'd known that, ye'dhave prolonged the conversation. "

We plodded on across the railway line and along the hot, dusty roadwhich ran to the cemetery, some of us talking about the accident, andlying about the narrow escapes we had had ourselves. Presently someonesaid:

"There's the Devil. "

I looked up and saw a priest standing in the shade of the tree by thecemetery gate. 

The hearse was drawn up and the tail-boards were opened. The funeralextinguished its right ear with its hat as four men lifted the coffinout and laid it over the grave. The priest--a pale, quiet youngfellow--stood under the shade of a sapling which grew at the head ofthe grave. He took off his hat, dropped it carelessly on the ground, and proceeded to business. I noticed that one or two heathens wincedslightly when the holy water was sprinkled on the coffin. The dropsquickly evaporated, and the little round black spots they left weresoon dusted over; but the spots showed, by contrast, the cheapness andshabbiness of the cloth with which the coffin was covered. It seemedblack before; now it looked a dusky grey. 

Just here man's ignorance and vanity made a farce of the funeral. Abig, bull-necked publican, with heavy, blotchy features, and a supremelyignorant expression, picked up the priest's straw hat and held itabout two inches over the head of his reverence during the whole of theservice. The father, be it remembered, was standing in the shade. A fewshoved their hats on and off uneasily, struggling between their disgustfar the living and their respect for the dead. The hat had a conicalcrown and a brim sloping down all round like a sunshade, and thepublican held it with his great red claw spread over the crown. Todo the priest justice, perhaps he didn't notice the incident. A stagepriest or parson in the same position might have said, "Put the hatdown, my friend; is not the memory of our departed brother worth morethan my complexion?" A wattle-bark layman might have expressed himselfin stronger language, none the less to the point. But my priest seemedunconscious of what was going on. Besides, the publican was a greatand important pillar of the church. He couldn't, as an ignorantand conceited ass, lose such a good opportunity of asserting hisfaithfulness and importance to his church. 

The grave looked very narrow under the coffin, and I drew a breath ofrelief when the box slid easily down. I saw a coffin get stuck once, atRookwood, and it had to be yanked out with difficulty, and laid on thesods at the feet of the heart-broken relations, who howled dismallywhile the grave-diggers widened the hole. But they don't cut contractsso fine in the West. Our grave-digger was not altogether bowelless, and, out of respect for that human quality described as "feelin's, " hescraped up some light and dusty soil and threw it down to deaden thefall of the clay lumps on the coffin. He also tried to steer the firstfew shovelfuls gently down against the end of the grave with the backof the shovel turned outwards, but the hard dry Darling River clodsrebounded and knocked all the same. It didn't matter much--nothingdoes. The fall of lumps of clay on a stranger's coffin doesn't sound anydifferent from the fall of the same things on an ordinary wooden box--atleast I didn't notice anything awesome or unusual in the sound; but, perhaps, one of us--the most sensitive--might have been impressed bybeing reminded of a burial of long ago, when the thump of every sodjolted his heart. 

I have left out the wattle--because it wasn't there. I have alsoneglected to mention the heart-broken old mate, with his grizzled headbowed and great pearly drops streaming down his rugged cheeks. He wasabsent--he was probably "Out Back. " For similar reasons I have omittedreference to the suspicious moisture in the eyes of a bearded bushruffian named Bill. Bill failed to turn up, and the only moisture wasthat which was induced by the heat. I have left out the "sad Australiansunset" because the sun was not going down at the time. The burial tookplace exactly at midday. 

The dead bushman's name was Jim, apparently; but they found noportraits, nor locks of hair, nor any love letters, nor anything of thatkind in his swag--not even a reference to his mother; only some papersrelating to Union matters. Most of us didn't know the name till wesaw it on the coffin; we knew him as "that poor chap that got drownedyesterday. "

"So his name's James Tyson, " said my drover acquaintance, looking at theplate. 

"Why! Didn't you know that before?" I asked. 

"No; but I knew he was a Union man. "

It turned out, afterwards, that J. T. Wasn't his real name--only "thename he went by. " Anyhow he was buried by it, and most of the "GreatAustralian Dailies" have mentioned in their brevity columns that a youngman named James John Tyson was drowned in a billabong of the Darlinglast Sunday. 

We did hear, later on, what his real name was; but if we ever chance toread it in the "Missing Friends Column, " we shall not be able to giveany information to heart-broken mother or sister or wife, nor to anyonewho could let him hear something to his advantage--for we have alreadyforgotten the name. 

ON THE EDGE OF A PLAIN

"I'd been away from home for eight years, " said Mitchell to his mate, as they dropped their swags in the mulga shade and sat down. "I hadn'twritten a letter--kept putting it off, and a blundering fool of a fellowthat got down the day before me told the old folks that he'd heard I wasdead. "

Here he took a pull at his water-bag. 

"When I got home they were all in mourning for me. It was night, and thegirl that opened the door screamed and fainted away like a shot. "

He lit his pipe. 

"Mother was upstairs howling and moaning in a chair, with all the girlsboo-hoo-ing round her for company. The old man was sitting in the backkitchen crying to himself. "

He put his hat down on the ground, dinted in the crown, and poured somewater into the hollow for his cattle-pup. 

"The girls came rushing down. Mother was so pumped out that she couldn'tget up. They thought at first I was a ghost, and then they all tried toget holt of me at once--nearly smothered me. Look at that pup! You wantto carry a tank of water on a dry stretch when you've got a pup thatdrinks as much as two men. "

He poured a drop more water into the top of his hat. 

"Well, mother screamed and nearly fainted when she saw me. Such a picnicyou never saw. They kept it up all night. I thought the old cove wasgone off his chump. The old woman wouldn't let go my hand for threemortal hours. Have you got the knife?"

He cut up some more tobacco. 

"All next day the house was full of neighbours, and the first to comewas an old sweetheart of mine; I never thought she cared for me tillthen. Mother and the girls made me swear never to go away any more; andthey kept watching me, and hardly let me go outside for fear I'd--"

"Get drunk?"

"No--you're smart--for fear I'd clear. At last I swore on the Bible thatI'd never leave home while the old folks were alive; and then motherseemed easier in her mind. "

He rolled the pup over and examined his feet. "I expect I'll have tocarry him a bit--his feet are sore. Well, he's done pretty well thismorning, and anyway he won't drink so much when he's carried. "

"You broke your promise about leaving home, " said his mate. 

Mitchell stood up, stretched himself, and looked dolefully from hisheavy swag to the wide, hot, shadeless cotton-bush plain ahead. 

"Oh, yes, " he yawned, "I stopped at home for a week, and then they beganto growl because I couldn't get any work to do. "

The mate guffawed and Mitchell grinned. They shouldered the swags, withthe pup on top of Mitchell's, took up their billies and water-bags, turned their unshaven faces to the wide, hazy distance, and left thetimber behind them. 

IN A DRY SEASON

Draw a wire fence and a few ragged gums, and add some scattered sheeprunning away from the train. Then you'll have the bush all along the NewSouth Wales western line from Bathurst on. 

The railway towns consist of a public house and a general store, with asquare tank and a school-house on piles in the nearer distance. The tankstands at the end of the school and is not many times smaller than thebuilding itself. It is safe to call the pub "The Railway Hotel, " and thestore "The Railway Stores, " with an "s. " A couple of patient, ungroomedhacks are probably standing outside the pub, while their mastersare inside having a drink--several drinks. Also it's safe to draw asundowner sitting listlessly on a bench on the veranda, reading the_Bulletin_. The Railway Stores seem to exist only in the shadow of thepub, and it is impossible to conceive either as being independent ofthe other. There is sometimes a small, oblong weather-boardbuilding--unpainted, and generally leaning in one of the eight possibledirections, and perhaps with a twist in another--which, from itshalf-obliterated sign, seems to have started as a rival to the RailwayStores; but the shutters are up and the place empty. 

The only town I saw that differed much from the above consisted of abox-bark humpy with a clay chimney, and a woman standing at the doorthrowing out the wash-up water. 

By way of variety, the artist might make a water-colour sketch of afettler's tent on the line, with a billy hanging over the fire in front, and three fettlers standing round filling their pipes. 

Slop sac suits, red faces, and old-fashioned, flat-brimmed hats, withwire round the brims, begin to drop into the train on the other side ofBathurst; and here and there a hat with three inches of crape round thecrown, which perhaps signifies death in the family at some remote date, and perhaps doesn't. Sometimes, I believe, it only means grease underthe band. I notice that when a bushman puts crape round his hat hegenerally leaves it there till the hat wears out, or another frienddies. In the latter case, he buys a new piece of crape. This outwardsign of bereavement usually has a jolly red face beneath it. Death isabout the only cheerful thing in the bush. 

We crossed the Macquarie--a narrow, muddy gutter with a dog swimmingacross, and three goats interested. 

A little farther on we saw the first sundowner. He carried a RoyalAlfred, and had a billy in one hand and a stick in the other. He wasdressed in a tail-coat turned yellow, a print shirt, and a pair ofmoleskin trousers, with big square calico patches on the knees; and hisold straw hat was covered with calico. Suddenly he slipped his swag, dropped his billy, and ran forward, boldly flourishing the stick. Ithought that he was mad, and was about to attack the train, but hewasn't; he was only killing a snake. I didn't have time to see whetherhe cooked the snake or not--perhaps he only thought of Adam. 

Somebody told me that the country was very dry on the other side ofNevertire. It is. I wouldn't like to sit down on it any where. Theleast horrible spot in the bush, in a dry season, is where the bushisn't--where it has been cleared away and a green crop is trying togrow. They talk of settling people on the land! Better settle _in_ it. I'd rather settle on the water; at least, until some gigantic system ofirrigation is perfected in the West. 

Along about Byrock we saw the first shearers. They dress like theunemployed, but differ from that body in their looks of independence. They sat on trucks and wool-bales and the fence, watching the train, and hailed Bill, and Jim, and Tom, and asked how those individuals weregetting on. 

Here we came across soft felt hats with straps round the crowns, andfull-bearded faces under them. Also a splendid-looking black tracker ina masher uniform and a pair of Wellington boots. 

One or two square-cuts and stand-up collars struggle dismally through tothe bitter end. Often a member of the unemployed starts cheerfullyout, with a letter from the Government Labour Bureau in his pocket, andnothing else. He has an idea that the station where he has the job willbe within easy walking distance of Bourke. Perhaps he thinks there'llbe a cart or a buggy waiting for him. He travels for a night and daywithout a bite to eat, and, on arrival, he finds that the station iseighty or a hundred miles away. Then he has to explain matters toa publican and a coach-driver. God bless the publican and thecoach-driver! God forgive our social system!

Native industry was represented at one place along the line by threetiles, a chimney-pot, and a length of piping on a slab. 

Somebody said to me, "Yer wanter go out back, young man, if yer wantersee the country. Yer wanter get away from the line. " I don't wanter;I've been there. 

You could go to the brink of eternity so far as Australia is concernedand yet meet an animated mummy of a swagman who will talk of going "outback. " Out upon the out-back fiend!

About Byrock we met the bush liar in all his glory. He was dressedlike--like a bush larrikin. His name was Jim. He had been to a ballwhere some blank had "touched" his blanky overcoat. The overcoat hada cheque for ten "quid" in the pocket. He didn't seem to feel theloss much. "Wot's ten quid?" He'd been everywhere, including the Gulfcountry. He still had three or four sheds to go to. He had telegrams inhis pocket from half a dozen squatters and supers offering him pens onany terms. He didn't give a blank whether he took them or no. He thoughtat first he had the telegrams on him but found that he had left themin the pocket of the overcoat aforesaid. He had learned butchering in aday. He was a bit of a scrapper himself and talked a lot about the ring. At the last station where he shore he gave the super the father of ahiding. The super was a big chap, about six-foot-three, and had knockedout Paddy Somebody in one round. He worked with a man who shore fourhundred sheep in nine hours. 

Here a quiet-looking bushman in a corner of the carriage grew restless, and presently he opened his mouth and took the liar down in about threeminutes. 

At 5. 30 we saw a long line of camels moving out across the sunset. There's something snaky about camels. They remind me of turtles andgoannas. 

Somebody said, "Here's Bourke. "

HE'D COME BACK

The yarn was all lies, I suppose; but it wasn't bad. A city bushman toldit, of course, and he told it in the travellers' hut. 

"As true's God hears me I never meant to desert her in cold blood, " hesaid. "We'd only been married about two years, and we'd got along grandtogether; but times was hard, and I had to jump at the first chance of ajob, and leave her with her people, an' go up-country. "

He paused and fumbled with his pipe until all ears were brought to bearon him. 

"She was a beauty, and no mistake; she was far too good for me--I oftenwondered how she came to have a chap like me. "

He paused again, and the others thought over it--and wondered too, perhaps. 

The joker opened his lips to speak, but altered his mind about it. 

"Well, I travelled up into Queensland, and worked back into Victoria 'n'South Australia, an' I wrote home pretty reg'lar and sent what moneyI could. Last I got down on to the south-western coast of SouthAustralia--an' there I got mixed up with another woman--you know whatthat means, boys?"

Sympathetic silence. 

"Well, this went on for two years, and then the other woman drove me todrink. You know what a woman can do when the devil's in her?"

Sound between a sigh and a groan from Lally Thompson. "My oath, " hesaid, sadly. 

"You should have made it _three_ years, Jack, " interposed the joker;"you said two years before. " But he was suppressed. 

"Well, I got free of them both, at last--drink and the woman, Imean; but it took another--it took a couple of years to pull myselfstraight--"

Here the joker opened his mouth again, but was warmly requested to shutit. 

"Then, chaps, I got thinking. My conscience began to hurt me, and--andhurt worse every day. It nearly drove me to drink again. Ah, boys, aman--if he is a man--can't expect to wrong a woman and escape scot-freein the end. " (Sigh from Lally Thompson. ) "It's the one thing that alwayscomes home to a man, sooner or later--you know what that means, boys. "

Lally Thompson: "My oath!"

The joker: "Dry up yer crimson oath! What do you know about women?"

Cries of "Order!"

"Well, " continued the story-teller, "I got thinking. I heard that mywife had broken her heart when I left her, and that made matters worse. I began to feel very bad about it. I felt mean. I felt disgusted withmyself. I pictured my poor, ill-treated, little wife and children inmisery and poverty, and my conscience wouldn't let me rest night orday"--(Lally Thompson seemed greatly moved)--"so at last I made up mymind to be a man, and make--what's the word?"

"Reparation, " suggested the joker. 

"Yes, so I slaved like a nigger for a year or so, got a few poundstogether and went to find my wife. I found out that she was living ina cottage in Burwood, Sydney, and struggling through the winter on whatshe'd saved from the money her father left her. 

"I got a shave and dressed up quiet and decent. I was older-looking andmore subdued like, and I'd got pretty grey in those few years that I'dbeen making a fool of myself; and, some how, I felt rather glad aboutit, because I reckoned she'd notice it first thing--she was always quickat noticing things--and forgive me all the quicker. Well, I waylaidthe school kids that evening, and found out mine--a little boy and agirl--and fine youngsters they were. The girl took after her mother, andthe youngster was the dead spit o' me. I gave 'em half a crows each andtold them to tell their mother that someone would come when the sun wentdown. "

Bogan Bill nodded approvingly. 

"So at sundown I went and knocked at the door. It opened and there stoodmy little wife looking prettier than ever--only careworn. "

Long, impressive pause. 

"Well, Jack, what did she do?" asked Bogan. 

"She didn't do nothing. "

"Well, Jack, and what did she say?"

Jack sighed and straightened himself up: "She said--she said--'Well, soyou've come back. '"

"Painful silence. 

"Well, Jack, and what did you say?"

"I said yes. "

"Well, and so you had!" said Tom Moonlight. 

"It wasn't that, Tom, " said Jack sadly and wearily--"_It was the way shesaid it_!"

Lally Thompson rubbed his eyes: "And what did you do, Jack?" he askedgently. 

"I stayed for a year, and then I deserted her again--but meant it thattime. "

"Ah, well! It's time to turn in. "

ANOTHER OF MITCHELL'S PLANS FOR THE FUTURE

"I'll get down among the cockies along the Lachlan, or some of theserivers, " said Mitchell, throwing down his swag beneath a big tree. "Aman stands a better show down there. It's a mistake to come out back. Iknocked around a good deal down there among the farms. Could alwaysget plenty of tucker, and a job if I wanted it. One cocky I workedfor wanted me to stay with him for good. Sorry I didn't. I'd have beenbetter off now. I was treated more like one of the family, and there wasa couple of good-looking daughters. One of them was clean gone on me. There are some grand girls down that way. I always got on well with thegirls, because I could play the fiddle and sing a bit. They'll be gladto see me when I get back there again, I know. I'll be all right--nomore bother about tucker. I'll just let things slide as soon as I spotthe house. I'll bet my boots the kettle will be boiling, and everythingin the house will be on the table before I'm there twenty minutes. Andthe girls will be running to meet the old cocky when he comes ridinghome at night, and they'll let down the sliprails, and ask him to guess'who's up at our place?' Yes, I'll find a job with some old cocky, witha good-looking daughter or two. I'll get on ploughing if I can; that'sthe sort of work I like; best graft about a farm. 

"By and by the cocky'll have a few sheep he wants shorn, and one dayhe'll say to me, 'Jack, if you hear of a shearer knockin' round let meknow--I've got a few sheep I want shore. '

"'How many have you got?' I'll say. 

"'Oh, about fifteen hundred. '

"'And what d'you think of giving?'

"'Well, about twenty-five bob a hundred, but if a shearer sticks out forthirty, send him up to talk with me. I want to get 'em shore as soon aspossible. '

"'It's all right, ' I'll say, 'you needn't bother; I'll shear yoursheep. '

"'Why, ' he'll say, 'can _you_ shear?'

"'Shear? Of course I can! I shore before you were born. ' It won't matterif he's twice as old as me. 

"So I'll shear his sheep and make a few pounds, and he'll be glad andall the more eager to keep me on, so's to always have someone to shearhis sheep. But by and by I'll get tired of stopping in the one place andwant to be on the move, so I'll tell him I'm going to leave. 

"'Why, what do you want to go for?' he'll say, surprised, 'ain't yousatisfied?'

"'Oh, yes, I'm satisfied, but I want a change. '

"'Oh, don't go, ' he'll say; 'stop and we'll call it twenty-five bob aweek. '

"But I'll tell him I'm off--wouldn't stay for a hundred when I'd made upmy mind; so, when he sees he can't persuade me he'll get a bit stiff andsay:

"'Well, what about that there girl? Are you goin' to go away and leaveher like that?'

"'Why, what d'yer mean?' I'll say. 'Leave her like what?' I won'tpretend to know what he's driving at. 

"'Oh!' he'll say, 'you know very well what I mean. The question is: _Areyou going to marry the girl or not_?'

"I'll see that things are gettin' a little warm and that I'm in acorner, so I'll say:

"'Why, I never thought about it. This is pretty sudden and out of thecommon, isn't it? I don't mind marrying the girl if she'll have me. Why!I haven't asked her yet!'

"'Well, look here, ' he'll say, 'if you agree to marry the girl--and I'llmake you marry her, any road--I'll give you that there farm over thereand a couple of hundred to start on. '

"So, I'll marry her and settle down and be a cocky myself and if youever happen to be knocking round there hard up, you needn't go short oftucker a week or two; but don't come knocking round the house when I'mnot at home. "

STEELMAN

Steelman was a hard case. If you were married, and settled down, andwere so unfortunate as to have known Steelman in other days, he would, if in your neighbourhood and dead-beat, be sure to look you up. He wouldfind you anywhere, no matter what precautions you might take. If he cameto your house, he would stay to tea without invitation, and if he stayedto tea, he would ask you to "fix up a shake-down on the floor, oldman, " and put him up for the night; and, if he stopped all night, he'dremain--well, until something better turned up. 

There was no shaking off Steelman. He had a way about him which wouldoften make it appear as if you had invited him to stay, and pressedhim against his roving inclination, and were glad to have him round forcompany, while he remained only out of pure goodwill to you. He didn'tlike to offend an old friend by refusing his invitation. 

Steelman knew his men. 

The married victim generally had neither the courage nor the ability toturn him out. He was cheerfully blind and deaf to all hints, and if theexasperated missus said anything to him straight, he would look shocked, and reply, as likely as not:

"Why, my good woman, you must be mad! I'm your husband's guest!"

And if she wouldn't cook for him, he'd cook for himself. There was nochoking him off. Few people care to call the police in a case like this;and besides, as before remarked, Steelman knew his men. The only way toescape from him was to move--but then, as likely as not, he'd help packup and come along with his portmanteau right on top of the last load offurniture, and drive you and your wife to the verge of madness by thecalm style in which he proceeded to superintend the hanging of yourpictures. 

Once he quartered himself like this on an old schoolmate of his, namedBrown, who had got married and steady and settled down. Brown tried allways to get rid of Steelman, but he couldn't do it. One day Brown saidto Steelman:

"Look here, Steely, old man, I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid we won't beable to accommodate you any longer--to make you comfortable, I mean. You see, a sister of the missus is coming down on a visit for a month ortwo, and we ain't got anywhere to put her, except in your room. I wishthe missus's relations to blazes! I didn't marry the whole blessedfamily; but it seems I've got to keep them. "

Pause--very awkward and painful for poor Brown. Discouraging silencefrom Steelman. Brown rested his elbows on his knees, and, with apathetic and appealing movement of his hand across his forehead, hecontinued desperately:

"I'm very sorry, you see, old man--you know I'd like you to stay--I wantyou to stay. .. . It isn't my fault--it's the missus's doings. I've done mybest with her, but I can't help it. I've been more like a master in myown house--more comfortable--and I've been better treated since I'vehad you to back me up. .. . I'll feel mighty lonely, anyway, when ycu'regone. .. . But. .. You know. .. As soon as her sister goes. .. You know. .. . "

Here poor Brown broke down--very sorry he had spoken at all; but Steelycame to the rescue with a ray of light. 

"What's the matter with the little room at the back?" he asked. 

"Oh, we couldn't think of putting you there, " said Brown, with a lasteffort; "it's not fined up; you wouldn't be comfortable, and, besides, it's damp, and you'd catch your death of cold. It was never meant foranything but a wash-house. I'm sorry I didn't get another room built onto the house. "

"Bosh!" interrupted Steelman, cheerfully. "Catch a cold! Here I've beenknocking about the country for the last five years--sleeping out in allweathers--and do you think a little damp is going to hurt me? Pooh! Whatdo you take me for? Don't you bother your head about it any more, oldman; I'll fix up the lumber-room for myself, all right; and all you'vegot to do is to let me know when the sister-in-law business is comingon, and I'll shift out of my room in time for the missus to get it readyfor her. Here, have you got a bob on you? I'll go out and get some beer. A drop'll do you good. "

"Well, if you can make yourself comfortable, I'll be only too glad foryou to stay, " said Brown, wearily. 

"You'd better invite some woman you know to come on a visit, and passher off as your sister, " said Brown to his wife, while Steelman was gonefor the beer. "I've made a mess of it. "

Mrs Brown said, "I knew you would. "

Steelman knew his men. 

But at last Brown reckoned that he could stand it no longer. The thoughtof it made him so wild that he couldn't work. He took a day off toget thoroughly worked up in, came home that night full to the chinof indignation and Dunedin beer, and tried to kick Steelman out. AndSteelman gave him a hiding. 

Next morning Steelman was sitting beside Brown's bed with a saucer ofvinegar, some brown paper, a raw beef-steak, and a bottle of soda. 

"Well, what have you got to say for yourself now, Brown?" he said, sternly. "Ain't you jolly well ashamed of yourself to come home in thebeastly state you did last night, and insult a guest in your house, tosay nothing of an old friend--and perhaps the best friend you ever had, if you only knew it? Anybody else would have given you in charge and gotyou three months for the assault. You ought to have some considerationfor your wife and children, and your own character--even if you haven'tany for your old mate's feelings. Here, drink this, and let me fix youup a bit; the missus has got the breakfast waiting. "

DRIFTED BACK

The stranger walked into the corner grocery with the air of one who hadcome back after many years to see someone who would be glad to see him. He shed his swag and stood it by the wall with great deliberation;then he rested his elbow on the counter, stroked his beard, and grinnedquizzically at the shopman, who smiled back presently in a puzzled way. 

"Good afternoon, " said the grocer. 

"Good afternoon. "

Pause. 

"Nice day, " said the grocer. 

Pause. 

"Anything I can do for you?"

"Yes; tell the old man there's a chap wants to speak to him for aminute. "

"Old man? What old man?"

"Hake, of course--old Ben Hake! Ain't he in?"

The grocer smiled. 

"Hake ain't here now. I'm here. "

"How's that?"

"Why, he sold out to me ten years ago. "

"Well, I suppose I'll find him somewhere about town?"

"I don't think you will. He left Australia when he sold out. He's--he'sdead now. "

"Dead! Old Ben Hake?"

"Yes. You knew him, then?"

The stranger seemed to have lost a great deal of his assurance. Heturned his side to the counter, hooked his elbow on it, and gazed outthrough the door along Sunset Track. 

"You can give me half a pound of nailrod, " he said, in a quiet tone--"Is'pose young Hake is in town?"

"No; the whole family went away. I think there's one of the sons inbusiness in Sydney now. "

"I s'pose the M'Lachlans are here yet?"

"No; they are not. The old people died about five years ago; the sonsare in Queensland, I think; and both the girls are married and inSydney. "

"Ah, well!. .. I see you've got the railway here now. "

"Oh, yes! Six years. "

"Times is changed a lot. "

"They are. "

"I s'pose--I s'pose you can tell me where I'll find old Jimmy Nowlett?"

"Jimmy Nowlett? Jimmy Nowlett? I never heard of the name. What was he?"

"Oh, he was a bullock-driver. Used to carry from the mountains beforethe railway was made. "

"Before my time, perhaps. There's no one of that name round here now. "

"Ah, well!. .. I don't suppose you knew the Duggans?"

"Yes, I did. The old man's dead, too, and the family's gone away--Lordknows where. They weren't much loss, to all accounts. The sons got intotrouble, I b'lieve--went to the bad. They had a bad name here. "

"Did they? Well, they had good hearts--at least, old Malachi Duggan andthe eldest son had. .. . You can give me a couple of pounds of sugar. "

"Right. I suppose it's a long time since you were here last?"

"Fifteen years. "

"Indeed!"

"Yes. I don't s'pose I remind you of anyone you know around here?"

"N--no!" said the grocer with a smile. "I can't say you do. "

"Ah, well! I s'pose I'll find the Wilds still living in the same place?"

"The Wilds? Well, no. The old man is dead, too, and--"

"And--and where's Jim? He ain't dead?"

"No; he's married and settled down in Sydney. "

Long pause. 

"Can you--" said the stranger, hesitatingly; "did you--I suppose youknew Mary--Mary Wild?"

"Mary?" said the grocer, smilingly. "That was my wife's maiden name. Would you like to see her?"

"No, no! She mightn't remember me!"

He reached hastily for his swag, and shouldered it. 

"Well, I must be gettin' on. "

"I s'pose you'll camp here over Christmas?"

"No; there's nothing to stop here for--I'll push on. I did intendto have a Christmas here--in fact, I came a long way out of my roada-purpose. .. . I meant to have just one more Christmas with old Ben Hakean' the rest of the boys--but I didn't know as they'd moved on so farwest. The old bush school is dyin' out. "

There was a smile in his eyes, but his bearded lips twitched a little. 

"Things is changed. The old houses is pretty much the same, an' the oldsigns want touchin' up and paintin' jest as had as ever; an' there'sthat old palin' fence that me an' Ben Hake an' Jimmy Nowlett put uptwenty year ago. I've tramped and travelled long ways since then. Butthings is changed--at least, people is. .. . Well, I must be goin'. There'snothing to keep me here. I'll push on and get into my track again. It'scooler travellin' in the night. "

"Yes, it's been pretty hot to-day. "

"Yes, it has. Well, s'long. "

"Good day. Merry Christmas!"

"Eh? What? Oh, yes! Same to you! S'long!"

"Good day!" He drifted out and away along Sunset Track. 

REMAILED

There is an old custom prevalent in Australasia--and other parts, too, perhaps, for that matter--which, we think, deserves to be written up. It might not be an "honoured" custom from a newspaper manager's orproprietor's point of view, or from the point of view (if any)occupied by the shareholders on the subject; but, nevertheless, it isa time-honoured and a good old custom. Perhaps, for several reasons, it was more prevalent among diggers than with the comparatively settledbushmen of to-day--the poor, hopeless, wandering swaggy doesn't countin the matter, for he has neither the wherewithal nor the opportunityto honour the old custom; also his movements are too sadly uncertainto permit of his being honoured by it. We refer to the remailing ofnewspapers and journals from one mate to another. 

Bill gets his paper and reads it through conscientiously from beginningto end by candle or slush-lamp as he lies on his back in the hut or tentwith his pipe in his mouth; or, better still, on a Sunday afternoon ashe reclines on the grass in the shade, in all the glory and comfort ofa clean pair of moleskins and socks and a clean shirt. And when he hasfinished reading the paper--if it is not immediately bespoke--he turnsit right side out, folds it, and puts it away where he'll know where tofind it. The paper is generally bespoke in the following manner:

"Let's have a look at that paper after you, Bill, when yer done withit, " says Jack. 

And Bill says:

"I just promised it to Bob. You can get it after him. "

And, when it is finally lent, Bill says:

"Don't forget to give that paper back to me when yer done with it. Don'tlet any of those other blanks get holt of it, or the chances are I won'tset eyes on it again. "

But the other blanks get it in their turn after being referred to Bill. "You must ask Bill, " says Jack to the next blank, "I got it from him. "And when Bill gets his paper back finally--which is often only aftermuch bush grumbling, accusation, recrimination, and denial--he severelyand carefully re-arranges theme pages, folds the paper, and sticks itaway up over a rafter, or behind a post or batten, or under his pillowwhere it will safe. He wants that paper to send to Jim. 

Bill is but an indifferent hand at folding, and knows little or nothingabout wrappers. He folds and re-folds the paper several times and invarious ways, but the first result is often the best, and is finallyadopted. The parcel looks more ugly than neat; but Bill puts a weightupon it so that it won't fly open, and looks round for a piece of stringto tie it with. Sometimes he ties it firmly round the middle, sometimesat both ends; at other times he runs the string down inside the foldsand ties it that way, or both ways, or all the ways, so as to be sure itwon't come undone--which it doesn't as a rule. If he can't find a pieceof string long enough, he ties two bits together, and submits the resultto a rather severe test; and if the string is too thin, or he has to usethread, he doubles it. Then he worries round to find out who has got theink, or whether anyone has seen anything of the pen; and when he getsthem, he writes the address with painful exactitude on the margin of thepaper, sometimes in two or three places. He has to think a moment beforehe writes; and perhaps he'll scratch the back of his head afterwardswith an inky finger, and regard the address with a sort of mild, passivesurprise. His old mate Jim was always plain Jim to him, and nothingelse; but, in order to reach Jim, this paper has to be addressed to--

 MR JAMES MITCHELL, c/o J. W. Dowell, Esq. , Munnigrub Station--

and so on. "Mitchell" seems strange--Bill couldn't think of it for themoment--and so does "James. "

And, a week or so later, over on Coolgardie, or away up in northernQueensland, or bush-felling down in Maoriland, Jim takes a stroll up tothe post office after tea on mail night. He doesn't expect any letters, but there might be a paper from Bill. Bill generally sends him anewspaper. They seldom write to each other, these old mates. 

There were points, of course, upon which Bill and Jim couldn'tagree--subjects upon which they argued long and loud and often in theold days; and it sometimes happens that Bill across an article or aparagraph which agrees with and, so to speak, barracks for a pet theoryof his as against one held by Jim; and Bill marks it with a chuckle andfour crosses at the corners--and an extra one at each side perhaps--andsends it on to Jim; he reckons it'll rather corner old Jim. The crossesare not over ornamental nor artistic, but very distinct; Jim sees themfrom the reverse side of the sheet first, maybe, and turns it overwith interest to see what it is. He grins a good-humoured grin as hereads--poor old Bill is just as thick-headed and obstinate as ever--justas far gone on his old fad. It's rather rough on Jim, because he's toofar off to argue; but, if he's very earnest on the subject, he'll sitdown and write, using all his old arguments to prove that the man whowrote that rot was a fool. This is one of the few things that will makethem write to each other. Or else Jim will wait till he comes across aparagraph in another paper which barracks for his side of the argument, and, in his opinion; rather knocks the stuffing out of Bill's man; thenhe marks it with more and bigger crosses and a grin, and sends it alongto Bill. They are both democrats--these old mates generally are--andat times one comes across a stirring article or poem, and marks it withapproval and sends it along. Or it may be a good joke, or the notice ofthe death of an old mate. What a wave of feeling and memories a littlepar can take through the land!

Jim is a sinner and a scoffer, and Bill is an earnest, thorough, respectable old freethinker, and consequently they often get a _War Cry_or a tract sent inside their exchanges--somebody puts it in for a joke. 

Long years ago--long years ago Bill and Jim were sweet on a rose of thebush--or a lily of the goldfields--call her Lily King. Both courted herat the same time, and quarrelled over her--fought over her, perhaps--andwere parted by her for years. But that's all bygones. Perhaps she lovedBill, perhaps she loved Jim--perhaps both; or, maybe, she wasn't surewhich. Perhaps she loved neither, and was only stringing them on. Anyway, she didn't marry either the one or the other. She marriedanother man--call him Jim Smith. And so, in after years, Bill comesacross a paragraph in a local paper, something like the following:

 On July 10th, at her residence, Eureka Cottage, Ballarat-street, Tally Town, the wife of James Smith of twins (boy and girl); all three doing well. 

And Bill marks it with a loud chuckle and big crosses, and sends italong to Jim. Then Bill sits and thinks and smokes, and thinks till thefire goes out, and quite forgets all about putting that necessary patchon his pants. 

And away down on Auckland gum-fields, perhaps, Jim reads the par with agrin; then grows serious, and sits and scrapes his gum by the flickeringfirelight in a mechanical manner, and--thinks. His thoughts are far awayin the back years--faint and far, far and faint. For the old, lingering, banished pain returns and hurts a man's heart like the false wifewho comes back again, falls on her knees before him, and holds upher trembling arms and pleads with swimming, upturned eyes, which areeloquent with the love she felt too late. 

It is supposed to be something to have your work published in an Englishmagazine, to have it published in book form, to be flattered by criticsand reprinted throughout the country press, or even to be cut up welland severely. But, after all, now we come to think of it, we wouldalmost as soon see a piece of ours marked with big inky crosses in thesoiled and crumpled rag that Bill or Jim gets sent him by an old mateof his--the paper that goes thousands of miles scrawled all over withsmudgy addresses and tied with a piece of string. 

MITCHELL DOESN'T BELIEVE IN THE SACK

"If ever I do get a job again, " said Mitchell, "I'll stick to it whilethere's a hand's turn of work to do, and put a few pounds together. Iwon't be the fool I always was. If I'd had sense a couple of years ago, I wouldn't be tramping through this damned sand and mulga now. I'll geta job on a station, or at some toff's house, knocking about the stablesand garden, and I'll make up my mind to settle down to graft for four orfive years. "

"But supposing you git the sack?" said his mate. 

"I won't take it. Only for taking the sack I wouldn't be hard up to-day. The boss might come round and say:

'I won't want you after this week, Mitchell. I haven't got any more workfor you to do. Come up and see me at the office presently. '

"So I'll go up and get my money; but I'll be pottering round as usualon Monday, and come up to the kitchen for my breakfast. Some time in theday the boss'll be knocking round and see me. 

"'Why, Mitchell, ' he'll say, 'I thought you was gone. '

"'I didn't say I was going, ' I'll say. 'Who told you that--or what madeyou think so?'

"'I thought I told you on Saturday that I wouldn't want you any more, 'he'll say, a bit short. 'I haven't got enough work to keep a man going;I told you that; I thought you understood. _Didn't I give you the sackon Saturday_?'

"'It's no use;' I'll say, 'that sort of thing's played out. I've beenhad too often that way; I've been sacked once too often. Taking thesack's been the cause of all my trouble; I don't believe in it. If I'dnever taken the sack I'd have been a rich man to-day; it might be allvery well for horses, but it doesn't suit me; it doesn't hurt you, butit hurts me. I made up my mind that when I got a place to suit me, I'dstick in it. I'm comfortable here and satisfied, and you've had no causeto find fault with me. It's no use you trying to sack me, because Iwon't take it. I've been there before, and you might as well try tocatch an old bird with chaff. '

"'Well, I won't pay you, and you'd better be off, ' he'll say, trying notto grin. 

"'Never mind the money, ' I'll say, 'the bit of tucker won't cost youanything, and I'll find something to do round the house till you havesome more work. I won't ask you for anything, and, surely to God I'llfind enough to do to pay for my grub!'

"So I'll potter round and take things easy and call up at the kitchen asusual at meal times, and by and by the boss'll think to himself: 'Well, if I've got to feed this chap I might as well get some work out of him. '

"So he'll find me, something regular to do--a bit of fencing, orcarpentering, or painting, or something, and then I'll begin to call upfor my stuff again, as usual. "

 SHOOTING THE MOON

We lay in camp in the fringe of the mulga, and watched the big, red, smoky, rising moon out on the edge of the misty plain, and smoked andthought together sociably. Our nose-bags were nice and heavy, and westill had about a pound of nail-rod between us. 

The moon reminded my mate, Jack Mitchell, of something--anythingreminded him of something, in fact. 

"Did you ever notice, " said Jack, in a lazy tone, just as if he didn'twant to tell a yarn--"Did you ever notice that people always shoot themoon when there's no moon? Have you got the matches?"

He lit up; he was always lighting up when he was reminded of something. 

"This reminds me--Have you got the knife? My pipe's stuffed up. "

He dug it out, loaded afresh, and lit up again. 

"I remember once, at a pub I was staying at, I had to leave withoutsaying good-bye to the landlord. I didn't know him very well at thattime. 

"My room was upstairs at the back, with the window opening on tothe backyard. I always carried a bit of clothes-line in my swag orportmanteau those times. I travelled along with a portmanteau thosetimes. I carried the rope in case of accident, or in case of fire, tolower my things out of the window--or hang myself, maybe, if things gottoo bad. No, now I come to think of it, I carried a revolver for that, and it was the only thing I never pawned. "

"To hang yourself with?" asked the mate. 

"Yes--you're very smart, " snapped Mitchell; "never mind---. This remindsme that I got a chap at a pub to pawn my last suit, while I stoppedinside and waited for an old mate to send me a pound; but I kept theshooter, and if he hadn't sent it I'd have been the late John Mitchelllong ago. "

"And sometimes you lower'd out when there wasn't a fire. "

"Yes, that will pass; you're improving in the funny business. But aboutthe yarn. There was two beds in my room at the pub, where I had to goaway without shouting for the boss, and, as it happened, there was astrange chap sleeping in the other bed that night, and, just as I raisedthe window and was going to lower my bag out, he woke up. 

"'Now, look here, ' I said, shaking my fist at him, like that, 'if yousay a word, I'll stoush yer!'

"'Well, ' he said, 'well, you needn't be in such a sweat to jump down aman's throat. I've got my swag under the bed, and I was just going toask you for the loan of the rope when you're done with it. '

"Well, we chummed. His name was Tom--Tom--something, I forget the othername, but it doesn't matter. Have you got the matches?"

He wasted three matches, and continued--

"There was a lot of old galvanized iron lying about under the window, and I was frightened the swag would make a noise; anyway, I'd have todrop the rope, and that was sure to make a noise. So we agreed for oneof us to go down and land the swag. If we were seen going down withoutthe swags it didn't matter, for we could say we wanted to go out in theyard for something. "

"If you had the swag you might pretend you were walking in your sleep, "I suggested, for the want of something funnier to say. 

"Bosh, " said Jack, "and get woke up with a black eye. Bushies don'tgenerally carry their swags out of pubs in their sleep, or walk neither;it's only city swells who do that. Where's the blessed matches?

"Well, Tom agreed to go, and presently I saw a shadow under the window, and lowered away. 

"'All right?' I asked in a whisper. 

"'All right!" whispered the shadow. 

"I lowered the other swag. 

"'All right?'

"'All right!' said the shadow, and just then the moon came out. 

"'All right!' says the shadow. 

"But it wasn't all right. It was the landlord himself!

"It seems he got up and went out to the back in the night, and justhappened to be coming in when my mate Tom was sneaking out of the backdoor. He saw Tom, and Tom saw him, and smoked through a hole in thepalings into the scrub. The boss looked up at the window, and dropped toit. I went down, funky enough, I can tell you, and faced him. He said:

"'Look here, mate, why didn't you come straight to me, and tell me howyou was fixed, instead of sneaking round the trouble in that fashion?There's no occasion for it. '

"I felt mean at once, but I said: 'Well, you see, we didn't know you, boss. '

"'So it seems. Well, I didn't think of that. Anyway, call up your mateand come and have a drink; we'll talk over it afterwards. ' So I calledTom. 'Come on, ' I shouted. 'It's all right. '

"And the boss kept us a couple of days, and then gave us as much tuckeras we could carry, and a drop of stuff and a few bob to go on the trackagain with. "

"Well, he was white, any road. "

"Yes. I knew him well after that, and only heard one man say a wordagainst him. "

"And did you stoush him?"

"No; I was going to, but Tom wouldn't let me. He said he was frightenedI might make a mess of it, and he did it himself. "

"Did what? Make a mess of it?"

"He made a mess of the other man that slandered that publican. I'd befunny if I was you. Where's the matches?"

"And could Tom fight?"

"Yes. Tom could fight. "

"Did you travel long with him after that?"

"Ten years. "

"And where is he now?"

"Dead--Give us the matches. "

HIS FATHER'S MATE

It was Golden Gully still, but golden in name only, unless indeed theyellow mullock heaps or the bloom of the wattle-trees on the hillsidegave it a claim to the title. But the gold was gone from the gully, andthe diggers were gone, too, after the manner of Timon's friends when hiswealth deserted him. Golden Gully was a dreary place, dreary even for anabandoned goldfield. The poor, tortured earth, with its wounds all bare, seemed to make a mute appeal to the surrounding bush to come up andhide it, and, as if in answer to its appeal, the shrub and saplings werebeginning to close in from the foot of the range. The wilderness wasreclaiming its own again. 

The two dark, sullen hills that stood on each side were clothed from tipto hollow with dark scrub and scraggy box-trees; but above the highestrow of shafts on one side ran a line of wattle-trees in full bloom. 

The top of the western hill was shaped somewhat like a saddle, andstanding high above the eucalypti on the point corresponding with thepommel were three tall pines. These lonely trees, seen for many milesaround, had caught the yellow rays of many a setting sun long before thewhite man wandered over the ranges. 

The predominant note of the scene was a painful sense of listening, thatnever seemed to lose its tension--a listening as though for thesounds of digger life, sounds that had gone and left a void that wasaccentuated by the signs of a former presence. The main army of diggershad long ago vanished to new rushes, leaving only its stragglers anddeserters behind. These were men who were too poor to drag familiesabout, men who were old and feeble, and men who had lost their faith infortune. They had dropped unnoticed out of the ranks; and remained toscratch out a living among the abandoned claims. 

Golden Gully had its little community of fossickers who lived in aclearing called Spencer's Flat on one side and Pounding Flat on theother, but they lent no life to the scene; they only haunted it. Astranger might have thought the field entirely deserted until he came ona coat and a billy at the foot of saplings amongst the holes, and heard, in the shallow ground underneath, the thud of a pick, which told of somefossicker below rooting out what little wash remained. 

One afternoon towards Christmas, a windlass was erected over an oldshaft of considerable depth at the foot of the gully. A greenhide bucketattached to a rope on the windlass was lying next morning near the mouthof the shaft, and beside it, on a clear-swept patch, was a little moundof cool wet wash-dirt. 

A clump of saplings near at hand threw a shade over part of the mullockheap, and in this shade, seated on an old coat, was a small boy ofeleven or twelve years, writing on a slate. 

He had fair hair, blue eyes, and a thin old-fashioned face--a face thatwould scarcely alter as he grew to manhood. His costume consisted of apair of moleskin trousers, a cotton shirt, and one suspender. He heldthe slate rigidly with a corner of its frame pressed close against hisribs, whilst his head hung to one side, so close to the slate that hisstraggling hair almost touched it. He was regarding his work fixedlyout of the corners of his eyes, whilst he painfully copied down the headline, spelling it in a different way each time. In this laborious taskhe appeared to be greatly assisted by a tongue that lolled out of thecorner of his mouth and made an occasional revolution round it, leavinga circle of temporarily clean face. His small clay-covered toes alsoentered into the spirit of the thing, and helped him not a little bytheir energetic wriggling. He paused occasionally to draw the back ofhis small brown arm across his mouth. 

Little Isley Mason, or, as he was called, "His Father's Mate, " hadalways been a favourite with the diggers and fossickers from the dayswhen he used to slip out first thing in the morning and take a runacross the frosty flat in his shirt. Long Bob Sawkins would often tellhow Isley came home one morning from his run in the long, wet grass asnaked as he was born, with the information that he had lost his shirt. 

Later on, when most of the diggers had gone, and Isley's mother wasdead, he was to be seen about the place with bare, sunbrowned arms andlegs, a pick and shovel, and a gold dish about two-thirds of his heightin diameter, with which he used to go "a-speckin'" and "fossickin'"amongst the old mullock heaps. Long Bob was Isley's special crony, andhe would often go out of his way to lay the boy outer bits o' washand likely spots, lamely excusing his long yarns with the child by theexplanation that it was "amusin' to draw Isley out. "

Isley had been sitting writing for some time when a deep voice calledout from below:

"Isley!"

"Yes, father. "

"Send down the bucket. "

"Right. "

Isley put down his slate, and going to the shaft dropped the bucket downas far as the slack rope reached; then, placing one hand on the bole ofthe windlass and holding the other against it underneath, he let itslip round between his palms until the bucket reached bottom. A sound ofshovelling was heard for a few moments, and presently the voice cried, "Wind away, sonny. "

"Thet ain't half enough, " said the boy, peering down. "Don't befrightened to pile it in, father. I kin wind up a lot more'n thet. "

A little more scraping, and the boy braced his feet well upon the littlemound of clay which he had raised under the handle of the windlass tomake up for his deficiency in stature. 

"Now then, Isley!"

Isley wound slowly but sturdily, and soon the bucket of "wash" appearedabove the surface; then he took it in short lifts and deposited it withthe rest of the wash-dirt. 

"Isley!" called his father again. 

"Yes, father. "

"Have you done that writing lesson yet?"

"Very near. "

"Then send down the slate next time for some sums. "

"All right. "

The boy resumed his seat, fixed the corner of the slate well into hisribs, humped his back, and commenced another wavering line. 

Tom Mason was known on the place as a silent, hard worker. He was a manof about sixty, tall, and dark bearded. There was nothing uncommon abouthis face, except, perhaps, that it hardened, as the face of a man mightharden who had suffered a long succession of griefs and disappointments. He lived in little hut under a peppermint tree at the far edge ofPounding Flat. His wife had died there about six years before, and newrushes broke out and he was well able to go, he never left Golden Gully. 

Mason was kneeling in front of the "face" digging away by the light ofa tallow candle stuck in the side. The floor of the drive was very wet, and his trousers were heavy and cold with clay and water; but the olddigger was used to this sort of thing. His pick was not bringing outmuch to-day, however, for he seemed abstracted and would occasionallypause in his work, while his thoughts wandered far away from the narrowstreak of wash-dirt in the "face. "

He was digging out pictures from a past life. They were not pleasantones, for his face was stony and white in the dim glow of the candle. 

Thud, thud, thud--the blows became slower and more irregular as thefossicker's mind wandered off into the past. The sides of the driveseemed to vanish slowly away, and the "face" retreated far out beyond ahorizon that was hazy in the glow of the southern ocean. He was standingon the deck of a ship and by his side stood a brother. They were sailingsouthward to the Land of Promise that was shining there in all itsgolden glory! The sails pressed forward in the bracing wind, and theclipper ship raced along with its burden of the wildest dreamers everborne in a vessel's hull! Up over long blue ocean ridges, down into longblue ocean gullies; on to lands so new, and yet so old, where above thesunny glow of the southern skies blazed the shining names of Ballarat!and Bendigo! The deck seemed to lurch, and the fossicker fell forwardagainst the face of the drive. The shock recalled him, and he lifted hispick once more. 

But the blows slacken again as another vision rises before him. It isBallarat now. He is working in a shallow claim at Eureka, his brother byhis side. The brother looks pale and ill, for he has been up all nightdancing and drinking. Out behind them is the line of blue hills; infront is the famous Bakery Hill, and down to the left Golden Point. Twomounted troopers are riding up over Specimen Hill. What do they want?

They take the brother away, handcuffed. Manslaughter last night. Cause--drink and jealousy. 

The vision is gone again. Thud, thud, goes the pick; it counts the yearsthat follow--one, two, three, four, up to twenty, and then it stops forthe next scene--a selection on the banks of a bright river in New SouthWales. The little homestead is surrounded by vines and fruit-trees. Manyswarms of bees work under the shade of the trees, and a crop of wheat isnearly ripe on the hillside. 

A man and a boy are engaged in clearing a paddock just below thehomestead. They are father and son; the son, a boy of about seventeen, is the image of his father. 

Horses' feet again! Here comes Nemesis in mounted troopers' uniform. 

The mail was stuck up last night about five miles away, and a refractorypassenger shot. The son had been out 'possum shooting' all night withsome friends. 

The troopers take the son away handcuffed: "Robbery under arms. "

The father was taking out a stump when the troopers came. His foot isstill resting on the spade, which is half driven home. He watches thetroopers take the boy up to the house, and then, driving the spade toits full depth, he turns up another sod. The troopers reach the door ofthe homestead; but still he digs steadily, and does not seem to hear hiswife's cry of despair. The troopers search the boy's room and bringout some clothing in two bundles; but still the father digs. They havesaddled up one of the farm horses and made the boy mount. The fatherdigs. They ride off along the ridge with the boy between them. Thefather never lifts his eyes; the hole widens round the stump; he digsaway till the brave little wife comes and takes him gently by the arm. He half rouses himself and follows her to the house like an obedientdog. 

Trial and disgrace follow, and then other misfortunes, pleuro among thecattle, drought, and poverty. 

Thud, thud, thud again! But it is not the sound of the fossicker'spick--it is the fall of sods on his wife's coffin. 

It is a little bush cemetery, and he stands stonily watching themfill up her grave. She died of a broken heart and shame. "I can't beardisgrace! I can't bear disgrace!" she had moaned all these six wearyyears--for the poor are often proud. 

But he lives on, for it takes a lot to break a man's heart. He holdsup his head and toils on for the sake of a child that is left, and thatchild is--Isley. 

And now the fossicker seems to see a vision of the future. He seems tobe standing somewhere, an old, old man, with a younger one at his side;the younger one has Isley's face. Horses' feet again! Ah, God! Nemesisonce more in troopers' uniform!

The fossicker falls on his knees in the mud and clay at the bottom ofthe drive, and prays Heaven to take his last child ere Nemesis comes forhim. 

Long Bob Sawkins had been known on the diggings as "Bob the Devil. "His profile at least from one side, certainly did recall that of thesarcastic Mephistopheles; but the other side, like his true character, was by no means a devil's. His physiognomy had been much damaged, and one eye removed by the premature explosion of a blast in some oldBallarat mine. The blind eye was covered with a green patch, which gavea sardonic appearance to the remaining features. 

He was a stupid, heavy, good-natured Englishman. He stuttered a little, and had a peculiar habit of wedging the monosyllable "why" into hisconversation at times when it served no other purpose than to fill upthe pauses caused by his stuttering; but this by no means assisted himin his speech, for he often stuttered over the "why" itself. 

The sun was getting low down, and its yellow rays reached far up amongthe saplings of Golden Gully when Bob appeared coming down by thepath that ran under the western hill. He was dressed in the usualcostume-cotton shirt, moleskin trousers, faded hat and waistcoat, andblucher boots. He carried a pick over his shoulder, the handle of whichwas run through the heft of a short shovel that hung down behind, andhe had a big dish under his arm. He paused opposite the shaft with thewindlass, and hailed the boy in his usual form of salutation. 

"Look, see here Isley!"

"What is it, Bob?"

"I seed a young--why--magpie up in the scrub, and yer oughter be able tocatch it. "

"Can't leave the shaft; father's b'low. "

"How did yer father know there was any--why--wash in the old shaft?"

"Seed old Corney in town Saturday, 'n he said thur was enough to make itworth while bailin' out. Bin bailin' all the mornin'. "

Bob came over, and letting his tools down with a clatter he hitched upthe knees of his moleskins and sat down on one heel. 

"What are yer--why--doin' on the slate, Isley?" said he, taking out anold clay pipe and lighting it. 

"Sums, " said Isley. 

Bob puffed away at his pipe a moment. 

"'Tain't no use!" he said, sitting down on the clay and drawing hisknees up. "Edication's a failyer. "

"Listen at 'im!" exclaimed the boy. "D'yer mean ter say it ain't no uselearnin' readin' and writin' and sums?"

"Isley!"

"Right, father. "

The boy went to the windlass and let the bucket down. Bob offeredto help him wind up, but Isley, proud of showing his strength to hisfriend, insisted on winding by himself. 

"You'll be--why--a strong man some day, Isley, " said Bob, landing thebucket. 

"Oh, I could wind up a lot more'n father puts in. Look how I greasedthe handles! It works like butter now, " and the boy sent the handlesspinning round with a jerk to illustrate his meaning. 

"Why did they call yer Isley for?" queried Bob, as they resumed theirseats. "It ain't yer real name, is it?"

"No, my name's Harry. A digger useter say I was a isle in the ocean tofather 'n mother, 'n then I was nicknamed Isle, 'n then Isley. "

"You hed a--why--brother once, didn't yer?"

"Yes, but thet was afore I was borned. He died, at least mother used tersay she didn't know if he was dead; but father says he's dead as fur'she's concerned. "

"And your father hed a brother, too. Did yer ever--why--hear of him?"

"Yes, I heard father talkin' about it wonst to mother. I think father'sbrother got into some row in a bar where a man was killed. "

"And was yer--why--father--why--fond of him?"

"I heard father say that he was wonst, but thet was all past. "

Bob smoked in silence for a while, and seemed to look at some darkclouds that were drifting along like a funeral out in the west. Presently he said half aloud something that sounded like "All, all--why--past. "

"Eh?" said Isley. 

"Oh, it's--why, why--nothin', " answered Bob, rousing himself. "Is that apaper in yer father's coat-pocket, Isley?"

"Yes, " said the boy, taking it out. 

Bob took the paper and stared hard at it for a moment or so. 

"There's something about the new goldfields there, " said Bob, puttinghis finger on a tailor's advertisement. "I wish you'd--why--read it tome, Isley; I can't see the small print they uses nowadays. "

"No, thet's not it, " said the boy, taking the paper, "it's somethingabout--"

"Isley!"

"'Old on, Bob, father wants me. "

The boy ran to the shaft, rested his hands and forehead against the boleof the windlass, and leant over to hear what his father was saying. 

Without a moment's warning the treacherous bole slipped round; a smallbody bounded a couple of times against the sides of the shaft and fellat Mason's feet, where it lay motionless!

"Mason!"

"Ay?"

"Put him in the bucket and lash him to the rope with your belt!"

A few moments, and--

"Now, Bob!"

Bob's trembling hands would scarcely grasp the handle, but he managed towind somehow. 

Presently the form of the child appeared, motionless and covered withclay and water. Mason was climbing up by the steps in the side of theshaft. 

Bob tenderly unlashed the boy and laid him under the saplings on thegrass; then he wiped some of the clay and blood away from the child'sforehead, and dashed over him some muddy water. 

Presently Isley gave a gasp and opened his eyes. 

"Are yer--why--hurt much, Isley?" asked Bob. 

"Ba-back's bruk, Bob!"

"Not so bad as that, old man. "

"Where's father?"

"Coming up. "

Silence awhile, and then--

"Father! father! be quick, father!"

Mason reached the surface and came and knelt by the other side of theboy. 

"I'll, I'll--why--run fur some brandy, " said Bob. 

"No use, Bob, " said Isley. "I'm all bruk up. "

"Don't yer feel better, sonny?"

"No--I'm--goin' to--die, Bob. "

"Don't say it, Isley, " groaned Bob. 

A short silence, and then the boy's body suddenly twisted with pain. Butit was soon over. He lay still awhile, and then said quietly:

"Good-bye, Bob!"

Bob made a vain attempt to speak. "Isley!" he said, "---"

The child turned and stretched out his hands to the silent, stony-facedman on the other side. 

"Father--father, I'm goin'!"

A shuddering groan broke from Mason's lips, and then all was quiet. 

Bob had taken off his hat to wipe his, forehead, and his face, in spiteof its disfigurement, was strangely like the face of the stone-like manopposite. 

For a moment they looked at one another across the body of the child, and then Bob said quietly:

"He never knowed. "

"What does it matter?" said Mason gruffly; and, taking up the deadchild, he walked towards the hut. 

It was a very sad little group that gathered outside Mason's but nextmorning. Martin's wife had been there all the morning cleaning up anddoing what she could. One of the women had torn up her husband's onlywhite shirt for a shroud, and they had made the little body look cleanand even beautiful in the wretched little hut. 

One after another the fossickers took off their hats and entered, stooping through the low door. Mason sat silently at the foot of thebunk with his head supported by his hand, and watched the men with astrange, abstracted air. 

Bob had ransacked the camp in search of some boards for a coffin. 

"It will be the last I'll be able to--why--do for him, " he said. 

At last he came to Mrs Martin in despair. That lady took him into thedining-room, and pointed to a large pine table, of which she was veryproud. 

"Knock that table to pieces, " she said. 

Taking off the few things that were lying on it, Bob turned it over andbegan to knock the top off. 

When he had finished the coffin one of the fossicker's wives said itlooked too bare, and she ripped up her black riding-skirt, and made Bobtack the cloth over the coffin. 

There was only one vehicle available in the place, and that was Martin'sold dray; so about two o'clock Pat Martin attached his old horse Dublinto the shafts with sundry bits of harness and plenty of old rope, anddragged Dublin, dray and all, across to Mason's hut. 

The little coffin was carried out, and two gin-cases were placed by itsside in the dray to serve as seats for Mrs Martin and Mrs Grimshaw, whomounted in tearful silence. 

Pat Martin felt for his pipe, but remembered himself and mounted on theshaft. Mason fastened up the door of the hut with a padlock. A couple ofblows on one of his sharp points roused Dublin from his reverie. With alurch to the right and another to the left he started, and presently thelittle funeral disappeared down the road that led to the "town" and itscemetery. 

About six months afterwards Bob Sawkins went on a short journey, andreturned with a tall, bearded young man. He and Bob arrived after dark, and went straight to Mason's hut. There was a light inside, but when Bobknocked there was no answer. 

"Go in; don't be afraid, '" he said to his companion. 

The stranger pushed open the creaking door, and stood bareheaded justinside the doorway. 

A billy was boiling unheeded on the fire. Mason sat at the table withhis face buried in his arms. 

"Father!"

There was no answer, but the flickering of the firelight made thestranger think he could detect an impatient shrug in Mason's shoulders. 

For a moment the stranger paused irresolute, and then stepping up to thetable he laid his hand on Mason's arm, and said gently:

"Father! Do you want another mate?"

But the sleeper did not--at least, not in this world. 

AN ECHO FROM THE OLD BARK SCHOOL

It was the first Monday after the holidays. The children had taken theirseats in the Old Bark School, and the master called out the roll asusual:

"Arvie Aspinall. ". .. "'Es, sir. "

"David Cooper. ". .. "Yes, sir. "

"John Heegard. ". .. "Yezzer. "

"Joseph Swallow. ". .. "Yesser. "

"James Bullock. ". .. "Present. "

"Frederick Swallow. ". .. "Y'sir. "

"James Nowlett. ". .. . (Chorus of "Absent. ")

"William Atkins. ". .. (Chorus of "Absent. ")

"Daniel Lyons. ". .. "Perresent, sor-r-r. "

Dan was a young immigrant, just out from the sod, and rolled his "r's"like a cock-dove. His brogue was rich enough to make an Irishman laugh. 

Bill was "wagging it. " His own especial chum was of the opinion thatBill was sick. The master's opinion did not coincide, so he penneda note to William's parents, to be delivered by the model boy of theschool. 

"Bertha Lambert. ". .. "Yes, 'air. "

"May Carey. ". .. "Pesin', sair. "

"Rose Cooper. ". .. "Yes, sir. "

"Janet Wild. ". .. "Y-y-yes, s-sir. "

"Mary Wild. ". .. 

A solemn hush fell upon the school, and presently Janet Wild threw herarms out on the desk before her, let her face fall on them, and sobbedheart-brokenly. The master saw his mistake too late; he gave his heada little half-affirmative, half-negative movement, in that pathetic oldway of his; rested his head on one hand, gazed sadly at the name, andsighed. 

But the galoot of the school spoilt the pathos of it all, for, duringthe awed silence which followed the calling of the girl's name, hesuddenly brightened up--the first time he was ever observed to do soduring school hours--and said, briskly and cheerfully "Dead--sir!"

He hadn't been able to answer a question correctly for several days. 

"Children, " said the master gravely and sadly, "children, this is thefirst time I ever had to put 'D' to the name of one of my scholars. PoorMary! she was one of my first pupils--came the first morning the schoolwas opened. Children, I want you to be a little quieter to-day duringplay-hour, out of respect for the name of your dead schoolmate whom ithas pleased the Almighty to take in her youth. "

"Please, sir, " asked the galoot, evidently encouraged by his fanciedsuccess, "please, sir, what does 'D' stand for?"

"Damn you for a hass!" snarled Jim Bullock between his teeth, giving thegaloot a vicious dig in the side with his elbow. 

THE SHEARING OF THE COOK'S DOG

The dog was a little conservative mongrel poodle, with long dirty whitehair all over him--longest and most over his eyes, which glistenedthrough it like black beads. Also he seemed to have a bad liver. Healways looked as if he was suffering from a sense of injury, past or tocome. It did come. He used to follow the shearers up to the shed afterbreakfast every morning, but he couldn't have done this for love--therewas none lost between him and the men. He wasn't an affectionate dog;it wasn't his style. He would sit close against the shed for an hour ortwo, and hump himself, and sulk, and look sick, and snarl whenever the"Sheep-Ho" dog passed, or a man took notice of him. Then he'd go home. What he wanted at the shed at all was only known to himself; no oneasked him to come. Perhaps he came to collect evidence against us. Thecook called him "my darg, " and the men called the cook "Curry and Rice, "with "old" before it mostly. 

Rice was a little, dumpy, fat man, with a round, smooth, good-humouredface, a bald head, feet wide apart, and a big blue cotton apron. He hadbeen a ship's cook. He didn't look so much out of place in the hut asthe hut did round him. To a man with a vivid imagination, if he regardedthe cook dreamily for a while, the floor might seem to roll gently likethe deck of a ship, and mast, rigging, and cuddy rise mistily in thebackground. Curry might have dreamed of the cook's galley at times, buthe never mentioned it. He ought to have been at sea, or comfortably deadand stowed away under ground, instead of cooking for a mob of unredeemedrouseabouts in an uncivilized shed in the scrub, six hundred miles fromthe ocean. 

They chyacked the cook occasionally, and grumbled--or pretended togrumble--about their tucker, and then he'd make a roughly patheticspeech, with many references to his age, and the hardness of his work, and the smallness of his wages, and the inconsiderateness of the men. Then the joker of the shed would sympathize with the cook with histongue and one side of his face--and joke with the other. 

One day in the shed, during smoke-ho the devil whispered to a shearernamed Geordie that it would be a lark to shear the cook's dog--the EvilOne having previously arranged that the dog should be there, sittingclose to Geordie's pen, and that the shearer should have a fine lambcomb on his machine. The idea was communicated through Geordie to hismates, and met with entire and general approval; and for five or tenminutes the air was kept alive by shouting and laughter of the men, andthe protestations of the dog. When the shearer touched skin, he yelled"Tar!" and when he finished he shouted "Wool away!" at the top of hisvoice, and his mates echoed him with a will. A picker-up gathered thefleece with a great show of labour and care, and tabled it, to thewell-ventilated disgust of old Scotty, the wool-roller. When they letthe dog go he struck for home--a clean-shaven poodle, except for aferocious moustache and a tuft at the end of his tail. 

The cook's assistant said that he'd have given a five-pound note for aportrait of Curry-and-Rice when that poodle came back from the shed. Thecook was naturally very indignant; he was surprised at first--then hegot mad. He had the whole afternoon to get worked up in, and at tea-timehe went for the men properly. 

"Wotter yer growlin' about?" asked one. "Wot's the matter with yer, anyway?"

"I don't know nothing about yer dog!" protested a rouseabout; "wotyergettin' on to me for?"

"Wotter they bin doin' to the cook now?" inquired a ring leaderinnocently, as he sprawled into his place at the table. "Can't yer letCurry alone? Wot d'yer want to be chyackin' him for? Give it a rest. "

"Well, look here, chaps, " observed Geordie, in a determined tone, "Icall it a shame, that's what I call it. Why couldn't you leave an oldman's dog alone? It was a mean, dirty trick to do, and I suppose youthought it funny. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, the whole lotof you, for a drafted mob of crawlers. If I'd been there it wouldn'thave been done; and I wouldn't blame Curry if he was to poison the wholeconvicted push. "

General lowering of faces and pulling of hats down over eyes, and greatworking of knives and forks; also sounds like men trying not to laugh. 

"Why couldn't you play a trick on another man's darg?" said Curry. "It's no use tellin' me. I can see it all as plain as if I was on theboard--all of you runnin' an' shoutin' an' cheerin' an' laughin', andall over shearin' and ill-usin' a poor little darg! Why couldn't youplay a trick on another man's darg?. .. It doesn't matter much--I'mnearly done cookie' here now. .. . Only that I've got a family to think ofI wouldn't 'a' stayed so long. I've got to be up at five every mornin', an' don't get to bed till ten at night, cookin' an' bakin' an' cleanin'for you an' waitin' on you. First one lot in from the wool-wash, an'then one lot in from the shed, an' another lot in, an' at all hoursan' times, an' all wantin' their meals kept hot, an' then they ain'tsatisfied. And now you must go an' play a dirty trick on my darg! Whycouldn't you have a lark with some other man's darg!"

Geordie bowed his head and ate as though he had a cud, like a cow, and could chew at leisure. He seemed ashamed, as indeed we allwere--secretly. Poor old Curry's oft-repeated appeal, "Why couldn't youplay a trick with another man's dog?" seemed to have something patheticabout it. The men didn't notice that it lacked philanthropy and logic, and probably the cook didn't notice it either, else he wouldn't haveharped on it. Geordie lowered his face, and just then, as luck or thedevil would have it, he caught sight of the dog. Then he exploded. 

The cook usually forgot all about it in an hour, and then, if you askedhim what the chaps had been doing, he'd say, "Oh, nothing! nothing! Onlytheir larks!" But this time he didn't; he was narked for three days, and the chaps marvelled much and were sorry, and treated him with greatrespect and consideration. They hadn't thought he'd take it so hard--thedog shearing business--else they wouldn't have done it. They were alittle puzzled too, and getting a trifle angry, and would shortlybe prepared to take the place of the injured party, and make thingsunpleasant for the cook. However, he brightened up towards the end ofthe week, and then it all came out. 

"I wouldn't 'a' minded so much, " he said, standing by the table with adipper in one hand, a bucket in the other, and a smile on his face. "Iwouldn't 'a' minded so much only they'll think me a flash man in Bourkewith that theer darg trimmed up like that!"

"DOSSING OUT" AND "CAMPING"

At least two hundred poor beggars were counted sleeping out on thepavements of the main streets of Sydney the other night--grotesquebundles of rags lying under the verandas of the old Fruit Markets andYork Street shops, with their heads to the wall and their feet to thegutter. It was raining and cold that night, and the unemployed had beendriven in from Hyde Park and the bleak Domain--from dripping trees, dampseats, and drenched grass--from the rain, and cold, and the wind. Somehad sheets of old newspapers to cover them-and some hadn't. Two weremates, and they divided a _Herald_ between them. One had a sheet ofbrown paper, and another (lucky man!) had a bag--the only bag there. They all shrank as far into their rags as possible--and tried to sleep. The rats seemed to take them for rubbish, too, and only scampered awaywhen one of the outcasts moved uneasily, or coughed, or groaned--or whena policeman came along. 

One or two rose occasionally and rooted in the dust-boxes on thepavement outside the shops--but they didn't seem to get anything. Theywere feeling "peckish, " no doubt, and wanted to see if they could getsomething to eat before the corporation carts came along. So did therats. 

Some men can't sleep very well on an empty stomach--at least, not atfirst; but it mostly comes with practice. They often sleep for ever inLondon. Not in Sydney as yet--so we say. 

Now and then one of our outcasts would stretch his cramped limbs to easethem--but the cold soon made him huddle again. The pavement must havebeen hard on the men's "points, " too; they couldn't dig holes nor makesoft places for their hips, as you can in camp out back. And then, again, the stones had nasty edges and awkward slopes, for the pavementswere very uneven. 

The Law came along now and then, and had a careless glance at theunemployed in bed. They didn't look like sleeping beauties. The Lawappeared to regard them as so much rubbish that ought not to havebeen placed there, and for the presence of which somebody ought tobe prosecuted by the Inspector of Nuisances. At least, that was theexpression the policeman had on his face. 

And so Australian workmen lay at two o'clock in the morning in thestreets of Sydney, and tried to get a little sleep before the trafficcame along and took their bed. 

The idea of sleeping out might be nothing to bushmen--not even an idea;but "dossing out" in the city and "camping" in the bush are two verydifferent things. In the bush you can light a fire, boil your billy, and make some tea--if you have any; also fry a chop (there are no sheeprunning round in the city). You can have a clean meal, take off yourshirt and wash it, and wash yourself--if there's water enough--and feelfresh and clean. You can whistle and sing by the camp-fire, and makepoetry, and breathe fresh air, and watch the everlasting stars that keepthe mateless traveller from going mad as he lies in his lonely camp onthe plains. Your privacy is even more perfect than if you had a suite ofrooms at the Australia; you are at the mercy of no policeman; there'sno one to watch you but God--and He won't move you on. God watches the"dossers-out, " too, in the city, but He doesn't keep them from beingmoved on or run in. 

With the city unemployed the case is entirely different. The cityoutcast cannot light a fire and boil a billy--even if he has one--he'dbe run in at once for attempting to commit arson, or create a riot, oron suspicion of being a person of unsound mind. If he took off hisshirt to wash it, or went in for a swim, he'd be had up for indecentlyexposing his bones--and perhaps he'd get flogged. He cannot whistle orsing on his pavement bed at night, for, if he did, he'd be violentlyarrested by two great policemen for riotous conduct. He doesn't see manystars, and he's generally too hungry to make poetry. He only sleeps onthe pavement on sufferance, and when the policeman finds the small hourshang heavily on him, he can root up the unemployed with his big foot andmove him on--or arrest him for being around with the intention to commita felony; and, when the wretched "dosser" rises in the morning, hecannot shoulder his swag and take the track--he must cadge a breakfastat some back gate or restaurant, and then sit in the park or walk roundand round, the same old hopeless round, all day. There's no prison likethe city for a poor man. 

Nearly every man the traveller meets in the bush is about as dirty andragged as himself, and just about as hard up; but in the city nearlyevery man the poor unemployed meets is a dude, or at least, welldressed, and the unemployed _feels_ dirty and mean and degraded by thecontrast--and despised. 

And he can't help feeling like a criminal. It may be imagination, butevery policeman seems to regard him with suspicion, and this is terribleto a sensitive man. 

We once had the key of the street for a night. We don't know how muchtobacco we smoked, how many seats we sat on, or how many miles we walkedbefore morning. But we do know that we felt like a felon, and that everypoliceman seemed to regard us with a suspicious eye; and at last webegan to squint furtively at every trap we met, which, perhaps, made himmore suspicious, till finally we felt bad enough to be run in and to getsix months' hard. 

Three winters ago a man, whose name doesn't matter, had a small officenear Elizabeth Street, Sydney. He was an hotel broker, debt collector, commission agent, canvasser, and so on, in a small way--a very smallway--but his heart was big. He had a partner. They batched in theoffice, and did their cooking over a gas lamp. Now, every day theman-whose-name-doesn't-matter would carefully collect the scraps offood, add a slice or two of bread and butter, wrap it all up in a pieceof newspaper, and, after dark, step out and leave the parcel on a ledgeof the stonework outside the building in the street. Every morning itwould be gone. A shadow came along in the night and took it. This went on for many months, till at last one night theman-whose-name-doesn't-matter forgot to put the parcel out, and didn'tthink of it till he was in bed. It worried him, so that at last he hadto get up and put the scraps outside. It was midnight. He felt curiousto see the shadow, so he waited until it came along. It wasn't hislong-lost brother, but it was an old mate of his. 

Let us finish with a sketch:

The scene was Circular Quay, outside the Messageries sheds. The usualnumber of bundles of misery--covered more or less with dirty sheets ofnewspaper--lay along the wall under the ghastly glare of the electriclight. Time--shortly after midnight. From among the bundles an old mansat up. He cautiously drew off his pants, and then stood close tothe wall, in his shirt, tenderly examining the seat of the trousers. Presently he shook them out, folded them with great care, wrapped themin a scrap of newspaper, and laid them down where his head was to be. He had thin, hairy legs and a long grey beard. From a bundle of rags heextracted another pair of pants, which were all patches and tatters, andinto which he engineered his way with great caution. Then he sat down, arranged the paper over his knees, laid his old ragged grey head back onhis precious Sunday-go-meetings-and slept. 

ACROSS THE STRAITS

We crossed Cook's Straits from Wellington in one of those rusty littleiron tanks that go up and down and across there for twenty or thirtyyears and never get wrecked--for no other reason, apparently, than thatthey have every possible excuse to go ashore or go down on those stormycoasts. The age, construction, or condition of these boats, and thesouth-easters, and the construction of the coastline, are all decidedlyin favour of their going down; the fares are high and the accommodationis small and dirty. It is always the same where there is no competition. 

A year or two ago, when a company was running boats between Australiaand New Zealand without competition, the steerage fare was threepound direct single, and two pound ten shillings between Auckland andWellington. The potatoes were black and green and soggy, the beef likebits scraped off the inside of a hide which had lain out for a day orso, the cabbage was cabbage leaves, the tea muddy. The whole businesstook away our appetite regularly three times a day, and there wasn'tenough to go round, even if it had been good--enough tucker, we mean;there was enough appetite to go round three or four times, but it wasdriven away by disgust until after meals. If we had not, under cover ofdarkness, broached a deck cargo of oranges, lemons, and pineapples, andthereby run the risk of being run in on arrival, there would have beenstarvation, disease, and death on that boat before the end--perhapsmutiny. 

You can go across now for one pound, and get something to eat on theroad; but the travelling public will go on patronizing the latestreducer of fares until the poorer company gets starved out and faresgo up again--then the travelling public will have to pay three or fourtimes as much as they do now, and go hungry on the voyage; all of whichought to go to prove that the travelling public is as big a fool as thegeneral public. 

We can't help thinking that the captains and crews of our primitivelittle coastal steamers take the chances so often that they in timeget used to it, and, being used to it, have no longer any misgivingsor anxiety in rough weather concerning a watery grave, but feelas perfectly safe as if they were in church with their wives orsisters--only more comfortable--and go on feeling so until the worn-outmachinery breaks down and lets the old tub run ashore, or knocks a holein her side, or the side itself rusts through at last and lets the waterin, or the last straw in the shape of an extra ton of brine tumbles onboard, and the _John Smith (Newcastle)_, goes down with a swoosh beforethe cook has time to leave off peeling his potatoes and take to prayer. 

These cheerful--and, maybe, unjust--reflections are perhaps inconsequence of our having lost half a sovereign to start with. Wearrived at the booking-office with two minutes to spare, two sticks ofJuno tobacco, a spare wooden pipe--in case we lost the other--a letterto a friend's friend down south, a pound note (Bank of New Zealand), andtwo half-crowns, with which to try our fortunes in the South Island. We also had a few things in a portmanteau and two blankets in athree-bushel bag, but they didn't amount to much. The clerk put down theticket with the half-sovereign on top of it, and we wrapped the latterin the former and ran for the wharf. On the way we snatched the ticketout to see the name of the boat we were going by, in order to find it, and it was then, we suppose, that the semi-quid got lost. 

Did you ever lose a sovereign or a half-sovereign under similarcircumstances? You think of it casually and feel for it carelessly atfirst, to be sure that it's there all right; then, after going throughyour pockets three or four times with rapidly growing uneasiness, youlose your head a little and dredge for that coin hurriedly and withpainful anxiety. Then you force yourself to be calm, and proceed tosearch yourself systematically, in a methodical manner. At this stage, if you have time, it's a good plan to sit down and think out when andwhere you last had that half-sovereign, and where you have been since, and which way you came from there, and what you took out of your pocket, and where, and whether you might have given it in mistake for sixpenceat that pub where you rushed in to have a beer--and then you calculatethe chances against getting it back again. The last of these reflectionsis apt to be painful, and the painfulness is complicated and increasedwhen there happen to have been several pubs and a like number of hurriedfarewell beers in the recent past. 

And for months after that you cannot get rid of the idea that thathalf-sov. Might be about your clothes somewhere. It haunts you. Youturn your pockets out, and feel the lining of your coat and vest inch byinch, and examine your letter papers--everything you happen to have hadin your pocket that day--over and over again, and by and by you peer inenvelopes and unfold papers that you didn't have in your pocket at all, but might have had. And when the novelty of the first search has wornoff, and the fit takes you, you make another search. Even after manymonths have passed away, some day--or night--when you are hard up fortobacco and a drink, you suddenly think of that late lamented half-sov. , and are moved by adverse circumstances to look through your old clothesin a sort of forlorn hope, or to give good luck a sort of chance tosurprise you--the only chance that you can give it. 

By the way, seven-and-six of that half-quid should have gone to thelandlord of the hotel where we stayed last, and somehow, in spite ofthis enlightened age, the loss of it seemed a judgment; and seeing thatthe boat was old and primitive, and there was every sign of a threedays' sou'-easter, we sincerely hoped that judgment was complete--thatsupreme wrath had been appeased by the fine of ten bob without addingany Jonah business to it. 

This reminds us that we once found a lost half-sovereign in the bowl ofa spare pipe six months after it was lost. We wish it had stayed thereand turned up to-night. But, although when you are in great danger--say, adrift in an open boat--tales of providential escapes and rescues mayinterest and comfort you, you can't get any comfort out of anecdotesconcerning the turning up of lost quids when you have just lost oneyourself. All you want is to find it. 

It bothers you even not to be able to account for a bob. You always liketo know that you have had something for your money, if only a long beer. You would sooner know that you fooled your money away on a spree, andmade yourself sick than lost it out of an extra hole in your pocket, andkept well. 

We left Wellington with a feeling of pained regret, a fellow-wandererby our side telling us how he had once lost "fi-pun-note"--and abouttwo-thirds of the city unemployed on the wharf looking for thathalf-sovereign. Well, we hope that some poor devil found it; although, to tell the truth, we would then have by far preferred to have found itourselves. 

A sailor said that the _Moa_ was a good sea-boat, and, although she wassmall and old, _he_ was never afraid of her. He'd sooner travel in herthan in some of those big cheap ocean liners with more sand in themthan iron or steel--You, know the rest. Further on, in a conversationconcerning the age of these coasters, he said that they'd last fullythirty years if well painted and looked after. He said that this onewas seldom painted, and never painted properly; and then, seeminglyin direct contradiction to his previously expressed confidence in thesafety and seaworthiness of the _Moa_, he said that he could poke astick through her anywhere. We asked him not to do it. 

It came on to splash, and we went below to reflect, and search oncemore for that half-sovereign. The cabin was small and close, and dimlylighted, and evil smelling, and shaped like the butt end of a coffin. Itmight not have smelt so bad if we hadn't lost that half-sovereign. Therewas a party of those gipsy-like Assyrians--two families apparently--thewomen and children lying very sick about the lower bunks; and a big, good-humoured-looking young Maori propped between the end of the tableand the wall, playing a concertina. The sick people were too sick, and the concertina seemed too much in sympathy with them, and the losthalf-quid haunted us more than ever down there; so we started to climbout. 

The first thing that struck us was the jagged top edge of that ironhood-like arrangement over the gangway. The top half only of the scuttlewas open. There was nothing to be seen except a fog of spray and aNewfoundland dog sea-sick under the lee of something. The next thingthat struck us was a tub of salt water, which came like a cannon balland broke against the hood affair, and spattered on deck like a crockeryshop. We climbed down again backwards, and sat on the floor withemphasis, in consequence of stepping down a last step that wasn't there, and cracked the back of our heads against the edge of the table. TheMaori helped us up, and we had a drink with him at the expense of oneof the half-casers mentioned in the beginning of this sketch. Then theMaori shouted, then we, then the Maori again, then we again; and then wethought, "Dash it, what's a half-sovereign? We'll fall on our feet allright. "

We went up Queen Charlotte's Sound, a long crooked arm of the seabetween big, rugged, black-looking hills. There was a sort of lighthousedown near the entrance, and they said an old Maori woman kept it. Therewere some whitish things on the sides of the hills, which we at firsttook for cattle, and then for goats. They were sheep. Someone said thatthat country was only fit to carry sheep. It must have been bad, then, judging from some of the country in Australia which is only fit to carrysheep. Country that wouldn't carry goats would carry sheep, we think. Sheep are about the hardiest animals on the face of this planet--barringcrocodiles. 

You may rip a sheep open whilst watching for the boss's boots or yarningto a pen-mate, and then when you have stuffed the works back into theanimal, and put a stitch in the slit, and poked it somewhere with atar-stick (it doesn't matter much where) the jumbuck will be all rightand just as lively as ever, and turn up next shearing without the ghostof a scratch on its skin. 

We reached Picton, a small collection of twinkling lights in a darkpocket, apparently at the top of a sound. We climbed up on to the wharf, got through between two railway trucks, and asked a policeman wherewe were, and where the telegraph office was. There were several prettygirls in the office, laughing and chyacking the counter clerks, whichjarred upon the feelings of this poor orphan wanderer in strange lands. We gloomily took a telegram form, and wired to a friend in North Island, using the following words: "Wire quid; stumped. "

Then we crossed the street to a pub and asked for a roof and they toldus to go up to No. 8. We went up, struck a match, lit the candle, putour bag in a corner, cleared the looking-glass off the toilet table, gotsome paper and a pencil out of our portmanteau, and sat down and wrotethis sketch. 

The candle is going out. 

"SOME DAY"

The two travellers had yarned late in their camp, and the moon wasgetting low down through the mulga. Mitchell's mate had just finisheda rather racy yarn, but it seemed to fall flat on Mitchell--he was in asentimental mood. He smoked a while, and thought, and then said:

"Ah! there was one little girl that I was properly struck on. She cameto our place on a visit to my sister. I think she was the best littlegirl that ever lived, and about the prettiest. She was just eighteen, and didn't come up to my shoulder; the biggest blue eyes you eversaw, and she had hair that reached down to her knees, and so thick youcouldn't span it with your two hands--brown and glossy--and her skinwith like lilies and roses. Of course, I never thought she'd look at arough, ugly, ignorant brute like me, and I used to keep out of her wayand act a little stiff towards her; I didn't want the others to thinkI was gone on her, because I knew they'd laugh at me, and maybe she'dlaugh at me more than all. She would come and talk to me, and sit nearme at table; but I thought that that was on account of her good nature, and she pitied me because I was such a rough, awkward chap. I was goneon that girl, and no joking; and I felt quite proud to think she was acountrywoman of mine. But I wouldn't let her know that, for I felt sureshe'd only laugh. 

"Well, things went on till I got the offer of two or three years' workon a station up near the border, and I had to go, for I was hard up;besides, I wanted to get away. Stopping round where she was only made memiserable. 

"The night I left they were all down at the station to see meoff--including the girl I was gone on. When the train was ready to startshe was standing away by herself on the dark end of the platform, and mysister kept nudging me and winking, and fooling about, but I didn't knowwhat she was driving at. At last she said:

"'Go and speak to her, you noodle; go and say good-bye to Edie. '

"So I went up to where she was, and, when the others turned theirbacks--

"'Well, good-bye, Miss Brown, ' I said, holding out my hand; 'I don'tsuppose I'll ever see you again, for Lord knows when I'll be back. Thankyou for coming to see me off. '

"Just then she turned her face to the light, and I saw she was crying. She was trembling all over. Suddenly she said, 'Jack! Jack!' just likethat, and held up her arms like this. "

Mitchell was speaking in a tone of voice that didn't belong to him, andhis mate looked up. Mitchell's face was solemn, and his eyes were fixedon the fire. 

"I suppose you gave her a good hug then, and a kiss?" asked the mate. 

"I s'pose so, " snapped Mitchell. "There is some things a man doesn'twant to joke about. .. . Well, I think we'll shove on one of the billies, and have a drink of tea before we turn in. "

"I suppose, " said Mitchell's mate, as they drank their tea, "I supposeyou'll go back and marry her some day?"

"Some day! That's it; it looks like it, doesn't it? We all say, 'Someday. ' I used to say it ten years ago, and look at me now. I've beenknocking round for five years, and the last two years constant on thetrack, and no show of getting off it unless I go for good, and whathave I got for it? I look like going home and getting married, without apenny in my pocket or a rag to my back scarcely, and no show of gettingthem. I swore I'd never go back home without a cheque, and, what's more, I never will; but the cheque days are past. Look at that boot! If wewere down among the settled districts we'd be called tramps and beggars;and what's the difference? I've been a fool, I know, but I've paid forit; and now there's nothing for it but to tramp, tramp, tramp for yourtucker, and keep tramping till you get old and careless and dirty, andolder, and more careless and dirtier, and you get used to the dust andsand, and heat, and flies, and mosquitoes, just as a bullock does, andlose ambition and hope, and get contented with this animal life, likea dog, and till your swag seems part of yourself, and you'd be lost anduneasy and light-shouldered without it, and you don't care a damn ifyou'll ever get work again, or live like a Christian; and you go on likethis till the spirit of a bullock takes the place of the heart of a man. Who cares? If we hadn't found the track yesterday we might have lain androtted in that lignum, and no one been any the wiser--or sorrier--whoknows? Somebody might have found us in the end, but it mightn't havebeen worth his while to go out of his way and report us. Damn the world, say I!"

He smoked for a while in savage silence; then he knocked the ashes outof his pipe, felt for his tobacco with a sigh, and said:

"Well, I am a bit out of sorts to-night. I've been thinking. .. . I thinkwe'd best turn in, old man; we've got a long, dry stretch before usto-morrow. "

They rolled out their swags on the sand, lay down, and wrappedthemselves in their blankets. Mitchell covered his face with a piece ofcalico, because the moonlight and wind kept him awake. 

"BRUMMY USEN"

We caught up with an old swagman crossing the plain, and tramped alongwith him till we came to good shade to have a smoke in. We had gotyarning about men getting lost in the bush or going away and beingreported dead. 

"Yes, " said the old 'whaler', as he dropped his swag in the shade, satdown on it, and felt for his smoking tackle, "there's scarcely an oldbushman alive--or dead, for the matter of that--who hasn't been dead afew times in his life--or reported dead, which amounts to the same thingfor a while. In my time there was as many live men in the bush whowas supposed to be dead as there was dead men who was supposed to bealive--though it's the other way about now--what with so many jackaroostramping about out back and getting lost in the dry country thatthey don't know anything about, and dying within a few yards of watersometimes. But even now, whenever I hear that an old bush mate of mineis dead, I don't fret about it or put a black band round my hat, becauseI know he'll be pretty sure to turn up sometimes, pretty bad with thebooze, and want to borrow half a crown. 

"I've been dead a few times myself, and found out afterwards that myfriends was so sorry about it, and that I was such a good sort of a chapafter all, when I was dead that--that I was sorry I didn't stop dead. You see, I was one of them chaps that's better treated by their friendsand better thought of when--when they're dead. 

"Ah, well! Never mind. .. . Talking of killing bushmen before their timereminds me of some cases I knew. They mostly happened among the westernspurs of the ranges. There was a bullock-driver named Billy Nowlett. Hehad a small selection, where he kept his family, and used to carry fromthe railway terminus to the stations up-country. One time he went upwith a load and was not heard of for such a long time that his missusgot mighty uneasy; and then she got a letter from a publican upCoonamble way to say that Billy was dead. Someone wrote, for the widow, to ask about the wagon and the bullocks, but the shanty-keeper wrotethat Billy had drunk them before he died, and that he'd also to say thathe'd drunk the money he got for the carrying; and the publican encloseda five-pound note for the widow--which was considered very kind of him. 

"Well, the widow struggled along and managed without her husband justthe same as she had always struggled along and managed with him--alittle better, perhaps. An old digger used to drop in of evenings andsit by the widow's fire, and yarn, and sympathize, and smoke, and think;and just as he began to yarn a lot less, and smoke and think a lotmore, Billy Nowlett himself turned up with a load of rations for a sheepstation. He'd been down by the other road, and the letter he'd wrote tohis missus had gone astray. Billy wasn't surprised to hear that he wasdead--he'd been killed before--but he was surprised about the five quid. 

"You see, it must have been another bullock-driver that died. Therewas an old shanty-keeper up Coonamble way, so Billy said, that used toalways mistake him for another bullocky and mistake the other bullockyfor him--couldn't tell the one from the other no way--and he used tohave bills against Billy that the other bullock-driver'd run up, andbills against the other that Billy'd run up, and generally got thingsmixed up in various ways, till Billy wished that one of 'em was dead. And the funniest part of the business was that Billy wasn't no more likethe other man than chalk is like cheese. You'll often drop across somecolour-blind old codger that can't tell the difference between twopeople that ain't got a bit of likeness between 'em. 

"Then there was young Joe Swallow. He was found dead under a burned-downtree in Dead Man's Gully--'dead past all recognition, ' they said--and hewas buried there, and by and by his ghost began to haunt the gully: atleast, all the schoolkids seen it, and there was scarcely a grown-upperson who didn't know another person who'd seen the ghost--and theother person was always a sober chap that wouldn't bother about tellinga lie. But just as the ghost was beginning to settle down to work in thegully, Joe himself turned up, and then the folks began to reckon thatit was another man was killed there, and that the ghost belonged to theother man; and some of them began to recollect that they'd thought allalong that the ghost wasn't Joe's ghost--even when they thought that itwas really Joe that was killed there. 

"Then, again, there was the case of Brummy Usen--Hughison I think theyspelled it--the bushranger; he was shot by old Mr S---, of E---, whiletrying to stick the old gentleman up. There's something about it in abook called 'Robbery Under Arms', though the names is all altered--andsome other time I'll tell you all about the digging of the body upfor the inquest and burying it again. This Brummy used to work for apublican in a sawmill that the publican had; and this publican and hisdaughter identified the body by a woman holding up a branch tattooedon the right arm. I'll tell you all about that another time. This girlremembered how she used to watch this tattooed woman going up and downon Brummy's arm when he was working in the saw-pit--going up and downand up and down, like this, while Brummy was working his end of thesaw. So the bushranger was inquested and justifiable-homicided as BrummyUsen, and buried again in his dust and blood stains and monkey-jacket. 

"All the same it wasn't him; for the real Brummy turned up later on;but he couldn't make the people believe he wasn't dead. They was mostlyEnglish country people from Kent and Yorkshire and those places; and themost self-opinionated and obstinate people that ever lived when they gota thing into their heads; and they got it into their heads that BrummyUsen was shot while trying to bail up old Mr S---- and was dead andburied. 

"But the wife of the publican that had the saw-pit knew him; he went toher, and she recognized him at once; she'd got it into her head from thefirst that it wasn't Brummy that was shot, and she stuck to it--she wasjust as self-opinionated as the neighbours, and many a barney she hadwith them about it. She would argue about it till the day she died, andthen she said with her dying breath: 'It wasn't Brummy Usen. ' No moreit was--he was a different kind of man; he hadn't spunk enough to be abushranger, and it was a better man that was buried for him; it was adifferent kind of woman, holding up a different kind of branch, thatwas tattooed on Brummy's arm. But, you see, Brummy'd always kept himselfpretty much to himself, and no one knew him very well; and, besides, most of them were pretty drunk at the inquest--except the girl, and shewas too scared to know what she was saying--they had to be so becausethe corpse was in such a bad state. 

"Well, Brummy hung around for a time, and tried to prove that he wasn'tan impostor, but no one wouldn't believe him. He wanted to get somewages that was owing to him. 

"He tried the police, but they were just as obstinate as the rest; and, beside, they had their dignity to hold up. 'If I ain't Brummy, ' he'dsay, 'who are I?' But they answered that he knew best. So he did. 

"At last he said that it didn't matter much, any road; and so he wentaway--Lord knows where--to begin life again, I s'pose. "

The traveller smoked awhile reflectively; then he quietly rolled up hisright sleeve and scratched his arm. 

And on that arm we saw the tattooed figure of a woman, holding up abranch. 

We tramped on by his side again towards the station-thinking very hardand not feeling very comfortable. 

He must have been an awful old liar, now we come to think of it. 

SECOND SERIES

THE DROVER'S WIFE

The two-roomed house is built of round timber, slabs, and stringy-bark, and floored with split slabs. A big bark kitchen standing at one end islarger than the house itself, veranda included. 

Bush all round--bush with no horizon, for the country is flat. Noranges in the distance. The bush consists of stunted, rotten nativeapple-trees. No undergrowth. Nothing to relieve the eye save the darkergreen of a few she-oaks which are sighing above the narrow, almostwaterless creek. Nineteen miles to the nearest sign of civilization--ashanty on the main road. 

The drover, an ex-squatter, is away with sheep. His wife and childrenare left here alone. 

Four ragged, dried-up-looking children are playing about the house. Suddenly one of them yells: "Snake! Mother, here's a snake!"

The gaunt, sun-browned bushwoman dashes from the kitchen, snatches herbaby from the ground, holds it on her left hip, and reaches for a stick. 

"Where is it?"

"Here! gone into the wood-heap!" yells the eldest boy--a sharp-facedurchin of eleven. "Stop there, mother! I'll have him. Stand back! I'llhave the beggar!"

"Tommy, come here, or you'll be bit. Come here at once when I tell you, you little wretch!"

The youngster comes reluctantly, carrying a stick bigger than himself. Then he yells, triumphantly:

"There it goes--under the house!" and darts away with club uplifted. At the same time the big, black, yellow-eyed dog-of-all-breeds, whohas shown the wildest interest in the proceedings, breaks his chainand rushes after that snake. He is a moment late, however, and his nosereaches the crack in the slabs just as the end of its tail disappears. Almost at the same moment the boy's club comes down and skins theaforesaid nose. Alligator takes small notice of this, and proceeds toundermine the building; but he is subdued after a struggle and chainedup. They cannot afford to lose him. 

The drover's wife makes the children stand together near the dog-housewhile she watches for the snake. She gets two small dishes of milk andsets them down near the wall to tempt it to come out; but an hour goesby and it does not show itself. 

It is near sunset, and a thunderstorm is coming. The children must bebrought inside. She will not take them into the house, for she knowsthe snake is there, and may at any moment come up through a crack in therough slab floor; so she carries several armfuls of firewood intothe kitchen, and then takes the children there. The kitchen has nofloor--or, rather, an earthen one--called a "ground floor" in this partof the bush. There is a large, roughly-made table in the centre of theplace. She brings the children in, and makes them get on this table. They are two boys and two girls--mere babies. She gives them somesupper, and then, before it gets dark, she goes into the house, andsnatches up some pillows and bedclothes--expecting to see or lay herhand on the snake any minute. She makes a bed on the kitchen table forthe children, and sits down beside it to watch all night. 

She has an eye on the corner, and a green sapling club laid in readinesson the dresser by her side; also her sewing basket and a copy of the_Young Ladies' Journal_. She has brought the dog into the room. 

Tommy turns in, under protest, but says he'll lie awake all night andsmash that blinded snake. 

His mother asks him how many times she has told him not to swear. 

He has his club with him under the bedclothes, and Jacky protests:

"Mummy! Tommy's skinnin' me alive wif his club. Make him take it out. "

Tommy: "Shet up, you little---! D'yer want to be bit with the snake?"

Jacky shuts up. 

"If yer bit, " says Tommy, after a pause, "you'll swell up, an' smell, an' turn red an' green an' blue all over till yer bust. Won't he, mother?"

"Now then, don't frighten the child. Go to sleep, " she says. 

The two younger children go to sleep, and now and then Jacky complainsof being "skeezed. " More room is made for him. Presently Tommy says:"Mother! listen to them (adjective) little possums. I'd like to screwtheir blanky necks. "

And Jacky protests drowsily. 

"But they don't hurt us, the little blanks!". 

Mother: "There, I told you you'd teach Jacky to swear. " But the remarkmakes her smile. Jacky goes to sleep. Presently Tommy asks:

"Mother! Do you think they'll ever extricate the (adjective) kangaroo?"

"Lord! How am I to know, child? Go to sleep. "

"Will you wake me if the snake comes out?"

"Yes. Go to sleep. "

Near midnight. The children are all asleep and she sits there still, sewing and reading by turns. From time to time she glances round thefloor and wall-plate, and, whenever she hears a noise, she reaches forthe stick. The thunderstorm comes on, and the wind, rushing through thecracks in the slab wall, threatens to blow out her candle. She places iton a sheltered part of the dresser and fixes up a newspaper to protectit. At every flash of lightning, the cracks between the slabs gleam likepolished silver. The thunder rolls, and the rain comes down in torrents. 

Alligator lies at full length on the floor, with his eyes turned towardsthe partition. She knows by this that the snake is there. There arelarge cracks in that wall opening under the floor of the dwelling-house. 

She is not a coward, but recent events have shaken her nerves. A littleson of her brother-in-law was lately bitten by a snake, and died. Besides, she has not heard from her husband for six months, and isanxious about him. 

He was a drover, and started squatting here when they were married. Thedrought of 18-- ruined him. He had to sacrifice the remnant of his flockand go droving again. He intends to move his family into the nearesttown when he comes back, and, in the meantime, his brother, who keeps ashanty on the main road, comes over about once a month with provisions. The wife has still a couple of cows, one horse, and a few sheep. Thebrother-in-law kills one of the latter occasionally, gives her what sheneeds of it, and takes the rest in return for other provisions. She isused to being left alone. She once lived like this for eighteen months. As a girl she built the usual castles in the air; but all her girlishhopes and aspirations have long been dead. She finds all the excitementand recreation she needs in the _Young Ladies' Journal_, and Heaven helpher! takes a pleasure in the fashion-plates. 

Her husband is an Australian, and so is she. He is careless, but a goodenough husband. If he had the means he would take her to the city andkeep her there like a princess. They are used to being apart, or atleast she is. "No use fretting, " she says. He may forget sometimes thathe is married; but if he has a good cheque when he comes back he willgive most of it to her. When he had money he took her to the cityseveral times--hired a railway sleeping compartment, and put up at thebest hotels. He also bought her a buggy, but they had to sacrifice thatalong with the rest. 

The last two children were born in the bush--one while her husband wasbringing a drunken doctor, by force, to attend to her. She was alone onthis occasion, and very weak. She had been ill with a fever. She prayedto God to send her assistance. God sent Black Mary--the "whitest" gin inall the land. Or, at least, God sent King Jimmy first, and he sent BlackMary. He put his black face round the door post, took in the situationat a glance, and said cheerfully: "All right, missus--I bring my oldwoman, she down alonga creek. "

One of the children died while she was here alone. She rode nineteenmiles for assistance, carrying the dead child. 

It must be near one or two o'clock. The fire is burning low. Alligatorlies with his head resting on his paws, and watches the wall. He is nota very beautiful dog, and the light shows numerous old wounds where thehair will not grow. He is afraid of nothing on the face of the earth orunder it. He will tackle a bullock as readily as he will tackle a flea. He hates all other dogs--except kangaroo-dogs--and has a marked disliketo friends or relations of the family. They seldom call, however. Hesometimes makes friends with strangers. He hates snakes and has killedmany, but he will be bitten some day and die; most snake-dogs end thatway. 

Now and then the bushwoman lays down her work and watches, and listens, and thinks. She thinks of things in her own life, for there is littleelse to think about. 

The rain will make the grass grow, and this reminds her how she fought abush-fire once while her husband was away. The grass was long, and verydry, and the fire threatened to burn her out. She put on an old pair ofher husband's trousers and beat out the flames with a green bough, tillgreat drops of sooty perspiration stood out on her forehead and ran instreaks down her blackened arms. The sight of his mother in trousersgreatly amused Tommy, who worked like a little hero by her side, butthe terrified baby howled lustily for his "mummy. " The fire would havemastered her but for four excited bushmen who arrived in the nick oftime. It was a mixed-up affair all round; when she went to take upthe baby he screamed and struggled convulsively, thinking it was a"blackman;" and Alligator, trusting more to the child's sense than hisown instinct, charged furiously, and (being old and slightly deaf)did not in his excitement at first recognize his mistress's voice, butcontinued to hang on to the moleskins until choked off by Tommy with asaddle-strap. The dog's sorrow for his blunder, and his anxiety to letit be known that it was all a mistake, was as evident as his ragged tailand a twelve-inch grin could make it. It was a glorious time for theboys; a day to look back to, and talk about, and laugh over for manyyears. 

She thinks how she fought a flood during her husband's absence. Shestood for hours in the drenching downpour, and dug an overflow gutterto save the dam across the creek. But she could not save it. There arethings that a bushwoman can not do. Next morning the dam was broken, andher heart was nearly broken too, for she thought how her husband wouldfeel when he came home and saw the result of years of labour swept away. She cried then. 

She also fought the pleuro-pneumonia--dosed and bled the few remainingcattle, and wept again when her two best cows died. 

Again, she fought a mad bullock that besieged the house for a day. Shemade bullets and fired at him through cracks in the slabs with anold shot-gun. He was dead in the morning. She skinned him and gotseventeen-and-sixpence for the hide. 

She also fights the crows and eagles that have designs on her chickens. Her plan of campaign is very original. The children cry "Crows, mother!"and she rushes out and aims a broomstick at the birds as though it werea gun, and says "Bung!" The crows leave in a hurry; they are cunning, but a woman's cunning is greater. 

Occasionally a bushman in the horrors, or a villainous-lookingsundowner, comes and nearly scares the life out of her. She generallytells the suspicious-looking stranger that her husband and two sonsare at work below the dam, or over at the yard, for he always cunninglyinquires for the boss. 

Only last week a gallows-faced swagman--having satisfied himself thatthere were no men on the place--threw his swag down on the veranda, anddemanded tucker. She gave him something to eat; then he expressed hisintention of staying for the night. It was sundown then. She got abatten from the sofa, loosened the dog, and confronted the stranger, holding the batten in one hand and the dog's collar with the other. "Nowyou go!" she said. He looked at her and at the dog, said "All right, mum, " in a cringing tone, and left. She was a determined-looking woman, and Alligator's yellow eyes glared unpleasantly--besides, the dog'schawing-up apparatus greatly resembled that of the reptile he was namedafter. 

She has few pleasures to think of as she sits here alone by the fire, onguard against a snake. All days are much the same to her; but on Sundayafternoon she dresses herself, tidies the children, smartens upbaby, and goes for a lonely walk along the bush-track, pushing an oldperambulator in front of her. She does this every Sunday. She takes asmuch care to make herself and the children look smart as she would ifshe were going to do the block in the city. There is nothing to see, however, and not a soul to meet. You might walk for twenty miles alongthis track without being able to fix a point in your mind, unless youare a bushman. This is because of the everlasting, maddening samenessof the stunted trees--that monotony which makes a man long to breakaway and travel as far as trains can go, and sail as far as ship cansail--and farther. 

But this bushwoman is used to the loneliness of it. As a girl-wife shehated it, but now she would feel strange away from it. 

She is glad when her husband returns, but she does not gush or make afuss about it. She gets him something good to eat, and tidies up thechildren. 

She seems contented with her lot. She loves her children, but has notime to show it. She seems harsh to them. Her surroundings are notfavourable to the development of the "womanly" or sentimental side ofnature. 

It must be near morning now; but the clock is in the dwellinghouse. Hercandle is nearly done; she forgot that she was out of candles. Some morewood must be got to keep the fire up, and so she shuts the dog insideand hurries round to the woodheap. The rain has cleared off. She seizesa stick, pulls it out, and--crash! the whole pile collapses. 

Yesterday she bargained with a stray blackfellow to bring her some wood, and while he was at work she went in search of a missing cow. She wasabsent an hour or so, and the native black made good use of his time. On her return she was so astonished to see a good heap of wood by thechimney, that she gave him an extra fig of tobacco, and praised him fornot being lazy. He thanked her, and left with head erect and chest wellout. He was the last of his tribe and a King; but he had built thatwood-heap hollow. 

She is hurt now, and tears spring to her eyes as she sits down again bythe table. She takes up a handkerchief to wipe the tears away, but pokesher eyes with her bare fingers instead. The handkerchief is full ofholes, and she finds that she has put her thumb through one, and herforefinger through another. 

This makes her laugh, to the surprise of the dog. She has a keen, verykeen, sense of the ridiculous; and some time or other she will amusebushmen with the story. 

She had been amused before like that. One day she sat down "to have agood cry, " as she said--and the old cat rubbed against her dress and"cried too. " Then she had to laugh. 

It must be near daylight now. The room is very close and hot because ofthe fire. Alligator still watches the wall from time to time. Suddenlyhe becomes greatly interested; he draws himself a few inches nearer thepartition, and a thrill runs through his body. The hair on the back ofhis neck begins to bristle, and the battle-light is in his yellow eyes. She knows what this means, and lays her hand on the stick. The lower endof one of the partition slabs has a large crack on both sides. An evilpair of small, bright bead-like eyes glisten at one of these holes. Thesnake--a black one--comes slowly out, about a foot, and moves its headup and down. The dog lies still, and the woman sits as one fascinated. The snake comes out a foot farther. She lifts her stick, and thereptile, as though suddenly aware of danger, sticks his head in throughthe crack on the other side of the slab, and hurries to get his tailround after him. Alligator springs, and his jaws come together with asnap. He misses, for his nose is large, and the snake's body close downin the angle formed by the slabs and the floor. He snaps again as thetail comes round. He has the snake now, and tugs it out eighteen inches. Thud, thud comes the woman's club on the ground. Alligator pulls again. Thud, thud. Alligator gives another pull and he has the snake out--ablack brute, five feet long. The head rises to dart about, but the doghas the enemy close to the neck. He is a big, heavy dog, but quick asa terrier. He shakes the snake as though he felt the original cursein common with mankind. The eldest boy wakes up, seizes his stick, andtries to get out of bed, but his mother forces him back with a grip ofiron. Thud, thud--the snake's back is broken in several places. Thud, thud--its head is crushed, and Alligator's nose skinned again. 

She lifts the mangled reptile on the point of her stick, carries it tothe fire, and throws it in; then piles on the wood and watches the snakeburn. The boy and dog watch too. She lays her hand on the dog's head, and all the fierce, angry light dies out of his yellow eyes. The youngerchildren are quieted, and presently go to sleep. The dirty-legged boystands for a moment in his shirt, watching the fire. Presently he looksup at her, sees the tears in her eyes, and, throwing his arms round herneck exclaims:

"Mother, I won't never go drovin'; blarst me if I do!" And she hugs himto her worn-out breast and kisses him; and they sit thus together whilethe sickly daylight breaks over the bush. 

STEELMAN'S PUPIL

Steelman was a hard case, but some said that Smith was harder. Steelmanwas big and good-looking, and good-natured in his way; he was a spieler, pure and simple, but did things in humorous style. Smith was smalland weedy, of the sneak variety; he had a whining tone and a cringingmanner. He seemed to be always so afraid you were going to hit him thathe would make you want to hit him on that account alone. 

Steelman "had" you in a fashion that would make your friends laugh. Smith would "have" you in a way which made you feel mad at the barerecollection of having been taken in by so contemptible a little sneak. 

They battled round together in the North Island of Maoriland for acouple of years. 

One day Steelman said to Smith:

"Look here, Smithy, you don't know you're born yet. I'm going to takeyou in hand and teach you. "

And he did. If Smith wouldn't do as Steelman told him, or wasn'tsuccessful in cadging, or mugged any game they had in hand, Steelmanwould threaten to stoush him; and, if the warning proved ineffectualafter the second or third time, he would stoush him. 

One day, on the track, they came to a place where an old Scottish couplekept a general store and shanty. They camped alongside the road, andSmith was just starting up to the house to beg supplies when Steelmancried:

"Here!--hold on. Now where do you think you're going to?"

"Why, I'm going to try and chew the old party's lug, of course. We'll beout of tucker in a couple of days, " said Smith. 

Steelman sat down on a stump in a hopeless, discouraged sort of way. 

"It's no use, " he said, regarding Smith with mingled reproach anddisgust. "It's no use. I might as well give it best. I can see that it'sonly waste of time trying to learn you anything. Will I ever be ableto knock some gumption into your thick skull? After all the time andtrouble and pains I've took with your education, you hain't got anymore sense than to go and mug a business like that! When will you learnsense? Hey? After all, I--Smith, you're a born mug!"

He always called Smith a "mug" when he was particularly wild at him, forit hurt Smith more than anything else. "There's only two classes in theworld, spielers and mugs--and you're a mug, Smith. "

"What have I done, anyway?" asked Smith helplessly. "That's all I wantto know. "

Steelman wearily rested his brow on his hand. 

"That will do, Smith, " he said listlessly; "don't say another word, oldman; it'll only make my head worse; don't talk. You might, at the veryleast, have a little consideration for my feelings--even if you haven'tfor your own interests. " He paused and regarded Smith sadly. "Well, I'llgive you another show. I'll stage the business for you. "

He made Smith doff his coat and get into his worst pair of trousers--andthey were bad enough; they were hopelessly "gone" beyond the extremelimit of bush decency. He made Smith put on a rag of a felt hat and apair of "'lastic-sides" which had fallen off a tramp and lain baking androtting by turns on a rubbish heap; they had to be tied on Smith withbits of rag and string. He drew dark shadows round Smith's eyes, andburning spots on his cheek-bones with some greasepaints he used whenthey travelled as "The Great Steelman and Smith Combination StarDramatic Co. " He damped Smith's hair to make it dark and lank, and hisface more corpse-like by comparison--in short, he made him up to looklike a man who had long passed the very last stage of consumption, andhad been artificially kept alive in the interests of science. 

"Now you're ready, " said Steelman to Smith. "You left your whare the daybefore yesterday and started to walk to the hospital at Palmerston. Anold mate picked you up dying on the road, brought you round, and carriedyou on his back most of the way here. You firmly believe that Providencehad something to do with the sending of that old mate along at that timeand place above all others. Your mate also was hard up; he was going toa job--the first show for work he'd had in nine months--but he gave itup to see you through; he'd give up his life rather than desert a matein trouble. You only want a couple of shillings or a bit of tucker tohelp you on to Palmerston. You know you've got to die, and you only wantto live long enough to get word to your poor old mother, and die on abed. 

"Remember, they're Scotch up at that house. You understand the Scotchbarrack pretty well by now--if you don't it ain't my fault. You wereborn in Aberdeen, but came out too young to remember much about thetown. Your father's dead. You ran away to sea and came out in the_Bobbie Burns_ to Sydney. Your poor old mother's in Aberdeen now--Bruceor Wallace Wynd will do. Your mother might be dead now--poor oldsoul!--any way, you'll never see her again. You wish you'd never runaway from home. You wish you'd been a better son to your poor oldmother; you wish you'd written to her and answered her last letter. Youonly want to live long enough to write home and ask for forgiveness anda blessing before you die. If you had a drop of spirits of some sort tobrace you up you might get along the road better. (Put this delicately. )Get the whine out of your voice and breathe with a wheeze--like this;get up the nearest approach to a deathrattle that you can. Move asif you were badly hurt in your wind--like this. (If you don't do itbetter'n that, I'll stoush you. ) Make your face a bit longer and keepyour lips dry--don't lick them, you damned fool!-_breathe_ on them; make'em dry as chips. That's the only decent pair of breeks you've got, andthe only shoon. You're a Presbyterian--not a U. P. , the Auld Kirk. Yourmate would have come up to the house only--well, you'll have to use thestuffing in your head a bit; you can't expect me to do all the brainwork. Remember it's consumption you've got--galloping consumption; youknow all the symptoms--pain on top of your right lung, bad cough, andnight sweats. Something tells you that you won't see the new year--it'sa week off Christmas now. And if you come back without anything, I'llblessed soon put you out of your misery. "

Smith came back with about four pounds of shortbread and as much varioustucker as they could conveniently carry; a pretty good suit of cast-offtweeds; a new pair of 'lastic-sides from the store stock; two bottlesof patent medicine and a black bottle half-full of home-madeconsumption-cure; also a letter to a hospital-committee man, and threeshillings to help him on his way to Palmerston. He also got about halfa mile of sympathy, religious consolation, and medical advice which hedidn't remember. 

"_Now_, " he said, triumphantly, "am I a mug or not?"

Steelman kindly ignored the question. "I _did_ have a better opinion ofthe Scotch, " he said, contemptuously. 

Steelman got on at an hotel as billiard-marker and decoy, and in sixmonths he managed that pub. Smith, who'd been away on his own account, turned up in the town one day clean broke, and in a deplorable state. Heheard of Steelman's luck, and thought he was "all right, " so went to hisold friend. 

Cold type--or any other kind of type--couldn't do justice to Steelman'sdisgust. To think that this was the reward of all the time and troublehe'd spent on Smith's education! However, when he cooled down, he said:

"Smith, you're a young man yet, and it's never too late to mend. Thereis still time for reformation. I can't help you now; it would onlydemoralize you altogether. To think, after the way I trained you, youcan't battle round any better'n this! I always thought you were anirreclaimable mug, but I expected better things of you towards the end. I thought I'd make _something_ of you. It's enough to dishearten any manand disgust him with the world. Why! you ought to be a rich man now withthe chances and training you had! To think--but I won't talk of that; ithas made me ill. I suppose I'll have to give you something, if it's onlyto get rid of the sight of you. Here's a quid, and I'm a mug for givingit to you. It'll do you more harm than good; and it ain't a friendlything nor the right thing for me--who always had your welfare atheart--to give it to you under the circumstances. Now, get away out ofmy sight, and don't come near me till you've reformed. If you do, I'llhave to stoush you out of regard for my own health and feelings. "

But Steelman came down in the world again and picked up Smith on theroad, and they battled round together for another year or so; and atlast they were in Wellington--Steelman "flush" and stopping at an hotel, and Smith stumped, as usual, and staying with a friend. One night theywere drinking together at the hotel, at the expense of some mugs whomSteelman was "educating. " It was raining hard. When Smith was goinghome, he said:

"Look here, Steely, old man. Listen to the rain! I'll get wringing wetgoing home. You might as well lend me your overcoat to-night. You won'twant it, and I won't hurt it. "

And, Steelman's heart being warmed by his successes, he lent theovercoat. 

Smith went and pawned it, got glorious on the proceeds, and took thepawn-ticket to Steelman next day. 

Smith had reformed. 

AN UNFINISHED LOVE STORY

Brook let down the heavy, awkward sliprails, and the gaunt cattlestumbled through, with aggravating deliberation, and scattered slowlyamong the native apple-trees along the sidling. First there came anold easygoing red poley cow, then a dusty white cow; then two shaggy, half-grown calves--who seemed already to have lost all interest inexistence--and after them a couple of "babies, " sleek, glossy, andcheerful; then three more tired-looking cows, with ragged uddersand hollow sides; then a lanky barren heifer--red, of course--withhalf-blind eyes and one crooked horn--she was noted for her greatagility in jumping two-rail fences, and she was known to the selector as"Queen Elizabeth;" and behind her came a young cream-coloured milker--amighty proud and contented young mother--painfully and patientlydragging her first calf, which was hanging obstinately to a teat, withits head beneath her hind legs. Last of all there came the inevitablered steer, who scratched the dust and let a stupid "bwoo-ur-r-rr" out ofhim as he snuffed at the rails. 

Brook had shifted the rails there often before--fifteen yearsago--perhaps the selfsame rails, for stringy-bark lasts long; and theaction brought the past near to him--nearer than he wished. He did notlike to think of that hungry, wretched selection existence; he felt morecontempt than pity for the old-fashioned, unhappy boy, who used to letdown the rails there, and drive the cattle through. 

He had spent those fifteen years in cities, and had come here, promptedmore by curiosity than anything else, to have a quiet holiday. Hisfather was dead; his other relations had moved away, leaving a tenant onthe old selection. 

Brook rested his elbow on the top rail of an adjacent panel and watchedthe cattle pass, and thought until Lizzie--the tenant's niece--shovedthe red steer through and stood gravely regarding him (Brook, and notthe steer); then he shifted his back to the fence and looked at her. He had not much to look at: a short, plain, thin girl of nineteen, with rather vacant grey eyes, dark ringlets, and freckles; she had nocomplexion to speak of; she wore an ill-fitting print frock, and apair of men's 'lastic-sides several sizes too large for her. She was"studying for a school-teacher;" that was the height of the ambition oflocal youth. Brook was studying her. 

He turned away to put up the rails. The lower rail went into its placeall right, but the top one had got jammed, and it stuck as though it wasspiked. He worked the rail up and down and to and fro, took it under hisarm and tugged it; but he might as well have pulled at one of theposts. Then he lifted the loose end as high as he could, and let itfall--jumping back out of the way at the same time; this loosened it, but when he lifted it again it slid so easily and far into its socketthat the other end came out and fell, barking Brook's knee. He swore alittle, then tackled the rail again; he had the same trouble as beforewith the other end, but succeeded at last. Then he turned away, rubbinghis knee. 

Lizzie hadn't smiled, not once; she watched him gravely all the while. 

"Did you hurt your knee?" she asked, without emotion. 

"No. The rail did. "

She reflected solemnly for a while, and then asked him if it felt sore. 

He replied rather briefly in the negative. 

"They were always nasty, awkward rails to put up, " she remarked, aftersome more reflection. 

Brook agreed, and then they turned their faces towards the homestead. Half-way down the sidling was a clump of saplings, with a big log lyingamongst them. Here Brook paused. "We'll sit down for a while and have arest, " said he. "Sit down, Lizzie. "

She obeyed with the greatest of gravity. Nothing was said for awhile. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, gazing thoughtfully at theridge, which was growing dim. It looked better when it was dim, and sodid the rest of the scenery. There was no beauty lost when darkness hidthe scenery altogether. Brook wondered what the girl was thinking about. The silence between them did not seem awkward, somehow; but it didn'tsuit him just then, and so presently he broke it. 

"Well, I must go to-morrow. "

"Must you?"

"Yes. "

She thought awhile, and then she asked him if he was glad to go. 

"Well, I don't know. Are you sorry, Lizzie?"

She thought a good long while, and then she said she was. 

He moved closer to the girl, and suddenly slipped his arm round herwaist. She did not seem agitated; she still gazed dreamily at the lineof ridges, but her head inclined slightly towards him. 

"Lizzie, did you ever love anyone?"--then anticipating the usualreply--"except, of course, your father and mother, and all that sort ofthing. " Then, abruptly: "I mean did you ever have a sweetheart?"

She reflected, so as to be sure; then she said she hadn't. Long pause, and he, the city man, breathed hard--not the girl. Suddenly he movednervously, and said:

"Lizzie--Lizzie! Do you know what love means?"

She pondered over this for some minutes, as a result of which she saidshe thought that she did. 

"Lizzie! Do you think you can love me?"

She didn't seem able to find an answer to that. So he caught her tohim in both arms, and kissed her hard and long on the mouth. She wasagitated now--he had some complexion now; she struggled to her feet, trembling. 

"We must go now, " she said quickly. "They will be waiting for tea. "

He stood up before her, and held her there by both hands. 

"There is plenty of time. Lizzie--"

"Mis-ter Br-o-o-k-er! Li-i-z-zee-e-e! Come ter yer tea-e-e!" yelled aboy from the house. 

"We must really go now. "

"Oh, they can wait a minute. Lizzie, don't be frightened"--bending hishead--"Lizzie, put your arms round my neck and kiss me--now. Do as Itell you, Lizzie--they cannot see us, " and he drew her behind a bush. "Now, Lizzie. "

She obeyed just as a frightened child might. 

"We must go now, " she panted, breathless from such an embrace. 

"Lizzie, you will come for a walk with me after tea?"

"I don't know--I can't promise. I don't think it would be right. Auntmightn't like me to. "

"Never mind aunt. I'll fix her. We'll go for a walk over to theschool-teacher's place. It will be bright moonlight. "

"I don't like to promise. My father and mother might not--"

"Why, what are you frightened of? What harm is there in it?" Then, softly, "Promise, Lizzie. "

"Promise, Lizzie. "

She was hesitating. 

"Promise, Lizzie. I'm going away to-morrow--might never see you again. You will come, Lizzie? It will be our last talk together. Promise, Lizzie. .. . Oh, then, if you don't like to, I won't press you. .. . Will youcome, or no?"

"Ye-es. "

"One more, and I'll take you home. "

It was nearly dark. 

Brook was moved to get up early next morning and give the girl a handwith the cows. There were two rickety bails in the yard. He had notforgotten how to milk, but the occupation gave him no pleasure--itbrought the past near again. 

Now and then he would turn his face, rest his head against the sideof the cow, and watch Lizzie at her work; and each time she would, asthough in obedience to an influence she could not resist, turn her faceto him--having noted the pause in his milking. There was a wonder in herexpression--as if something had come into her life which she could notrealize--curiosity in his. 

When the spare pail was full, he would follow her with it to the littlebark dairy; and she held out the cloth which served as a strainer whilsthe poured the milk in, and, as the last drops went through, their mouthswould come together. 

He carried the slop-buckets to the pigsty for her, and helped to poddy(hand feed) a young calf. He had to grip the calf by the nape of theneck, insert a forefinger in its mouth, and force its nose down into anoil-drum full of skim milk. The calf sucked, thinking it had a teat; andso it was taught to drink. But calves have a habit, born of instinct, ofbutting the udders with their noses, by way of reminding their mothersto let down the milk; and so this calf butted at times, splashing sourmilk over Brook, and barking his wrist against the sharp edge of thedrum. Then he would swear a little, and Lizzie would smile sadly andgravely. 

Brook did not go away that day, nor the next, but he took the coachon the third day thereafter. He and Lizzie found a quiet corner to saygood-bye in. She showed some emotion for the first time, or, perhaps, the second--maybe the third time--in that week of her life. They hadbeen out together in the moonlight every evening. (Brook had beenfifteen years in cities. ) They had scarcely looked at each other thatmorning--and scarcely spoken. 

He looked back as the coach started and saw her sitting inside the bigkitchen window. She waved her hand--hopelessly it seemed. She had rolledup her sleeve, and to Brook the arm seemed strangely white and fairabove the line of sunburn round the wrist. He hadn't noticed it before. Her face seemed fairer too, but, perhaps, it was only the effect oflight and shade round that window. 

He looked back again, as the coach turned the corner of the fence, andwas just in time to see her bury her face in her hands with a passionategesture which did not seem natural to her. 

Brook reached the city next evening, and, "after hours, " he staggered inthrough a side entrance to the lighted parlour of a private bar. 

They say that Lizzie broke her heart that year, but, then, the worlddoes not believe in such things nowadays. 

BOARD AND RESIDENCE

One o'clock on Saturday. The unemployed's one o'clock on Saturday!Nothing more can be done this week, so you drag yourself wearily anddespairingly "home, " with the cheerful prospect of a penniless Saturdayafternoon and evening and the long horrible Australian-city Sundayto drag through. One of the landlady's clutch--and she _is_ an oldhen--opens the door, exclaims:

"Oh, Mr Careless!" and grins. You wait an anxious minute, to postponethe disappointment which you feel by instinct is coming, and then askhopelessly whether there are any letters for you. 

"No, there's nothing for you, Mr Careless. " Then in answer to theunspoken question, "The postman's been, but there's nothing for you. "

You hang up your hat in the stuffy little passage, and start upstairs, when, "Oh, Mr Careless, mother wants to know if you've had yer dinner. "

You haven't, but you say you have. You are empty enough inside, butthe emptiness is filled up, as it were, with the wrong sort of hungryvacancy--gnawing anxiety. You haven't any stomach for the warm, tasteless mess which has been "kep' 'ot" for you in a cold stove. Youfeel just physically tired enough to go to your room, lie down on thebed, and snatch twenty minutes' rest from that terrible unemployedrestlessness which, you know, is sure to drag you to your feet to pacethe room or tramp the pavement even before your bodily weariness hasnearly left you. So you start up the narrow, stuffy little flight ofsteps call the "stairs. " Three small doors open from the landing--asquare place of about four feet by four. The first door is yours; it isopen, and--

Decided odour of bedroom dust and fluff, damped and kneaded withcold soap-suds. Rear view of a girl covered with a damp, draggled, dirt-coloured skirt, which gapes at the waistband from the "body, "disclosing a good glimpse of soiled stays (ribs burst), and yawns behindover a decidedly dirty white petticoat, the slit of which last, as shereaches forward and backs out convulsively, half opens and then comestogether in an unsatisfactory, startling, tantalizing way, and allows ahint of a red flannel under-something. The frayed ends of the skirtlie across a hopelessly-burst pair of elastic-sides which rest on theirinner edges--toes out--and jerk about in a seemingly undecided manner. She is damping and working up the natural layer on the floor with apiece of old flannel petticoat dipped occasionally in a bucket whichstands by her side, containing about a quart of muddy water. She looksround and exclaims, "Oh, did you want to come in, Mr Careless?" Thenshe says she'll be done in a minute; furthermore she remarks that if youwant to come in you won't be in her road. You don't--you go down to thedining-room--parlour--sitting-room---nursery--and stretch yourselfon the sofa in the face of the painfully-evident disapproval of thelandlady. 

You have been here, say, three months, and are only about two weeksbehind. The landlady still says, "Good morning, Mr Careless, " or "Goodevening, Mr Careless, " but there is an unpleasant accent on the "Mr, "and a still more unpleasantly pronounced stress on the "morning"or "evening. " While your money lasted you paid up well andregularly--sometimes in advance--and dined out most of the time; butthat doesn't count now. 

Ten minutes pass, and then the landlady's disapproval becomesmanifest and aggressive. One of the little girls, a sharp-faced littlelarrikiness, who always wears a furtive grin of cunning--it seems asthough it were born with her, and is perhaps more a misfortune than afault--comes in and says please she wants to tidy up. 

So you get up and take your hat and go out again to look for a place torest in--to try not to think. 

You _wish_ you could get away up-country. You also wish you were dead. 

The landlady, Mrs Jones, is a widow, or grass-widow, Welsh, of course, and clannish; flat face, watery grey eyes, shallow, selfish, ignorant, and a hypocrite unconsciously--by instinct. 

But the worst of it is that Mrs Jones takes advantage of the situationto corner you in the passage when you want to get out, or when you comein tired, and talk. It amounts to about this: She has been fourteenyears in this street, taking in boarders; everybody knows her; everybodyknows Mrs Jones; her poor husband died six years ago (God rest hissoul); she finds it hard to get a living these times; work, work, morning, noon, and night (talk, talk, talk, more likely). "Do you knowMr Duff of the Labour Bureau?" He has known her family for years; a verynice gentleman--a very nice gentleman indeed; he often stops at the gateto have a yarn with her on his way to the office (he must be hard upfor a yarn). She doesn't know hardly nobody in this street; she nevergossips; it takes her all her time to get a living; she can't bebothered with neighbours; it's always best to keep to yourself and keepneighbours at a distance. Would you believe it, Mr Careless, she hasbeen two years in this house and hasn't said above a dozen words to thewoman next door; she'd just know her by sight if she saw her; as for theother woman she wouldn't know her from a crow. Mr Blank and Mrs Blankcould tell you the same. .. . She always had gentlemen staying with her;she never had no cause to complain of one of them except once; theyalways treated her fair and honest. Here follows story about theexception; he, I gathered, was a journalist, and she could never dependon him. He seemed, from her statements, to have been decidedly erraticin his movements, mode of life and choice of climes. He evidently causedher a great deal of trouble and anxiety, and I felt a kind of sneakingsympathy for his memory. One young fellow stayed with her five years;he was, etc. She couldn't be hard on any young fellow that gets out ofwork; of course if he can't get it he can't pay; she can't get blood outof a stone; she couldn't turn him out in the street. "I've got sons ofmy own, Mr Careless, I've got sons of my own. ". .. She is sure shealways does her best to make her boarders comfortable, and if they wantanything they've only got to ask for it. The kettle is always on thestove if you want a cup of tea, and if you come home late at night andwant a bit of supper you've only got to go to the safe (which of uswould dare?). She never locks it, she never did. .. . And then she beginsabout her wonderful kids, and it goes on hour after hour. Lord! it'senough to drive a man mad. 

We were recommended to this place on the day of our arrival by a youngdealer in the furniture line, whose name was Moses--and he looked likeit, but we didn't think of that at the time. He had Mrs Jones's card inhis window, and he left the shop in charge of his missus and came roundwith us at once. He assured us that we couldn't do better than stay withher. He said she was a most respectable lady, and all her boarders weredecent young fellows-gentlemen; she kept everything scrupulously clean, and kept the best table in town, and she'd do for us (washing included)for eighteen shillings per week; she generally took the first week inadvance. We asked him to have a beer--for the want of somebody else toask--and after that he said that Mrs Jones was a kind, motherly body, and understood young fellows; and that we'd be even more comfortablethan in our own home; that we'd be allowed to do as we liked--she wasn'tparticular; she wouldn't mind it a bit if we came home late once ina way--she was used to that, in fact; she liked to see young fellowsenjoying themselves. We afterwards found out that he got so muchon every boarder he captured. We also found out--after paying inadvance---that her gentlemen generally sent out their white things to bedone; she only did the coloured things, so we had to pay a couple of bobextra a week to have our "biled" rags and collars sent out and done; andafter the first week they bore sad evidence of having been done on thepremises by one of the frowsy daughters. But we paid all the same. And, good Lord! if she keeps the best table in town, we are curious to seethe worst. When you go down to breakfast you find on the table in frontof your chair a cold plate, with a black something--God knows what itlooks like--in the centre of it. It eats like something scraped off theinside of a hide and burnt; and with this you have a cup of warm greyslush called a "cup of tea. " Dinner: A slice of alleged roast beef orboiled mutton, of no particular colour or taste; three new spuds, of which the largest is about the size of an ordinary hen's egg, thesmallest that of a bantam's, and the middle one in between, and whicheat soggy and have no taste to speak of, save that they are a triflebitter; a dab of unhealthy-looking green something, which might beeither cabbage leaves or turnip-tops, and a glass of water. The wholemess is lukewarm, including the water--it would all be better cold. Tea:A thin slice of the aforesaid alleged roast or mutton, and the pickof about six thin slices of stale bread--evidently cut the day beforeyesterday. This is the way Mrs Jones "does" for us for eighteenshillings a week. The bread gave out at tea-time this evening, and amild financial boarder tapped his plate with his knife, and sent thebread plate out to be replenished. It came back with _one_ slice on it. 

The mild financial boarder, with desperate courage, is telling thelandlady that he'll have to shift next week--it is too far to go towork, he cannot always get down in time; he is very sorry he has to go, he says; he is very comfortable here, but it can't be helped; anyway, assoon as he can get work nearer, he'll come back at once; also (oh, whatcowards men are when women are concerned), he says he wishes she couldshift and take a house down at the other end of the town. She says(at least here are some fragments of her gabble which we caught andshorthanded): "Well, I'm very sorry to lose you, Mr Sampson, very sorryindeed; but of course if you must go, you must. Of course you can't beexpected to walk that distance every morning, and you mustn't be gettingto work late, and losing your place. .. Of course we could get breakfastan hour earlier if. .. Well, as I said before, I'm sorry to lose you and, indeed. .. You won't forget to come and see us. .. Glad to see you at anytime. .. Well, any way, if you ever want to come back, you know, your bedwill be always ready for you, and you'll be treated just the same, andmade just as comfortable--you won't forget that" (he says he won't);"and you won't forget to come to dinner sometimes" (he says he won't);"and, of course. .. You know I always try. .. Don't forget to drop insometimes. .. Well, anyway, if you ever do happen to hear of a decentyoung fellow who wants a good, clean, comfortable home, you'll be sureto send him to me, will you?" (He says he will. ) "Well, of course, Mr Sampson, etc. , etc. , etc. , and-so-on, and-so-on, and-so-on, and-so-on, . .. " It's enough to give a man rats. 

He escapes, and we regard his departure very much as a gang of hopelessconvicts might regard the unexpected liberation of one of their number. 

This is the sort of life that gives a man a God-Almighty longing tobreak away and take to the bush. 

HIS COLONIAL OATH

I lately met an old schoolmate of mine up-country. He was much changed. He was tall and lank, and had the most hideous bristly red beard Iever saw. He was working on his father's farm. He shook hands, lookedanywhere but in my face--and said nothing. Presently I remarked at aventure "So poor old Mr B. , the schoolmaster, is dead. "

"My oath!" he replied. 

"He was a good old sort. "

"My oath!"

"Time goes by pretty quick, doesn't it?"

His oath (colonial). 

"Poor old Mr B. Died awfully sudden, didn't he?"

He looked up the hill, and said: "My oath!"

Then he added: "My blooming oath!"

I thought, perhaps, my city rig or manner embarrassed him, so I stuckmy hands in my pockets, spat, and said, to set him at his ease: "It'sblanky hot to-day. I don't know how you blanky blanks stand such blankweather! It's blanky well hot enough to roast a crimson carnal bullock;ain't it?" Then I took out a cake of tobacco, bit off a quarter, andpretended to chew. He replied:

"My oath!"

The conversation flagged here. But presently, to my great surprise, hecame to the rescue with:

"He finished me, yer know. "

"Finished? How? Who?"

He looked down towards the river, thought (if he did think) and said:"Finished me edyercation, yer know. "

"Oh! you mean Mr B. ?"

"My oath--he finished me first-rate. "

"He turned out a good many scholars, didn't he?"

"My oath! I'm thinkin' about going down to the trainin' school. "'

"You ought to--I would if I were you. "

"My oath!"

"Those were good old times, " I hazarded, "you remember the old barkschool?"

He looked away across the sidling, and was evidently getting uneasy. Heshifted about, and said:

"Well, I must be goin'. "

"I suppose you're pretty busy now?"

"My oath! So long. "

"Well, good-bye. We must have a yarn some day. "

"My oath!"

He got away as quickly as he could. 

I wonder whether he _was_ changed after all--or, was it I? A man doesseem to get out of touch with the bush after living in cities for eightor ten years. 

A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE

"Does Arvie live here, old woman?"

"Why?"

"Strike me dead! carn't yer answer a civil queschin?"

"How dare you talk to me like that, you young larrikin! Be off! or I'llsend for a policeman. "

"Blarst the cops! D'yer think I cares for 'em? Fur two pins I'd fetch apush an' smash yer ole shanty about yer ears--y'ole cow! _I only arskedif Arvie lived here_! Holy Mosis! carn't a feller ask a civil queschin?"

"What do you want with Arvie? Do you know him?"

"My oath! Don't he work at Grinder Brothers? I only come out of my wayto do him a good turn; an' now I'm sorry I come--damned if I ain't--tobe barracked like this, an' shoved down my own throat. (_Pause_) I wantto tell Arvie that if he don't come ter work termorrer, another bloke'llcollar his job. I wouldn't like to see a cove collar a cove's job an'not tell a bloke about it. What's up with Arvie, anyhow? Is he sick?"

"Arvie is dead!"

"Christ! (_Pause_) Garn! What-yer-giv'n-us? Tell Arvie Bill Andersonwants-ter see him. "

"My God! haven't I got enough trouble without a young wretch like youcoming to torment me? For God's sake go away and leave me alone! I'mtelling you the truth, my my poor boy died of influenza last night. "

"My oath!"

The ragged young rip gave a long, low whistle, glanced up and downJones's Alley, spat out some tobacco-juice, and said "Swelp me Gord! I'msorry, mum. I didn't know. How was I to know you wasn't havin' me?"

He withdrew one hand from his pocket and scratched the back of his head, tilting his hat as far forward as it had previously been to the rear, and just then the dilapidated side of his right boot attracted hisattention. He turned the foot on one side, and squinted at the sole;then he raised the foot to his left knee, caught the ankle in avery dirty hand, and regarded the sole-leather critically, as thoughcalculating how long it would last. After which he spat desperately atthe pavement, and said:

"Kin I see him?"

He followed her up the crooked little staircase with a who's-afraid kindof swagger, but he took his hat off on entering the room. 

He glanced round, and seemed to take stock of the signs of poverty--sofamiliar to his class--and then directed his gaze to where the body layon the sofa with its pauper coffin already by its side. He looked at thecoffin with the critical eye of a tradesman, then he looked at Arvie, and then at the coffin again, as if calculating whether the body wouldfit. 

The mother uncovered the white, pinched face of the dead boy, and Billcame and stood by the sofa. He carelessly drew his right hand from hispocket, and laid the palm on Arvie's ice-cold forehead. 

"Poor little cove!" Bill muttered, half to himself; and then, as thoughashamed of his weakness, he said:

"There wasn't no post mortem, was there?"

"No, " she answered; "a doctor saw him the day before--there was no postmortem. "

"I thought there wasn't none, " said Bill, "because a man that's beenpost mortemed always looks as if he'd been hurt. My father looked rightenough at first--just as if he was restin'--but after they'd had himopened he looked as if he'd been hurt. No one else could see it, but Icould. How old was Arvie?"

"Eleven. "'

"I'm twelve--goin' on for thirteen. Arvie's father's dead, ain't he?"

"Yes. "

"So's mine. Died at his work, didn't he?"

"Yes. "

"So'd mine. Arvie told me his father died of something with his heart!"

"Yes. "

"So'd mine; ain't it rum? You scrub offices an' wash, don't yer?"

"Yes. "

"So does my mother. You find it pretty hard to get a livin', don't yer, these times?"

"My God, yes! God only knows what I'll do now my poor boy's gone. Igenerally get up at half-past five to scrub out some offices, and whenthat's done I've got to start my day's work, washing. And then I find ithard to make both ends meet. "

"So does my mother. I suppose you took on bad when yer husband wasbrought home?"

"Ah, my God! Yes. I'll never forget it till my dying day. My poorhusband had been out of work for weeks, and he only got the job two daysbefore he died. I suppose it gave your mother a great shock?"

"My oath! One of the fellows that carried father home said: 'Yerhusband's dead, mum, ' he says; 'he dropped off all of a suddint, ' andmother said, 'My God! my God!' just like that, and went off. "

"Poor soul! poor soul! And--now my Arvie's gone. Whatever will me andthe children do? Whatever will I do? Whatever will I do? My God! I wishI was under the turf. "

"Cheer up, mum!" said Bill. "It's no use frettin' over what's done. "

He wiped some tobacco-juice off his lips with the back of his hand, andregarded the stains reflectively for a minute or so. Then he looked atArvie again. 

"You should ha' tried cod liver oil, " said Bill. 

"No. He needed rest and plenty of good food. "

"He wasn't very strong. "

"No, he was not, poor boy. "

"I thought he wasn't. They treated him bad at Grinder Brothers: theydidn't give him a show to learn nothing; kept him at the same work allthe time, and he didn't have cheek enough to arsk the boss for a rise, lest he'd be sacked. He couldn't fight, an' the boys used to tease him;they'd wait outside the shop to have a lark with Arvie. I'd like tosee 'em do it to me. He couldn't fight; but then, of course, he wasn'tstrong. They don't bother me while I'm strong enough to heave a rock;but then, of course, it wasn't Arvie's fault. I s'pose he had pluckenough, if he hadn't the strength. " And Bill regarded the corpse with afatherly and lenient eye. 

"My God!" she cried, "if I'd known this, I'd sooner have starved thanhave my poor boy's life tormented out of him in such a place. He nevercomplained. My poor, brave-hearted child! He never complained! Poorlittle Arvie! Poor little Arvie!"

"He never told yer?"

"No--never a word. "

"My oath! You don't say so! P'raps he didn't want to let you know hecouldn't hold his own; but that wasn't his fault, I s'pose. Y'see, hewasn't strong. "

An old print hanging over the bed attracted his attention, and heregarded it with critical interest for awhile:

"We've got a pickcher like that at home. We lived in Jones's Alleywunst--in that house over there. How d'yer like livin' in Jones'sAlley?"

"I don't like it at all. I don't like having to bring my children upwhere there are so many bad houses; but I can't afford to go somewhereelse and pay higher rent. "

"Well, there _is_ a good many night-shops round here. But then, " headded, reflectively, "you'll find them everywheres. An', besides, thekids git sharp, an' pick up a good deal in an alley like this; 'twon'tdo 'em no harm; it's no use kids bein' green if they wanter get on in acity. You ain't been in Sydney all yer life, have yer?"

"No. We came from the bush, about five years ago. My poor husbandthought he could do better in the city. I was brought up in the bush. "'

"I thought yer was. Well, men are sick fools. I'm thinking about gittin'a billet up-country, myself, soon. Where's he goin' ter be buried?"

"At Rookwood, to-morrow. "

"I carn't come. I've got ter work. Is the Guvmint goin' to bury him?"

"Yes. "

Bill looked at the body with increased respect. "Kin I do anythin' foryou? Now, don't be frightened to arsk!"

"No. Thank you very much, all the same. "

"Well, I must be goin'; thank yer fur yer trouble, mum. "

"No trouble, my boy--mind the step. "

"It _is_ gone. I'll bring a piece of board round some night and mend itfor you, if you like; I'm learnin' the carpenterin'; I kin nearly makea door. Tell yer what, I'll send the old woman round to-night to fix upArvie and lend yer a hand. "

"No, thank you. I suppose your mother's got work and trouble enough;I'll manage. "

"I'll send her round, anyway; she's a bit rough, but she's got a softgizzard; an' there's nothin' she enjoys better than fixin' up a body. Good-bye, mum. "

"Good-bye, my child. "

He paused at the door, and said:

"I'm sorry, mum. Swelp me God! I'm sorry. S'long, an' thank yer. "

An awe-stricken child stood on the step, staring at Bill with greatbrimming eyes. He patted it on the head and said "Keep yer pecker up, young 'un!"

IN A WET SEASON

It was raining--"general rain. "

The train left Bourke, and then there began the long, long agony ofscrub and wire fence, with here and there a natural clearing, whichseemed even more dismal than the funereal "timber" itself. The onlything which might seem in keeping with one of these soddened flats wouldbe the ghost of a funeral--a city funeral with plain hearse and stringof cabs--going very slowly across from the scrub on one side to thescrub on the other. Sky like a wet, grey blanket; plains like dead seas, save for the tufts of coarse grass sticking up out of the water; scrubindescribably dismal--everything damp, dark, and unspeakably dreary. 

Somewhere along here we saw a swagman's camp--a square of calicostretched across a horizontal stick, some rags steaming on another stickin front of a fire, and two billies to the leeward of the blaze. We knewby instinct that there was a piece of beef in the larger one. Small, hopeless-looking man standing with his back to the fire, with hishands behind him, watching the train; also, a damp, sorry-looking dingowarming itself and shivering by the fire. The rain had held up for awhile. We saw two or three similar camps further on, forming a temporarysuburb of Byrock. 

The population was on the platform in old overcoats and damp, soft felthats; one trooper in a waterproof. The population looked cheerfully andpatiently dismal. The local push had evidently turned up to see off somefair enslavers from the city, who had been up-country for the chequeseason, now over. They got into another carriage. We were glad when thebell rang. 

The rain recommenced. We saw another swagman about a mile on strugglingaway from the town, through mud and water. He did not seem to have heartenough to bother about trying to avoid the worst mud-holes. There was alow-spirited dingo at his heels, whose sole object in life was seeminglyto keep his front paws in his master's last footprint. The traveller'sbody was bent well forward from the hips up; his long arms--about sixinches through his coat sleeves--hung by his sides like the arms of adummy, with a billy at the end of one and a bag at the end of theother; but his head was thrown back against the top end of the swag, hishat-brim rolled up in front, and we saw a ghastly, beardless face whichturned neither to the right nor the left as the train passed him. 

After a long while we closed our book, and looking through the window, saw a hawker's turn-out which was too sorrowful for description. 

We looked out again while the train was going slowly, and saw ateamster's camp: three or four wagons covered with tarpaulins which hungdown in the mud all round and suggested death. A long, narrow man, in along, narrow, shoddy overcoat and a damp felt hat, was walking quicklyalong the road past the camp. A sort of cattle-dog glided silently andswiftly out from under a wagon, "heeled" the man, and slithered backwithout explaining. Here the scene vanished. 

We remember stopping--for an age it seemed--at half a dozen stragglingshanties on a flat of mud and water. There was a rotten weather-boardpub, with a low, dripping veranda, and three wretchedly forlorn horseshanging, in the rain, to a post outside. We saw no more, but we knewthat there were several apologies for men hanging about the rickety barinside--or round the parlour fire. Streams of cold, clay-coloured waterran in all directions, cutting fresh gutters, and raising a yeasty frothwhenever the water fell a few inches. As we left, we saw a big man in anovercoat riding across a culvert; the tails of the coat spread over thehorse's rump, and almost hid it. In fancy still we saw him--hanging uphis weary, hungry little horse in the rain, and swaggering into the bar;and we almost heard someone say, in a drawling tone: "'Ello, Tom! 'Oware yer poppin' up?"'

The train stopped (for about a year) within a mile of the next station. Trucking-yards in the foreground, like any other trucking-yard along theline; they looked drearier than usual, because the rain had darkenedthe posts and rails. Small plain beyond, covered with water and tuftsof grass. The inevitable, God-forgotten "timber, " black in the distance;dull, grey sky and misty rain over all. A small, dark-looking flockof sheep was crawling slowly in across the flat from the unknown, withthree men on horse-back zigzagging patiently behind. The horses justmoved--that was all. One man wore an oilskin, one an old tweed overcoat, and the third had a three-bushel bag over his head and shoulders. 

Had we returned an hour later, we should have seen the sheep huddledtogether in a corner of the yard, and the three horses hanging upoutside the local shanty. 

We stayed at Nyngan--which place we refrain from sketching--for a fewhours, because the five trucks of cattle of which we were in chargewere shunted there, to be taken on by a very subsequent goods train. The Government allows one man to every five trucks in a cattle-train. Weshall pay our fare next time, even if we have not a shilling left overand above. We had haunted local influence at Comanavadrink for two long, anxious, heart-breaking weeks ere we got the pass; and we had put upwith all the indignities, the humiliation--in short, had sufferedall that poor devils suffer whilst besieging Local Influence. We onlythought of escaping from the bush. 

The pass said that we were John Smith, drover, and that we wereavailable for return by ordinary passenger-train within two days, wethink--or words in that direction. Which didn't interest us. We mighthave given the pass away to an unemployed in Orange, who wanted to goout back, and who begged for it with tears in his eyes; but we didn'tlike to injure a poor fool who never injured us--who was an entirestranger to us. He didn't know what Out Back meant. 

Local Influence had given us a kind of note of introduction to bedelivered to the cattle-agent at the yards that morning; but the agentwas not there--only two of his satellites, a Cockney colonial-experienceman, and a scrub-town clerk, both of whom we kindly ignore. We got onwithout the note, and at Orange we amused ourself by reading it. Itsaid:

"Dear Old Man--Please send this beggar on; and I hope he'll be landedsafely at Orange--or--or wherever the cattle go--yours, ---"

We had been led to believe that the bullocks were going to Sydney. Wetook no further interest in those cattle. 

After Nyngan the bush grew darker and drearier; and the plains morelike ghastly oceans; and here and there the "dominant note of Australianscenery" was accentuated, as it were, by naked, white, ring-barked treesstanding in the water and haunting the ghostly surroundings. 

We spent that night in a passenger compartment of a van which had beenoriginally attached to old No. 1 engine. There was only one damp cushionin the whole concern. We lent that to a lady who travelled for a fewhours in the other half of the next compartment. The seats were aboutnine inches wide and sloped in at a sharp angle to the bare matchboardwall, with a bead on the outer edge; and as the cracks had become wellcaulked with the grease and dirt of generations, they held severalgallons of water each. We scuttled one, rolled ourself in a rug, andtried to sleep; but all night long overcoated and comfortered bushmenwould get in, let down all the windows, and then get out again at thenext station. Then we would wake up frozen and shut the windows. 

We dozed off again, and woke at daylight, and recognized the ridgygum-country between Dubbo and Orange. It didn't look any drearier thanthe country further west--because it couldn't. There is scarcely a partof the country out west which looks less inviting or more horrible thanany other part. 

The weather cleared, and we had sunlight for Orange, Bathurst, the BlueMountains, and Sydney. They deserve it; also as much rain as they need. 

"RATS"

"Why, there's two of them, and they're having a fight! Come on. "'

It seemed a strange place for a fight--that hot, lonely, cotton-bushplain. And yet not more than half a mile ahead there were apparently twomen struggling together on the track. 

The three travellers postponed their smoke-ho and hurried on. They wereshearers--a little man and a big man, known respectively as "Sunlight"and "Macquarie, " and a tall, thin, young jackeroo whom they called"Milky. "

"I wonder where the other man sprang from? I didn't see him before, "said Sunlight. 

"He muster bin layin' down in the bushes, " said Macquarie. "They'regoin' at it proper, too. Come on! Hurry up and see the fun!"

They hurried on. 

"It's a funny-lookin' feller, the other feller, " panted Milky. "He don'tseem to have no head. Look! he's down--they're both down! They must ha'clinched on the ground. No! they're up an' at it again. .. . Why, goodLord! I think the other's a woman!"

"My oath! so it is!" yelled Sunlight. "Look! the brute's got her downagain! He's kickin' her. Come on, chaps; come on, or he'll do for her!"

They dropped swags, water-bags and all, and raced forward; but presentlySunlight, who had the best eyes, slackened his pace and dropped behind. His mates glanced back at his face, saw a peculiar expression there, looked ahead again, and then dropped into a walk. 

They reached the scene of the trouble, and there stood a little witheredold man by the track, with his arms folded close up under his chin; hewas dressed mostly in calico patches; and half a dozen corks, suspendedon bits of string from the brim of his hat, dangled before his blearedoptics to scare away the flies. He was scowling malignantly at a stout, dumpy swag which lay in the middle of the track. 

"Well, old Rats, what's the trouble?" asked Sunlight. 

"Oh, nothing, nothing, " answered the old man, without looking round. "Ifell out with my swag, that's all. He knocked me down, but I've settledhim. "

"But look here, " said Sunlight, winking at his mates, "we saw you jumpon him when he was down. That ain't fair, you know. "

"But you didn't see it all, " cried Rats, getting excited. "He hit _me_down first! And look here, I'll fight him again for nothing, and you cansee fair play. "

They talked awhile; then Sunlight proposed to second the swag, while hismate supported the old man, and after some persuasion, Milky agreed, forthe sake of the lark, to act as time-keeper and referee. 

Rats entered into the spirit of the thing; he stripped to the waist, and while he was getting ready the travellers pretended to bet on theresult. 

Macquarie took his place behind the old man, and Sunlight up-ended theswag. Rats shaped and danced round; then he rushed, feinted, ducked, retreated, darted in once more, and suddenly went down like a shot onthe broad of his back. No actor could have done it better; he wentdown from that imaginary blow as if a cannon-ball had struck him in theforehead. 

Milky called time, and the old man came up, looking shaky. However, hegot in a tremendous blow which knocked the swag into the bushes. 

Several rounds followed with varying success. 

The men pretended to get more and more excited, and betted freely; andRats did his best. At last they got tired of the fun, Sunlight let theswag lie after Milky called time, and the jackaroo awarded the fightto Rats. They pretended to hand over the stakes, and then went back fortheir swags, while the old man put on his shirt. 

Then he calmed down, carried his swag to the side of the track, satdown on it and talked rationally about bush matters for a while;but presently he grew silent and began to feel his muscles and smileidiotically. 

"Can you len' us a bit o' meat?" said he suddenly. 

They spared him half a pound; but he said he didn't want it all, and cutoff about an ounce, which he laid on the end of his swag. Then he tookthe lid off his billy and produced a fishing-line. He baited the hook, threw the line across the track, and waited for a bite. Soon he gotdeeply interested in the line, jerked it once or twice, and drew it inrapidly. The bait had been rubbed off in the grass. The old man regardedthe hook disgustedly. 

"Look at that!" he cried. "I had him, only I was in such a hurry. Ishould ha' played him a little more. "

Next time he was more careful. He drew the line in warily, grabbed animaginary fish and laid it down on the grass. Sunlight and Co. Weregreatly interested by this time. 

"Wot yer think o' that?" asked Rats. "It weighs thirty pound if itweighs an ounce! Wot yer think o' that for a cod? The hook's half-waydown his blessed gullet!"

He caught several cod and a bream while they were there, and invitedthem to camp and have tea with him. But they wished to reach a certainshed next day, so--after the ancient had borrowed about a pound of meatfor bait--they went on, and left him fishing contentedly. 

But first Sunlight went down into his pocket and came up with half acrown, which he gave to the old man, along with some tucker. "You'd bestpush on to the water before dark, old chap, " he said, kindly. 

When they turned their heads again, Rats was still fishing but when theylooked back for the last time before entering the timber, he was havinganother row with his swag; and Sunlight reckoned that the trouble aroseout of some lies which the swag had been telling about the bigger fishit caught. 

MITCHELL: A CHARACTER SKETCH

It was a very mean station, and Mitchell thought he had better gohimself and beard the overseer for tucker. His mates were for waitingtill the overseer went out on the run, and then trying their luck withthe cook; but the self-assertive and diplomatic Mitchell decided to go. 

"Good day, " said Mitchell. 

"Good day, " said the manager. 

"It's hot, " said Mitchell. 

"Yes, it's hot. "

"I don't suppose, " said Mitchell; "I don't suppose it's any use askingyou for a job?"

"Naw. "

"Well, I won't ask you, " said Mitchell, "but I don't suppose you wantany fencing done?"

"Naw. "

"Nor boundary-riding'?"

"Naw. "

"You ain't likely to want a man to knock round?"

"Naw. "

"I thought not. Things are pretty bad just now. "

"Na--yes--they are. "

"Ah, well; there's a lot to be said on the squatter's side as well asthe men's. I suppose I can get a bit of rations?"

"Ye-yes. " (_Shortly_)--"Wot d'yer want?"

"Well, let's see; we want a bit of meat and flour--I think that's all. Got enough tea and sugar to carry us on. "

"All right. Cook! have you got any meat?"

"No!"

To Mitchell: "Can you kill a sheep?"

"Rather!"

To the cook: "Give this man a cloth and knife and steel, and let himgo up to the yard and kill a sheep. " (To Mitchell) "You can take afore-quarter and get a bit of flour. "

Half an hour later Mitchell came back with the carcass wrapped in thecloth. 

"Here yer are; here's your sheep, " he said to the cook. "That's allright; hang it in there. Did you take a forequarter?"'

"No. "

"Well, why didn't you? The boss told you to. "

"I didn't want a fore-quarter. I don't like it. I took a hind-quarter. "

So he had. 

The cook scratched his head; he seemed to have nothing to say. Hethought about trying to think, perhaps, but gave it best. It was too hotand he was out of practice. 

"Here, fill these up, will you?" said Mitchell. "That's the tea-bag, andthat's the sugar-bag, and that's the flour-bag. " He had taken them fromthe front of his shirt. 

"Don't be frightened to stretch 'em a little, old man. I've got twomates to feed. "

The cook took the bags mechanically and filled them well before he knewwhat he was doing. Mitchell talked all the time. 

"Thank you, " said he--"got a bit of baking-powder?"

"Ye-yes, here you are. "

"Thank you. Find it dull here, don't you?"

"Well, yes, pretty dull. There's a bit of cooked beef and some bread andcake there, if you want it!"

"Thanks, " said Mitchell, sweeping the broken victuals into an oldpillow-slip which he carried on his person for such an emergency. "Is'pose you find it dull round here. "

"Yes, pretty dull. "

"No one to talk to much?" "No, not many. "

"Tongue gets rusty?"

"Ye--es, sometimes. "

"Well, so long, and thank yer. "

"So long, " said the cook (he nearly added "thank yer"). 

"Well, good day; I'll see you again. "

"Good day. "

Mitchell shouldered his spoil and left. 

The cook scratched his head; he had a chat with the overseer afterwards, and they agreed that the traveller was a bit gone. 

But Mitchell's head wasn't gone--not much: he had been round a bit--thatwas all. 

THE BUSH UNDERTAKER

"Five Bob!"

The old man shaded his eyes and peered through the dazzling glow of thatbroiling Christmas Day. He stood just within the door of a slab-and-barkhut situated upon the bank of a barren creek; sheep-yards lay to theright, and a low line of bare, brown ridges formed a suitable backgroundto the scene. 

"Five Bob!" shouted he again; and a dusty sheep-dog rose wearily fromthe shaded side of the but and looked inquiringly at his master, whopointed towards some sheep which were straggling from the flock. 

"Fetch 'em back, " he said confidently. 

The dog went off, and his master returned to the interior of the hut. 

"We'll yard 'em early, " he said to himself; "the super won't know. We'llyard 'em early, and have the arternoon to ourselves. "

"We'll get dinner, " he added, glancing at some pots on the fire. "I cuddo a bit of doughboy, an' that theer boggabri'll eat like tater-marreralong of the salt meat. " He moved one of the black buckets from theblaze. "I likes to keep it jist on the sizzle, " he said in explanationto himself; "hard bilin' makes it tough--I'll keep it jist a-simmerin'. "

Here his soliloquy was interrupted by the return of the dog. 

"All right, Five Bob, " said the hatter, "dinner'll be ready dreckly. Jist keep yer eye on the sheep till I calls yer; keep 'em well roundedup, an' we'll yard 'em afterwards and have a holiday. "

This speech was accompanied by a gesture evidently intelligible, for thedog retired as though he understood English, and the cooking proceeded. 

"I'll take a pick an' shovel with me an' root up that old blackfellow, "mused the shepherd, evidently following up a recent train of thought; "Ireckon it'll do now. I'll put in the spuds. "

The last sentence referred to the cooking, the first to a blackfellow'sgrave about which he was curious. 

"The sheep's a-campin', " said the soliloquizer, glancing through thedoor. "So me an' Five Bob'll be able to get our dinner in peace. Iwish I had just enough fat to make the pan siss; I'd treat myself to aleather-jacket; but it took three weeks' skimmin' to get enough for themtheer doughboys. "

In due time the dinner was dished up; and the old man seated himself ona block, with the lid of a gin-case across his knees for a table. FiveBob squatted opposite with the liveliest interest and appreciationdepicted on his intelligent countenance. 

Dinner proceeded very quietly, except when the carver paused to ask thedog how some tasty morsel went with him, and Five Bob's tail declaredthat it went very well indeed. 

"Here y'are, try this, " cried the old man, tossing him a large piece ofdoughboy. A click of Five Bob's jaws and the dough was gone. 

"Clean into his liver!" said the old man with a faint smile. He washedup the tinware in the water the duff had been boiled in, and then, withthe assistance of the dog, yarded the sheep. 

This accomplished, he took a pick and shovel and an old sack, andstarted out over the ridge, followed, of course, by his four-leggedmate. After tramping some three miles he reached a spur, running outfrom the main ridge. At the extreme end of this, under some gum-trees, was a little mound of earth, barely defined in the grass, and indentedin the centre as all blackfellows' graves were. 

He set to work to dig it up, and sure enough, in about half an hour hebottomed on payable dirt. 

When he had raked up all the bones, he amused himself by putting themtogether on the grass and by speculating as to whether they had belongedto black or white, male or female. Failing, however, to arrive at anysatisfactory conclusion, he dusted them with great care, put them in thebag, and started for home. 

He took a short cut this time over the ridge and down a gully which wasfull of ring-barked trees and long white grass. He had nearly reachedits mouth when a great greasy black goanna clambered up a sapling fromunder his feet and looked fightable. 

"Dang the jumpt-up thing!" cried the old man. "It 'gin me a start!"

At the foot of the sapling he espied an object which he at firstthought was the blackened carcass of a sheep, but on closer examinationdiscovered to be the body of a man; it lay with its forehead resting onits hands, dried to a mummy by the intense heat of the western summer. 

"Me luck's in for the day and no mistake!" said the shepherd, scratchingthe back of his head, while he took stock of the remains. He picked upa stick and tapped the body on the shoulder; the flesh sounded likeleather. He turned it over on its side; it fell flat on its back like aboard, and the shrivelled eyes seemed to peer up at him from under theblackened wrists. 

He stepped back involuntarily, but, recovering himself, leant on hisstick and took in all the ghastly details. 

There was nothing in the blackened features to tell aught of name orrace, but the dress proclaimed the remains to be those of a European. The old man caught sight of a black bottle in the grass, close besidethe corpse. This set him thinking. Presently he knelt down and examinedthe soles of the dead man's blucher boots, and then, rising with an airof conviction, exclaimed: "Brummy! by gosh!--busted up at last!

"I tole yer so, Brummy, " he said impressively, addressing the corpse. "I allers told yer as how it 'ud be--an' here y'are, you thunderingjumpt-up cuss-o'-God fool. Yer cud earn more'n any man in the colony, but yer'd lush it all away. I allers sed as how it 'ud end, an' now yerkin see fur y'self. 

"I spect yer was a-comin' t' me t' get fixt up an' set straight agin;then yer was a-goin' to swear off, same as yer 'allers did; an' herey'are, an' now I expect I'll have t' fix yer up for the last time an'make yer decent, for 'twon't do t' leave yer alyin' out here like a deadsheep. "

He picked up the corked bottle and examined it. To his great surprise itwas nearly full of rum. 

"Well, this gits me, " exclaimed the old man; "me luck's in, thisChristmas, an' no mistake. He must 'a' got the jams early in hisspree, or he wouldn't be a-making for me with near a bottleful left. Howsomenever, here goes. "

Looking round, his eyes lit up with satisfaction as he saw some bits ofbark which had been left by a party of strippers who had been gettingbark there for the stations. He picked up two pieces, one about four andthe other six feet long, and each about two feet wide, and brought themover to the body. He laid the longest strip by the side of the corpse, which he proceeded to lift on to it. 

"Come on, Brummy, " he said, in a softer tone than usual, "ye ain't asbad as yer might be, considerin' as it must be three good months sinceyer slipped yer wind. I spect it was the rum as preserved yer. It wasthe death of yer when yer was alive, an' now yer dead, it preserves yerlike--like a mummy. "

Then he placed the other strip on top, with the hollow sidedownwards--thus sandwiching the defunct between the two pieces--removedthe saddle-strap, which he wore for a belt, and buckled it round oneend, while he tried to think of something with which to tie up theother. 

"I can't take any more strips off my shirt, " he said, criticallyexamining the skirts of the old blue overshirt he wore. "I might geta strip or two more off, but it's short enough already. Let's see; howlong have I been a-wearin' of that shirt; oh, I remember, I bought itjist two days afore Five Bob was pupped. I can't afford a new shirt jistyet; howsomenever, seein' it's Brummy, I'll jist borrow a couple morestrips and sew 'em on agen when I git home. "

He up-ended Brummy, and placing his shoulder against the middle of thelower sheet of bark, lifted the corpse to a horizontal position; then, taking the bag of bones in his hand, he started for home. 

"I ain't a-spendin' sech a dull Christmas arter all, " he reflected, ashe plodded on; but he had not walked above a hundred yards when he saw ablack goanna sidling into the grass. 

"That's another of them theer dang things!" he exclaimed. "That's twoI've seed this mornin'. "

Presently he remarked: "Yer don't smell none too sweet, Brummy. It must'a' been jist about the middle of shearin' when yer pegged out. I wonderwho got yer last cheque. Shoo! theer's another black goanner--theer mustbe a flock of 'em. "

He rested Brummy on the ground while he had another pull at the bottle, and, before going on, packed the bag of bones on his shoulder under thebody, and he soon stopped again. 

"The thunderin' jumpt-up bones is all skew-whift, " he said. "'Ole on, Brummy, an' I'll fix 'em"--and he leaned the dead man against a treewhile he settled the bones on his shoulder, and took another pull at thebottle. 

About a mile further on he heard a rustling in the grass to the right, and, looking round, saw another goanna gliding off sideways, with itslong snaky neck turned towards him. 

This puzzled the shepherd considerably, the strangest part of it beingthat Five Bob wouldn't touch the reptile, but slunk off with his taildown when ordered to "sick 'em. "

"Theer's sothin' comic about them theer goanners, " said the old man atlast. "I've seed swarms of grasshoppers an' big mobs of kangaroos, butdang me if ever I seed a flock of black goanners afore!"

On reaching the hut the old man dumped the corpse against the wall, wrong end up, and stood scratching his head while he endeavoured tocollect his muddled thoughts; but he had not placed Brummy at thecorrect angle, and, consequently, that individual fell forward andstruck him a violent blow on the shoulder with the iron toes of hisblucher boots. 

The shock sobered him. He sprang a good yard, instinctively hitching uphis moleskins in preparation for flight; but a backward glance revealedto him the true cause of this supposed attack from the rear. Then helifted the body, stood it on its feet against the chimney, and ruminatedas to where he should lodge his mate for the night, not noticing thatthe shorter sheet of bark had slipped down on the boots and left theface exposed. 

"I spect I'll have ter put yer into the chimney-trough for the night, Brummy, " said he, turning round to confront the corpse. "Yer can'texpect me to take yer into the hut, though I did it when yer was in aworse state than--Lord!"

The shepherd was not prepared for the awful scrutiny that gleamed on himfrom those empty sockets; his nerves received a shock, and it was sometime before he recovered himself sufficiently to speak. 

"Now, look a-here, Brummy, " said he, shaking his finger severely at thedelinquent, "I don't want to pick a row with yer; I'd do as much for yeran' more than any other man, an' well yer knows it; but if yer startsplayin' any of yer jumpt-up pranktical jokes on me, and a-scarin' ofme after a-humpin' of yer 'ome, by the 'oly frost I'll kick yer tojim-rags, so I will. "

This admonition delivered, he hoisted Brummy into the chimney-trough, and with a last glance towards the sheep-yards, he retired to his bunkto have, as he said, a snooze. 

He had more than a snooze, however, for when he woke, it was dark, andthe bushman's instinct told him it must be nearly nine o'clock. 

He lit a slush-lamp and poured the remainder of the rum into a pannikin;but, just as he was about to lift the draught to his lips, he heard apeculiar rustling sound overhead, and put the pot down on the table witha slam that spilled some of the precious liquor. 

Five Bob whimpered, and the old shepherd, though used to the weird anddismal, as one living alone in the bush must necessarily be, felt theicy breath of fear at his heart. 

He reached hastily for his old shot-gun, and went out to investigate. Hewalked round the but several times and examined the roof on all sides, but saw nothing. Brummy appeared to be in the same position. 

At last, persuading himself that the noise was caused by possums or thewind, the old man went inside, boiled his billy, and, after composinghis nerves somewhat with a light supper and a meditative smoke, retiredfor the night. He was aroused several times before midnight by the samemysterious sound overhead, but, though he rose and examined the roof oneach occasion by the light of the rising moon, he discovered nothing. 

At last he determined to sit up and watch until daybreak, and for thispurpose took up a position on a log a short distance from the hut, withhis gun laid in readiness across his knee. 

After watching for about an hour, he saw a black object coming over theridge-pole. He grabbed his gun and fired. The thing disappeared. He ranround to the other side of the hut, and there was a great black goannain violent convulsions on the ground. 

Then the old man saw it all. "The thunderin' jumpt-up thing hasbeen a-havin' o' me, " he exclaimed. "The same cuss-o'-God wretch hasa-follered me 'ome, an' has been a-havin' its Christmas dinner off ofBrummy, an' a-hauntin' o' me into the bargain, the jumpt-up tinker!"

As there was no one by whom he could send a message to the station, andthe old man dared not leave the sheep and go himself, he determined tobury the body the next afternoon, reflecting that the authorities coulddisinter it for inquest if they pleased. 

So he brought the sheep home early and made arrangements for the burialby measuring the outer casing of Brummy and digging a hole according tothose dimensions. 

"That 'minds me, " he said. "I never rightly knowed Brummy's religion, blest if ever I did. Howsomenever, there's one thing sartin--none o'them theer pianer-fingered parsons is a-goin' ter take the troubleter travel out inter this God-forgotten part to hold sarvice over him, seein' as how his last cheque's blued. But, as I've got the fun'ralarrangements all in me own hands, I'll do jestice to it, and see thatBrummy has a good comfortable buryin'--and more's unpossible. "

"It's time yer turned in, Brum, " he said, lifting the body down. 

He carried it to the grave and dropped it into one corner like a post. He arranged the bark so as to cover the face, and, by means of a pieceof clothes-line, lowered the body to a horizontal position. Then hethrew in an armful of gum-leaves, and then, very reluctantly, took theshovel and dropped in a few shovelfuls of earth. 

"An' this is the last of Brummy, " he said, leaning on his spade andlooking away over the tops of the ragged gums on the distant range. 

This reflection seemed to engender a flood of memories, in which the oldman became absorbed. He leaned heavily upon his spade and thought. 

"Arter all, " he murmured sadly, "arter all--it were Brummy. 

"Brummy, " he said at last. "It's all over now; nothin' mattersnow--nothin' didn't ever matter, nor--nor don't. You uster say as how it'ud be all right termorrer" (pause); "termorrer's come, Brummy--come furyou--it ain't come fur me yet, but--it's a-comin'. "

He threw in some more earth. 

"Yer don't remember, Brummy, an' mebbe yer don't want to remember--_I_don't want to remember--but--well, but, yer see that's where yer got thepull on me. "

He shovelled in some more earth and paused again. 

The dog rose, with ears erect, and looked anxiously first at his masterand then into the grave. 

"Theer oughter be somethin' sed, " muttered the old man; "'tain't rightto put 'im under like a dog. Theer oughter be some sort o' sarmin. " Hesighed heavily in the listening silence that followed this remark andproceeded with his work. He filled the grave to the brim this time, andfashioned the mound carefully with his spade. Once or twice he mutteredthe words, "I am the rassaraction. " As he laid the tools quietly aside, and stood at the head of the grave, he was evidently trying to rememberthe something that ought to be said. He removed his hat, placed itcarefully on the grass, held his hands out from his sides and a littleto the front, drew a long deep breath, and said with a solemnitythat greatly disturbed Five Bob: "Hashes ter hashes, dus ter dus, Brummy--an'--an' in hopes of a great an' gerlorious rassaraction!"

He sat down on a log near by, rested his elbows on his knees and passedhis hand wearily over his forehead--but only as one who was tired andfelt the heat; and presently he rose, took up the tools, and walked backto the hut. 

And the sun sank again on the grand Australian bush--the nurse and tutorof eccentric minds, the home of the weird. 

OUR PIPES

The moon rose away out on the edge of a smoky plain, seen through asort of tunnel or arch in the fringe of mulga behind which we werecamped--Jack Mitchell and I. The timber proper was just behind us, verythick and very dark. The moon looked like a big new copper boiler set onedge on the horizon of the plain, with the top turned towards us and alot of old rags and straw burning inside. 

We had tramped twenty-five miles on a dry stretch on a hot day--swagmenknow what that means. We reached the water about two hours "after dark"--swagmen know what that means. We didn't sit down at once and rest--wehadn't rested for the last ten miles. We knew that if we sat downwe wouldn't want to get up again in a hurry--that, if we did, ourleg-sinews, especially those of our calves, would "draw" like red-hotwire's. You see, we hadn't been long on the track this time--it was onlyour third day out. Swagmen will understand. 

We got the billy boiled first, and some leaves laid down for our bedsand the swags rolled out. We thanked the Lord that we had some cookedmeat and a few johnny-cakes left, for we didn't feel equal to cooking. We put the billy of tea and our tucker-bags between the heads of ourbeds, and the pipes and tobacco in the crown of an old hat, where wecould reach them without having to get up. Then we lay down on ourstomachs and had a feed. We didn't eat much--we were too tired forthat--but we drank a lot of tea. We gave our calves time to tone down abit; then we lit up and began to answer each other. It got to be prettycomfortable, so long as we kept those unfortunate legs of ours straightand didn't move round much. 

We cursed society because we weren't rich men, and then we felt betterand conversation drifted lazily round various subjects and ended in thatof smoking. 

"How came to start smoking?" said Mitchell. "Let's see. " He reflected. "I started smoking first when I was about fourteen or fifteen. I smokedsome sort of weed--I forget the name of it--but it wasn't tobacco; andthen I smoked cigarettes--not the ones we get now, for those cost apenny each. Then I reckoned that, if I could smoke those, I could smokea pipe. "

He reflected. 

"We lived in Sydney then--Surry Hills. Those were different times; theplace was nearly all sand. The old folks were alive then, and we wereall at home, except Tom. "

He reflected. 

"Ah, well!. .. Well, one evening I was playing marbles out in front of ourhouse when a chap we knew gave me his pipe to mind while he went into achurch-meeting. The little church was opposite--a 'chapel' they calledit. "

He reflected. 

"The pipe was alight. It was a clay pipe and niggerhead tobacco. Motherwas at work out in the kitchen at the back, washing up the tea-things, and, when I went in, she said: 'You've been smoking!'

"Well, I couldn't deny it--I was too sick to do so, or care much, anyway. 

"'Give me that pipe!' she said. 

"I said I hadn't got it. 

"'_Give--me--that--pipe_!' she said. 

"I said I hadn't got it. 

"'Where is it?' she said. 

"'Jim Brown's got it, ' I said, 'it's his. '

"'Then I'll give it to Jim Brown, ' she said; and she did; though itwasn't Jim's fault, for he only gave it to me to mind. I didn't smokethe pipe so much because I wanted to smoke a pipe just then, as becauseI had such a great admiration for Jim. "

Mitchell reflected, and took a look at the moon. It had risen clear andhad got small and cold and pure-looking, and had floated away back outamongst the stars. 

"I felt better towards morning, but it didn't cure me--being sick andnearly dead all night, I mean. I got a clay pipe and tobacco, and theold lady found it and put it in the stove. Then I got another pipe andtobacco, and she laid for it, and found it out at last; but she didn'tput the tobacco in the stove this time--she'd got experience. I don'tknow what she did with it. I tried to find it, but couldn't. I fancy theold man got hold of it, for I saw him with a plug that looked very muchlike mine. "

He reflected. 

"But I wouldn't be done. I got a cherry pipe. I thought it wouldn't beso easy to break if she found it. I used to plant the bowl in one placeand the stem in another because I reckoned that if she found one shemightn't find the other. It doesn't look much of an idea now, but itseemed like an inspiration then. Kids get rum ideas. "

He reflected. 

"Well, one day I was having a smoke out at the back, when I heard hercoming, and I pulled out the stem in a hurry and put the bowl behind thewater-butt and the stem under the house. Mother was coming round for adipper of water. I got out of her way quick, for I hadn't time to lookinnocent; but the bowl of the pipe was hot and she got a whiff of it. She went sniffing round, first on one side of the cask and then on theother, until she got on the scent and followed it up and found the bowl. Then I had only the stem left. She looked for that, but she couldn'tscent it. But I couldn't get much comfort out of that. Have you got thematches?

"Then I gave it best for a time and smoked cigars. They were the safestand most satisfactory under the circumstances, but they cost me twoshillings a week, and I couldn't stand it, so I started a pipe again andthen mother gave in at last. God bless her, and God forgive me, and usall--we deserve it. She's been at rest these seventeen long years. "

Mitchell reflected. 

"And what did your old man do when he found out that you were smoking?"I asked. 

"The old man?"

He reflected. 

"Well, he seemed to brighten up at first. You see, he was sort ofpensioned off by mother and she kept him pretty well inside hisincome. .. . Well, he seemed to sort of brighten up--liven up--when hefound out that I was smoking. "

"Did he? So did my old man, and he livened me up, too. But what did yourold man do--what did he say?"

"Well, " said Mitchell, very slowly, "about the first thing he did was toask me for a fill. "

He reflected. 

"Ah! many a solemn, thoughtful old smoke we had together on thequiet--the old man and me. "

He reflected. 

"Is your old man dead, Mitchell?" I asked softly. "Long ago--thesetwelve years, " said Mitchell. 

COMING ACROSS

We were delayed for an hour or so inside Sydney Heads, taking passengersfrom the _Oroya_, which had just arrived from England and anchored offWatson's Bay. An Adelaide boat went alongside the ocean liner, while wedropped anchor at a respectable distance. This puzzled some of us untilone of the passengers stopped an ancient mariner and inquired. Thesailor jerked his thumb upwards, and left. The passengers stared alofttill some of them got the lockjaw in the back of their necks, and thenanother sailor suggested that we had yards to our masts, while theAdelaide boat had not. 

It seemed a pity that the new chums for New Zealand didn't have a chanceto see Sydney after coming so far and getting so near. It struck themthat way too. They saw Melbourne, which seemed another injustice to theold city. However, nothing matters much nowadays, and they might seeSydney in happier times. 

They looked like new chums, especially the "furst clarsters, " and therewere two or three Scotsmen among them who looked like Scots, and talkedlike it too; also an Irishman. Great Britain and Ireland do not seem tobe learning anything fresh about Australia. We had a yarn with one ofthese new arrivals, and got talking about the banks. It turned out thathe was a radical. He spat over the side and said:

"It's a something shame the way things is carried on! Now, look here, abanker can rob hundreds of wimmin and children an' widders and orfuns, and nothin' is done to him; but if a poor man only embezzles a shilling_he gets transported to the colonies for life_. " The italics are ours, but the words were his. 

We explained to this new chum that transportation was done away withlong ago, as far as Australia was concerned, that no more convicts weresent out here--only men who ought to be; and he seemed surprised. Hedid not call us a liar, but he looked as if he thought that we wereprevaricating. We were glad that he didn't say so, for he was a biggerman. New chums are generally more robust than Australians. 

When we got through the Heads someone pointed to the wrong part of thecliff and said:

"That's where the _Dunbar_ was wrecked. "

Shortly afterwards another man pointed to another wrong part of thecliffs and observed incidentally:

"That's where the _Dunbar_ was wrecked. "

Pretty soon a third man came along and pointed to a third wrong part ofthe cliff, and remarked casually:

"That's where the _Dunbar_ was wrecked. "

We moved aft and met the fourth mate, who jerked his thumb over hisshoulder at the cliffs in general, and muttered condescendingly:

"That's where the _Dunbar_ was wrecked. "

It was not long before a woman turned round and asked "Was that theplace where the Dunbar was wrecked, please?"

We said "Yes, " and she said "Lor, " and beckoned to a friend. 

We went for'ard and met an old sailor, who glared at us, jerked histhumb at the coast and growled:

"That's where the _Dunbar_ went down. "

Then we went below; but we felt a slight relief when he said "went down"instead of "was wrecked. "

It is doubtful whether a passenger boat ever cleared Sydney Heads sincethe wild night of that famous wreck without someone pointing to thewrong part of the cliffs, and remarking:

"That's where the _Dunbar_ was wrecked. "

The _Dunbar_ fiend is inseparable from Australian coasting steamers. 

We travelled second-class in the interests of journalism. You get morepoints for copy in the steerage. It was a sacrifice; but we hope toprofit by it some day. 

There were about fifty male passengers, including half a dozen NewZealand shearers, two of whom came on board drunk--their remarks for thefirst night mainly consisted of "gory. " "Gory" is part of the Australianlanguage now--a big part. 

The others were chiefly tradesmen, labourers, clerks and bagmen, drivenout of Australia by the hard times there, and glad, no doubt, to getaway. There was a jeweller on board, of course, and his name was Mosesor Cohen. If it wasn't it should have been--or Isaacs. His christianname was probably Benjamin. We called him Jacobs. He passed away most ofhis time on board in swopping watch lies with the other passengers andgood-naturedly spoiling their Waterburys. 

One commercial traveller shipped with a flower in his buttonhole. Hisgirl gave it to him on the wharf, and told him to keep it till it faded, and then press it. She was a barmaid. She thought he was "going saloon, "but he came forward as soon as the wharf was out of sight. He gave theflower to the stewardess, and told us about these things one moonlightnight during the voyage. 

There was another--a well-known Sydney man--whose friends thought he wasgoing saloon, and turned up in good force to see him off. He spent hislast shilling "shouting, " and kept up his end of the pathetic littlefarce out of consideration for the feelings of certain proud femalerelatives, and not because he was "proud"--at least in that way. Hestood on a conspicuous part of the saloon deck and waved his whitehandkerchief until Miller's Point came between. Then he came forwardwhere he belonged. But he was proud--bitterly so. He had a flower too, but he did not give it to the stewardess. He had it pressed, we think(for we knew him), and perhaps he wears it now over the place where hisheart used to be. 

When Australia was fading from view we shed a tear, which was all we hadto shed; at least, we tried to shed a tear, and could not. It is best tobe exact when you are writing from experience. 

Just as Australia was fading from view, someone looked through a glass, and said in a sad, tired kind of voice that he could just see the placewhere the _Dunbar_ was wrecked. 

Several passengers were leaning about and saying "Europe! E-u-rope!"in agonized tones. None of them were going to Europe, and the new chumssaid nothing about it. This reminds us that some people say "Asia! Asia!Ak-kak-Asia!" when somebody spills the pepper. There was a pepper-boxwithout a stopper on the table in our cabin. The fact soon attractedattention. 

A new chum came along and asked us whether the Maoris were very badround Sydney. He'd heard that they were. We told him that we had neverhad any trouble with them to speak of, and gave him another show. 

"Did you ever hear of the wreck of the _Dunbar_?" we asked. He saidthat he never "heerd tell" of it, but he had heerd of the wreck of the_Victoria_. 

We gave him best. 

The first evening passed off quietly, except for the vinously-excitedshearers. They had sworn eternal friendship with a convivial dude fromthe saloon, and he made a fine specimen fool of himself for an hour orso. He never showed his nose for'ard again. 

Now and then a passenger would solemnly seek the steward and have abeer. The steward drew it out of a small keg which lay on its side on ashelf with a wooden tap sticking out of the end of it--out of the end ofthe keg, we mean. The beer tasted like warm but weak vinegar, and costsixpence per small glass. The bagman told the steward that he couldnot compliment him on the quality of his liquor, but the steward saidnothing. He did not even seem interested--only bored. He had heard thesame remark often before, no doubt. He was a fat, solemn steward--notformal, but very reticent--unresponsive. He looked like a man who hadconducted a religious conservative paper once and failed, and had thengone into the wholesale produce line, and failed again, and finallygot his present billet through the influence of his creditors and twoclergymen. He might have been a sociable fellow, a man about town, evena gay young dog, and a radical writer before he was driven to acceptthe editorship of the aforesaid periodical. He probably came of a "goodEnglish family. " He was now, very likely, either a rigid Presbyterianor an extreme freethinker. He thought a lot, anyway, and looked as if heknew a lot too--too much for words, in fact. 

We took a turn on deck before turning in, and heard two men arguingabout the way in which the _Dunbar_ was wrecked. 

The commercial travellers, the jeweller, and one or two new chums whowere well provided with clothing undressed deliberately and retiredostentatiously in pyjamas, but there were others--men of betterdays--who turned in either very early or very late, when the cabin wasquiet, and slipped hurriedly and furtively out of their clothes andbetween the blankets, as if they were ashamed of the poverty of theirunderwear. It is well that the Lord can see deep down into the hearts ofmen, for He has to judge them; it is well that the majority of mankindcannot, because, if they could, the world would be altogether toosorrowful to live in; and we do not think the angels can either, elsethey would not be happy--if they could and were they would not be angelsany longer--they would be devils. Study it out on a slate. 

We turned in feeling comfortably dismal, and almost wishing that we hadgone down with the _Dunbar_. 

The intoxicated shearers and the dude kept their concert up till a latehour that night--or, rather, a very early hour next morning; and atabout midnight they were reinforced by the commercial traveller andMoses, the jeweller, who had been visiting acquaintances aft. Thispush was encouraged by voices from various bunks, and enthusiasticallybarracked for by a sandy-complexioned, red-headed comedian withtwinkling grey eyes, who occupied the berth immediately above our own. 

They stood with their backs to the bunks, and their feet braced againstthe deck, or lurched round, and took friendly pulls from whisky flasks, and chyacked each other, and laughed, and blowed, and lied like--likeAustralian bushmen; and occasionally they broke out into snatches ofsong--and as often broke down. Few Englishmen know more than thefirst verse, or two lines, of even their most popular song, and, whereelevated enough to think they can sing, they repeat the first verseover and over again, with the wrong words, and with a sortof "Ta-ra-ra-rum-ti-tooral, ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rum-ti, ta-ra-ra-rum-tum-ti-rum-rum-tum-ti-dee-e-e, " by way of variation. 

Presently--suddenly, it seemed to our drowsy senses--two of the shearersand the bagman commenced arguing with drunken gravity and precisionabout politics, even while a third bushman was approaching the climax ofan out-back yarn of many adjectives, of which he himself was the hero. The scraps of conversation that we caught were somewhat as follow. Weleave out most of the adjectives. 

First Voice: "Now, look here. The women will vote for men, notprinciples. That's why I'm against women voting. Now, just mark my---"

Third Voice (trying to finish yarn): "Hold on. Just wait till I tellyer. Well, this bloomin' bloke, he says---"

Second Voice (evidently in reply to first): "Principles you mean, notmen. You're getting a bit mixed, old man. " (Smothered chuckle fromcomedian over our head. )

Third Voice (seeming to drift round in search of sympathy): "'You will!'sez I. 'Yes, I will, ' he sez. 'Oh, you will, will yer?' I sez; and withthat I---"

Second Voice (apparently wandering from both subjects) "Blanker hasalways stuck up for the workin' man, an' he'll get in, you'll see. Why, he's a bloomin' workin' man himself. Me and Blanker---"

Disgusted voice from a bunk: "Oh, that's damn rot! We've had enough oflumpers in parliament! Horny hands are all right enough, but we don'twant any more blanky horny heads!"

Third Voice (threateningly): "Who's talkin' about 'orny heads? Thatpitch is meant for us, ain't it? Do you mean to say that I've got a'orny head?"

Here two men commenced snarling at each other, and there was some talkof punching the causes of the dispute; but the bagman interfered, afresh flask was passed round, and some more eternal friendship sworn to. 

We dozed off again, and the next time we were aware of anything thecommercial and Moses had disappeared, the rest were lying or sitting intheir bunks, and the third shearer was telling a yarn about an allegedfight he had at a shed up-country; and perhaps he was telling it for thebenefit of the dissatisfied individual who made the injudicious remarkconcerning horny heads. 

"So I said to the boss-over-the-board, 'you're a nice sort of a thing, 'I sez. 'Who are you talkin' to?' he says. 'You, bless yer, ' I says. 'Now, look here, ' he says, 'you get your cheque and clear! 'All right, 'I says, 'you can take that!' and I hauled off and landed him a beautyunder the butt of the listener. Then the boss came along with twoblacklegs, but the boys made a ring, and I laid out the blanks in justfive minutes. Then I sez to the boss, 'That's the sort of cove I am, ' Isez, 'an' now, if you---"

But just here there came a deep, growling voice--seemingly from out ofthe depths of the forehold--anyway, there came a voice, and it said:

"For the Lord's sake give her a rest!"

The steward turned off the electricity, but there were two lanternsdimly burning in our part of the steerage. It was a narrow compartmentrunning across the width of the boat, and had evidently been partitionedoff from the top floor of the hold to meet the emigration from Australiato New Zealand. There were three tiers of bunks, two deep, on the farside, three rows of single bunks on the other, and two at each end ofthe cabin, the top ones just under the portholes. 

The shearers had turned in "all standing;" two of them were lying feetto feet in a couple of outside lower berths. One lay on his stomach withhis face turned outwards, his arm thrown over the side of the bunk, andhis knuckles resting on the deck, the other rested on the broad of hisback with his arm also hanging over the side and his knuckles resting onthe floor. And so they slept the sleep of the drunk. 

A fair, girl-faced young Swiss emigrant occupied one of the top berths, with his curly, flaxen head resting close alongside one of the lanternsthat were dimly burning, and an Anglo-foreign dictionary in his hand. His mate, or brother, who resembled him in everything except that hehad dark hair, lay asleep alongside; and in the next berth a longconsumptive-looking new chum sat in his pyjamas, with his legs hangingover the edge, and his hands grasping the sideboard, to which, on hisright hand, a sort of tin-can arrangement was hooked. He was staringintently at nothing, and seemed to be thinking very hard. 

We dozed off again, and woke suddenly to find our eyes wide open, andthe young Swiss still studying, and the jackaroo still sitting in thesame position, but with a kind of waiting expression on his face--a sortof expectant light in his eyes. Suddenly he lurched for the can, andafter awhile he lay back looking like a corpse. 

We slept again, and finally awoke to daylight and the clatter ofplates. All the bunks were vacated except two, which contained corpses, apparently. 

Wet decks, and a round, stiff, morning breeze, blowing strongly acrossthe deck, abeam, and gustily through the open portholes. There was adull grey sky, and the sea at first sight seemed to be of a dark blueor green, but on closer inspection it took a dirty slate colour, withsplashes as of indigo in the hollows. There was one of those near, yetfar-away horizons. 

About two-thirds of the men were on deck, but the women had not shown upyet--nor did they show up until towards the end of the trip. 

Some of the men were smoking in a sheltered corner, some walking up anddown, two or three trying to play quoits, one looking at the poultry, one standing abaft the purser's cabin with hands in the pockets ofhis long ragged overcoat, watching the engines, and twomore--carpenters--were discussing a big cedar log, about five feet indiameter, which was lashed on deck alongside the hatch. 

While we were waiting for the _Oroya_ some of the ship's officers cameand had a consultation over this log and called up part of the crew, whogot some more ropes and a chain on to it. It struck us at the time thatthat log would make a sensation if it fetched loose in rough weather. But there wasn't any rough weather. 

The fore-cabin was kept clean; the assistant steward was good-humouredand obliging; his chief was civil enough to freeze the Never-Nevercountry; but the bill of fare was monotonous. 

During the afternoon a first-salooner made himself obnoxious by swellinground for'ard. He was a big bull-necked "Britisher" (that word coversit) with a bloated face, prominent gooseberry eyes, fore 'n' aft cap, and long tan shoes. He seemed as if he'd come to see a "zoo, " and wasdissatisfied with it--had a fine contempt for it, in fact, because itdid not come up to other zoological gardens that he had seen in London, and on the _aw_--continong and in the--_aw_-er--_aw_--the States, dontcherknow. The fellows reckoned that he ought to be "took down a peg"(dontcherknow) and the sandy-complexioned comedian said he'd do it. Sohe stepped softly up to the swell, tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and pointed aft--holding his arm out like a pump handle and hisforefinger rigid. 

The Britisher's face was a study; it was blank at first and then it wentall colours, and wore, in succession, every possible expression excepta pleasant one. He seemed bursting with indignation, but he did notspeak--could not, perhaps; and, as soon as he could detach his feetfrom the spot to which they had been nailed in the first place byastonishment, he stalked aft. He did not come to see the zoo any more. 

The fellows in the fore-cabin that evening were growling about the badquality of the grub supplied. 

Then the shearer's volcano showed signs of activity. He shifted round, spat impatiently, and said:

"You chaps don't know what yer talkin' about. You want something togrumble about. You should have been out with me last year on the Parooin Noo South Wales. The meat we got there was so bad that it ustertravel!"

"What?"

"Yes! travel! take the track! go on the wallaby! The cockies over thereused to hang the meat up on the branches of the trees, and just shakeit whenever they wanted to feed the fowls. And the water was so badthat half a pound of tea in the billy wouldn't make no impression on thecolour--nor the taste. The further west we went the worse our meat got, till at last we had to carry a dog-chain to chain it up at night. Thenit got worse and broke the chain, and then we had to train the blesseddogs to shepherd it and bring it back. But we fell in with another chapwith a bad old dog--a downright knowing, thieving, old hard-case ofa dog; and this dog led our dogs astray---demoralized them--corruptedtheir morals--and so one morning they came home with the blooming meatinside them, instead of outside--and we had to go hungry for breakfast. "

"You'd better turn in, gentlemen. I'm going to turn off the light, " saidthe steward. 

The yarn reminded the Sydney man of a dog he had, and he started somedog lies. 

"This dog of mine, " he said, "knowed the way into the bestpublic-houses. If I came to a strange town and wanted a good drink, I'donly have to say, 'Jack, I'm dry, ' and he'd lead me all right. He alwaysknew the side entrances and private doors after hours, and I--"

But the yarn did not go very well--it fell flat in fact. Then thecommercial traveller was taken bad with an anecdote. "That's nothing, "he said, "I had a black bag once that knew the way into public-houses. "

"A what?"

"Yes. A black bag. A long black bag like that one I've got there in mybunk. I was staying at a boarding-house in Sydney, and one of us used togo out every night for a couple of bottles of beer, and we carried thebottles in the bag; and when we got opposite the pub the front end ofthe bag would begin to swing round towards the door. It was wonderful. It was just as if there was a lump of steel in the end of the bag and amagnet in the bar. We tried it with ever so many people, but it alwaysacted the same. We couldn't use that bag for any other purpose, for ifwe carried it along the street it would make our wrists ache tryingto go into pubs. It twisted my wrist one time, and it ain't got rightsince--I always feel the pain in dull weather. Well, one night we gotyarning and didn't notice how the time was going, and forgot to go forthe beer till it was nearly too late. We looked for the bag and couldn'tfind it--we generally kept it under a side-table, but it wasn't there, and before we were done looking, eleven o'clock went. We sat down roundthe fire, feeling pretty thirsty, and were just thinking about turningin when we heard a thump on the table behind us. We looked round, andthere was that bag with two full bottles of English ale in it. 

"Then I remembered that I'd left a bob in the bottom of the bag, and---"

The steward turned off the electric light. 

There were some hundreds of cases of oranges stacked on deck, and madefast with matting and cordage to the bulwarks. That night was very dark, and next morning there was a row. The captain said he'd "give any manthree months that he caught at those oranges. "

"Wot, yer givin' us?" said a shearer. "We don't know anything about yerbloomin' oranges. .. . I seen one of the saloon passengers moochin' roundfor'ard last night. You'd better search the saloon for your blarstedoranges, an' don't come round tacklin' the wrong men. "

It was not necessary to search our quarters, for the "offside" stewardwas sweeping orange peel out of the steerage for three days thereafter. 

And that night, just as we were about to fall asleep, a round, good-humoured face loomed over the edge of the shelf above and a small, twinkling, grey eye winked at us. Then a hand came over, gave a jerk, and something fell on our nose. It was an orange. We sent a "thank you"up through the boards and commenced hurriedly and furtively to stowaway the orange. But the comedian had an axe to grind--most peoplehave--wanted to drop his peel alongside our berth; and it made us uneasybecause we did not want circumstantial evidence lying round us if thecaptain chanced to come down to inquire. The next man to us had a barneywith the man above him about the same thing. Then the peel was scatteredround pretty fairly, or thrown into an empty bunk, and no man daredgrowl lest he should come to be regarded as a blackleg--a would-beinformer. 

The men opposite the door kept a look out; and two Australian jokerssat in the top end berth with their legs hanging over and swingingcontentedly, and the porthole open ready for a swift and easy disposalof circumstantial evidence on the first alarm. They were eating apineapple which they had sliced and extracted in sections from a crateup on deck. They looked so chummy, and so school-boyishly happy andcontented, that they reminded us of the days long ago, when we were sohigh. 

The chaps had talk about those oranges on deck next day. The commercialtraveller said we had a right to the oranges, because the company didn'tgive us enough to eat. He said that we were already suffering frominsufficient proper nourishment, and he'd tell the doctor so if thedoctor came on board at Auckland. Anyway, it was no sin to rob acompany. 

"But then, " said our comedian, "those oranges, perhaps, were sent overby a poor, struggling orange grower, with a wife and family to keep, and he'll have to bear the loss, and a few bob might make a lot ofdifference to him. It ain't right to rob a poor man. "

This made us feel doubtful and mean, and one or two got uncomfortableand shifted round uneasily. But presently the traveller came to therescue. He said that no doubt the oranges belonged to a middleman, andthe middleman was the curse of the country. We felt better. 

Towards the end of the trip the women began to turn up. There werefive grass widows, and every female of them had a baby. The Australianmarries young and poor; and, when he can live no longer in his nativeland, he sells the furniture, buys a steerage ticket to New Zealand orWestern Australia, and leaves his wife with her relatives or friendsuntil he earns enough money to send for her. Four of our women weregirl-wives, and mostly pretty. One little handful of a thing had a finebaby boy, nearly as big as herself, and she looked so fragile andpale, and pretty and lonely, and had such an appealing light in her bigshadowed brown eyes, and such a pathetic droop at the corners of hersweet little mouth, that you longed to take her in your manly arms--babyand all--and comfort her. 

The last afternoon on high seas was spent in looking through glassesfor the Pinnacles, off North Cape. And, as we neared the land, thecommercial traveller remarked that he wouldn't mind if there was a wrecknow--provided we all got saved. "We'd have all our names in the papers, "he said. "Gallant conduct of the passengers and crew. Heroic rescue byMr So-and-so-climbing the cliffs with a girl under his arm, and all thatsort of thing. "

The chaps smiled a doleful smile, and turned away again to look at thePromised Land. They had had no anxiety to speak of for the last twoor three days; but now they were again face to face with the cursedquestion, "How to make a living. " They were wondering whether or no theywould get work in New Zealand, and feeling more doubtful about it thanwhen they embarked. 

Pity we couldn't go to sea and sail away for ever, and never see landany more--or, at least, not till better and brighter days--if they evercome. 

THE STORY OF MALACHI

Malachi was very tall, very thin, and very round-shouldered, and thesandiness of his hair also cried aloud for an adjective. All the boysconsidered Malachi the greatest ass on the station, and there was nodoubt that he _was_ an awful fool. He had never been out of his nativebush in all his life, excepting once, when he paid a short visit toSydney, and when he returned it was evident that his nerves had receiveda shaking. We failed to draw one word out of Malachi regarding his viewson the city--to describe it was not in his power, for it had evidentlybeen something far beyond his comprehension. Even after his visit hadbecome a matter of history, if you were to ask him what he thought ofSydney the dazed expression would come back into his face, and he wouldscratch his head and say in a slow and deliberate manner, "Well, there'sno mistake, it's a caution. " And as such the city remained, so far asMalachi's opinion of it was concerned. 

Malachi was always shabbily dressed, in spite of his pound a week andboard, and "When Malachi gets a new suit of clothes" was the expressioninvariably used by the boys to fix a date for some altogether improbableevent. We were always having larks with Malachi, for we looked uponhim as our legitimate butt. He seldom complained, and when he did hisremonstrance hardly ever went beyond repeating the words, "Now, none ofyour pranktical jokes!" If this had not the desired effect, and weput up some too outrageous trick on him, he would content himself bymuttering with sorrowful conviction, "Well, there's no mistake, it's acaution. "

We were not content with common jokes, such as sewing up the legsof Malachi's trousers while he slept, fixing his bunk, or puttingexplosives in his pipe--we aspired to some of the higher branches ofthe practical joker's art. It was well known that Malachi had an undyinghatred for words of four syllables and over, and the use of them wasalways sufficient to forfeit any good opinions he might have previouslyentertained concerning the user. "I hate them high-flown words, " hewould say--"I got a book at home that I could get them out of if Iwanted them; but I don't. " The book referred to was a very dilapidateddictionary. Malachi's hatred for high-flown words was only equalledby his aversion to the opposite sex; and, this being known, we used towrite letters to him in a feminine hand, threatening divers breach ofpromise actions, and composed in the high-flown language above alludedto. We used to think this very funny, and by these means we made hislife a burden to him. Malachi put the most implicit faith in everythingwe told him; he would take in the most improbable yarn provided wepreserved a grave demeanour and used no high-flown expressions. He wouldindeed sometimes remark that our yarns were a caution, but that was all. 

We played upon him the most gigantic joke of all during the visit of acertain bricklayer, who came to do some work at the homestead. "Bricky"was a bit of a phrenologist, and knew enough of physiognomy and humannature to give a pretty fair delineation of character. He also wentin for spirit-rapping, greatly to the disgust of the two ancienthousekeepers, who declared that they'd have "no dalins wid him and hisdivil's worruk. "'

The bricklayer was from the first an object of awe to Malachi, whocarefully avoided him; but one night we got the butt into a roomwhere the artisan was entertaining the boys with a seance. Afterthe table-rapping, during which Malachi sat with uncovered head andawe-struck expression, we proposed that he should have his bumps read, and before he could make his escape Malachi was seated in a chair in themiddle of the room and the bricklayer was running his fingers overhis head. I really believe that Malachi's hair bristled between thephrenologist's fingers. Whenever he made a hit his staunch admirer, "Donegal, " would exclaim "Look at that now!" while the girls titteredand said, "Just fancy!" and from time to time Malachi would be heardto mutter to himself, in a tone of the most intense conviction, that, "without the least mistake it was a caution. " Several times at his workthe next day Malachi was observed to rest on his spade, while he tiltedhis hat forward with one hand and felt the back of his head as though hehad not been previously aware of its existence. 

We "ran" Malachi to believe that the bricklayer was mad on the subjectof phrenology, and was suspected of having killed several persons inorder to obtain their skulls for experimental purposes. We furthersaid that he had been heard to say that Malachi's skull was a mostextraordinary one, and so we advised him to be careful. 

Malachi occupied a hut some distance from the station, and one night, the last night of the bricklayer's stay, as Malachi sat smoking over thefire the door opened quietly and the phrenologist entered. He carried abag with a pumpkin in the bottom of it, and, sitting down on a stool, helet the bag down with a bump on the floor between his feet. Malachi wasbadly scared, but he managed to stammer out--

"'Ello!" "'Ello!" said the phrenologist. 

There was an embarrassing silence, which was at last broken by "Bricky"saying "How are you gettin' on, Malachi?"

"Oh, jist right, " replied Malachi. 

Nothing was said for a while, until Malachi, after fidgeting a good dealon his stool, asked the bricklayer when he was leaving the station. 

"Oh, I'm going away in the morning, early, " said he. "I've jist beenover to Jimmy Nowlett's camp, and as I was passing I thought I'd calland get your head. "

"What?"

"I come for your skull. 

"Yes, " the phrenologist continued, while Malachi sat horror-stricken;"I've got Jimmy Nowlett's skull here, " and he lifted the bag andlovingly felt the pumpkin--it must have weighed forty pounds. "I spoiltone of his best bumps with the tomahawk. I had to hit him twice, but it's no use crying over spilt milk. " Here he drew a heavyshingling-hammer out of the bag and wiped off with his sleeve somethingthat looked like blood. Malachi had been edging round for the door, andnow he made a rush for it. But the skull-fancier was there before him. 

"Gor-sake you don't want to murder me!" gasped Malachi. 

"Not if I can get your skull any other way, " said Bricky. 

"Oh!" gasped Malachi--and then, with a vague idea that it was bestto humour a lunatic, he continued, in a tone meant to be off-hand andcareless--"Now, look here, if yer only waits till I die you can have mywhole skelington and welcome. "

"Now Malachi, " said the phrenologist sternly, "d'ye think I'm a fool? Iain't going to stand any humbug. If yer acts sensible you'll be quiet, and it'll soon be over, but if yer---"

Malachi did not wait to hear the rest. He made a spring for the back ofthe hut and through it, taking down a large new sheet of stringy-bark inhis flight. Then he could be heard loudly ejaculating "It's a caution!"as he went through the bush like a startled kangaroo, and he didn't stoptill he reached the station. 

Jimmy Nowlett and I had been peeping through a crack in the same sheetof bark that Malachi dislodged; it fell on us and bruised us somewhat, but it wasn't enough to knock the fun out of the thing. 

When Jimmy Nowlett crawled out from under the bark he had to lie downon Malachi's bunk to laugh, and even for some time afterwards it was notunusual for Jimmy to wake up in the' night and laugh till we wished himdead. 

I should like to finish here, but there remains something more to besaid about Malachi. 

One of the best cows at the homestead had a calf, about which she madea great deal of fuss. She was ordinarily a quiet, docile creature, and, though somewhat fussy after calving no one ever dreamed that she wouldinjure anyone. It happened one day that the squatter's daughter and herintended husband, a Sydney exquisite, were strolling in a paddock wherethe cow was. Whether the cow objected to the masher or his lady love'sred parasol, or whether she suspected designs upon her progeny, is notcertain; anyhow, she went for them. The young man saw the cow comingfirst, and he gallantly struck a bee-line for the fence, leaving thegirl to manage for herself. She wouldn't have managed very well ifMalachi hadn't been passing just then. He saw the girl's danger and ranto intercept the cow with no weapon but his hands. 

It didn't last long. There was a roar, a rush, and a cloud of dust, outof which the cow presently emerged, and went scampering back to the bushin which her calf was hidden. 

We carried Malachi home and laid him on a bed. He had a terrible woundin the groin, and the blood soaked through the bandages like water. Wedid all that was possible for him, the boys killed the squatter's besthorse and spoilt two others riding for a doctor, but it was of no use. In the last half-hour of his life we all gathered round Malachi's bed;he was only twenty-two. Once he said:

"I wonder how mother'll manage now?"

"Why, where's your mother?" someone asked gently; we had never dreamtthat Malachi might have someone to love him and be proud of him. 

"In Bathurst, " he answered wearily--"she'll take on awful, I 'spect, she was awful fond of me--we've been pulling together this last tenyears--mother and me--we wanted to make it all right for my littlebrother Jim--poor Jim!"

"What's wrong with Jim?" someone asked. 

"Oh, he's blind, " said Malachi "always was--we wanted to make itall right for him agin time he grows up--I--I managed to send homeabout--about forty pounds a year--we bought a bit of ground, and--and--Ithink--I'm going now. Tell 'em, Harry--tell 'em how it was--"

I had to go outside then. I couldn't stand it any more. There was a lumpin my throat and I'd have given anything to wipe out my share in thepractical jokes, but it was too late now. 

Malachi was dead when I went in again, and that night the hat wentround with the squatter's cheque in the bottom of it and we made it "allright" for Malachi's blind brother Jim. 

TWO DOGS AND A FENCE

"Nothing makes a dog madder, " said Mitchell, "than to have another dogcome outside his fence and sniff and bark at him through the cracks whenhe can't get out. The other dog might be an entire stranger; he mightbe an old chum, and he mightn't bark--only sniff--but it makes nodifference to the inside dog. The inside dog generally starts it, andthe outside dog only loses his temper and gets wild because the insidedog has lost his and got mad and made such a stinking fuss about nothingat all; and then the outside dog barks back and makes matters a thousandtimes worse, and the inside dog foams at the mouth and dashes the foamabout, and goes at it like a million steel traps. 

"I can't tell why the inside dog gets so wild about it in the firstplace, except, perhaps, because he thinks the outside dog has taken himat a disadvantage and is 'poking it at him;' anyway, he gets madder thelonger it lasts, and at last he gets savage enough to snap off his owntail and tear it to bits, because he can't get out and chew up thatother dog; and, if he did get out, he'd kill the other dog, or try to, even if it was his own brother. 

"Sometimes the outside dog only smiles and trots off; sometimes hebarks back good-humouredly; sometimes he only just gives a couple ofdisinterested barks as if he isn't particular, but is expected, becauseof his dignity and doghood, to say something under the circumstances;and sometimes, if the outside dog is a little dog, he'll get away fromthat fence in a hurry on the first surprise, or, if he's a cheeky littledog, he'll first make sure that the inside dog can't get out, and thenhe'll have some fun. 

"It's amusing to see a big dog, of the Newfoundland kind, sniffing alongoutside a fence with a broad, good-natured grin on his face all the timethe inside dog is whooping away at the rate of thirty whoops a second, and choking himself, and covering himself with foam, and dashing thespray through the cracks, and jolting and jerking every joint in hisbody up to the last joint in his tail. 

"Sometimes the inside dog is a little dog, and the smaller he is themore row he makes--but then he knows he's safe. And, sometimes, as Isaid before, the outside dog is a short-tempered dog who hates a row, and never wants to have a disagreement with anybody--like a good manypeaceful men, who hate rows, and are always nice and civil and pleasant, in a nasty, unpleasant, surly, sneering sort of civil way that makes youwant to knock their heads off; men who never start a row, but keep itgoing, and make it a thousand times worse when it's once started, justbecause they didn't start it--and keep on saying so, and that the otherparty did. The short-tempered outside dog gets wild at the other dog forlosing his temper, and says:

"'What are you making such a fuss about? What's the matter with you, anyway? Hey?'

"And the inside dog says:

"'Who do you think you're talking to? You---! I'll----' etc. , etc. , etc. 

"Then the outside dog says:

"'Why, you're worse than a flaming old slut!'

"Then they go at it, and you can hear them miles off, like a Chinesewar--like a hundred great guns firing eighty blank cartridges a minute, till the outside dog is just as wild to get inside and eat the insidedog as the inside dog is to get out and disembowel him. Yet if thosesame two dogs were to meet casually outside they might get chummy atonce, and be the best of friends, and swear everlasting mateship, andtake each other home. "

JONES'S ALLEY

She lived in Jones's Alley. She cleaned offices, washed, and nursedfrom daylight until any time after dark, and filled in her spare timecleaning her own place (which she always found dirty--in a "beastlyfilthy state, " she called it--on account of the children being left inpossession all day), cooking, and nursing her own sick--for her family, though small, was so in the two senses of the word, and sickly; one oranother of the children was always sick, but not through her fault. She did her own, or rather the family washing, at home too, when shecouldn't do it by kind permission, or surreptitiously in connection withthat of her employers. She was a haggard woman. Her second husband wassupposed to be dead, and she, lived in dread of his daily resurrection. Her eldest son was at large, but, not being yet sufficiently hardened inmisery, she dreaded his getting into trouble even more than his frequentand interested appearances at home. She could buy off the son for ashilling or two and a clean shirt and collar, but she couldn't purchasethe absence of the father at any price--_he_ claimed what he called his"conzugal rights" as well as his board, lodging, washing and beer. Sheslaved for her children, and nag-nag-nagged them everlastingly, whetherthey were in the right or in the wrong, but they were hardened to it andtook small notice. She had the spirit of a bullock. Her whole naturewas soured. She had those "worse troubles" which she couldn't tell toanybody, but bad to suffer in silence. 

She also, in what she called her "spare time, " put new cuffs andcollar-bands on gentlemen's shirts. The gentlemen didn't live in Jones'sAlley--they boarded with a patroness of the haggard woman; they didn'tknow their shirts were done there--had they known it, and known Jones'sAlley, one or two of them, who were medical students, might probablyhave objected. The landlady charged them just twice as much forrepairing their shirts as she paid the haggard woman, who, therefore, being unable to buy the cuffs and collar-bands ready-made for sewing on, had no lack of employment with which to fill in her spare time. 

Therefore, she was a "respectable woman, " and was known in Jones's Alleyas "Misses" Aspinall, and called so generally, and even by Mother Brock, who kept "that place" opposite. There is implied a world of differencebetween the "Mother" and the "Misses, " as applied to matrons in Jones'sAlley; and this distinction was about the only thing--always exceptingthe everlasting "children"--that the haggard woman had left to careabout, to take a selfish, narrow-minded sort of pleasure in--if, indeed, she could yet take pleasure, grim or otherwise, in anything except, perhaps, a good cup of tea and time to drink it in. 

Times were hard with Mrs Aspinall. Two coppers and two half-pence inher purse were threepence to her now, and the absence of one of thehalf-pence made a difference to her, especially in Paddy's market--thateloquent advertisement of a young city's sin and poverty and rottenwealth--on Saturday night. She counted the coppers as anxiously andnervously as a thirsty dead-beat does. And her house was "falling downon her" and her troubles, and she couldn't get the landlord to do a"han'stern" to it. 

At last, after persistent agitation on her part (but not before aportion of the plastered ceiling had fallen and severely injured oneof her children) the landlord caused two men to be sent to "effectnecessary repairs" to the three square, dingy, plastered holes--called"three rooms and a kitchen"--for the privilege of living in which, andcalling it "my place, " she paid ten shillings a week. 

Previously the agent, as soon as he had received the rent and signed thereceipt, would cut short her reiterated complaints--which he privatelycalled her "clack"--by saying that he'd see to it, he'd speak to thelandlord; and, later on, that he _had_ spoken to him, or could donothing more in the matter--that it wasn't his business. Neither it was, to do the agent justice. It was his business to collect the rent, andthereby earn the means of paying his own. He had to keep a family onhis own account, by assisting the Fat Man to keep his at the expense ofpeople--especially widows with large families, or women, in the caseof Jones's Alley--who couldn't afford it without being half-starved, orrunning greater and unspeakable risks which "society" is not supposed toknow anything about. 

So the agent was right, according to his lights. The landlord hadrecently turned out a family who had occupied one of his houses forfifteen years, because they were six weeks in arrears. He let them taketheir furniture, and explained: "I wouldn't have been so lenient withthem only they were such old tenants of mine. " So the landlord wasalways in the right according to _his_ lights. 

But the agent naturally wished to earn his living as peacefully andas comfortably as possible, so, when the accident occurred, he put thematter so persistently and strongly before the landlord that he said atlast: "Well, tell her to go to White, the contractor, and he'll send aman to do what's to be done; and don't bother me any more. "

White had a look at the place, and sent a plasterer, a carpenter, and aplumber. The plasterer knocked a bigger hole in the ceiling and filledit with mud; the carpenter nailed a board over the hole in the floor;the plumber stopped the leak in the kitchen, and made three new ones inworse places; and their boss sent the bill to Mrs Aspinall. 

She went to the contractor's yard, and explained that the landlord wasresponsible for the debt, not she. The contractor explained that he hadseen the landlord, who referred him to her. She called at the landlord'sprivate house, and was referred through a servant to the agent. Theagent was sympathetic, but could do nothing in the matter--it wasn'this business; he also asked her to put herself in his place, which shecouldn't, not being any more reasonable than such women are in suchcases. She let things drift, being powerless to prevent them from doingso; and the contractor sent another bill, then a debt collector andthen another bill, then the collector again, and threatened to takeproceedings, and finally took them. To make matters worse, she was twoweeks in arrears with the rent, and the wood-and-coalman's man (shehad dealt with them for ten years) was pushing her, as also were hergrocers, with whom she had dealt for fifteen years and never owed apenny before. 

She waylaid the landlord, and he told her shortly that he couldn't buildhouses and give them away, and keep them in repair afterwards. 

She sought for sympathy and found it, but mostly in the wrong places. Itwas comforting, but unprofitable. Mrs Next-door sympathized warmly, and offered to go up as a witness--she had another landlord. The agentsympathized wearily, but not in the presence of witnesses--he wantedher to put herself in his place. Mother Brock, indeed, offered practicalassistance, which offer was received in breathlessly indignant silence. It was Mother Brock who first came to the assistance of Mrs Aspinall'schild when the plaster accident took place (the mother being absent atthe time), and when Mrs Aspinall heard of it, her indignation cured herof her fright, and she declared to Mrs Next-door that she would give"that woman"--meaning Mother Brock--"in char-rge the instant she ever_dared_ to put her foot inside her (Mrs A. 's) respectable door-stepagain. She was a respectable, honest, hard-working woman, and---" etc. 

Whereat Mother Brock laughed good-naturedly. She was a broad-mindedbad woman, and was right according to _her_ lights. Poor Mrs A. Was arespectable, haggard woman, and was right according to _her_ lights, andto Mrs Next-door's, perfectly so--they being friends--and _vice versa_. None of them knew, or would have taken into consideration, the fact thatthe landlord had lost all his money in a burst financial institution, and half his houses in the general depression, and depended for food forhis family on the somewhat doubtful rents of the remainder. So they wereall right according to their different lights. 

Mrs Aspinall even sought sympathy of "John, " the Chinaman (with whom shehad dealt for four months only), and got it. He also, in all simplicity, took a hint that wasn't intended. He said: "Al li'. Pay bimeby. Nexytime Flyday. Me tlust. " Then he departed with his immortalized smile. Itwould almost appear that he was wrong--according to our idea of Chineselights. 

Mrs Aspinall went to the court--it was a small local court. MrsNext-door was awfully sorry, but she couldn't possibly get out thatmorning. The contractor had the landlord up as a witness. The landlordand the P. M. Nodded pleasantly to each other, and wished each other goodmorning. .. . Verdict for plaintiff with costs. .. Next case!. .. "Youmustn't take up the time of the court, my good woman. ". . "Now, constable!". . "Arder in the court!". .. "Now, my good woman, " said thepoliceman in an undertone, "you must go out; there's another caseon-come now. " And he steered her--but not unkindly--through the door. 

"My good woman" stood in the crowd outside, and looked wildly roundfor a sympathetic face that advertised sympathetic ears. But others hadtheir own troubles, and avoided her. She wanted someone to relieve herbursting heart to; she couldn't wait till she got home. 

Even "John's" attentive ear and mildly idiotic expression would havebeen welcome, but he was gone. He _had_ been in court that morning, and had won a small debt case, and had departed cheerfully, under theimpression that he lost it. 

"Y'aw Mrs Aspinall, ain't you?"

She started, and looked round. He was one of those sharp, blue orgrey-eyed, sandy or freckled complexioned boys-of-the-world whom we meeteverywhere and at all times, who are always going on towards twenty, yetnever seem to get clear out of their teens, who know more than most ofus have forgotten, who understand human nature instinctively--perhapsunconsciously--and are instinctively sympathetic and diplomatic; whosesatire is quick, keen, and dangerous, and whose tact is often superiorto that of many educated men-of-the-world. Trained from childhood in thegreat school of poverty, they are full of the pathos and humour of it. 

"Don't you remember me?"

"No; can't say I do. I fancy I've seen your face before somewhere. "

"I was at your place when little Arvie died. I used to work with him atGrinder Brothers', you know. "

"Oh, of course I remember you! What was I thinking about? I've had sucha lot of worry lately that I don't know whether I'm on my head or myheels. Besides, you've grown since then, and changed a lot. You'reBilly--Billy---"

"Billy Anderson's my name. "

"Of course! To be sure! I remember you quite well. "

"How've you been gettin' on, Mrs Aspinall?"

"Ah! Don't mention it--nothing but worry and trouble--nothing but worryand trouble. This grinding poverty! I'll never have anything else butworry and trouble and misery so long as I live. "

"Do you live in Jones's Alley yet?"

"Yes. "

"Not bin there ever since, have you?"

"No; I shifted away once, but I went back again. I was away nearly twoyears. "

"I thought so, because I called to see you there once. Well, I'm goin'that way now. You goin' home, Mrs Aspinall?"

"Yes. "

"Well, I'll go along with you, if you don't mind. "

"Thanks. I'd be only too glad of company. "

"Goin' to walk, Mrs Aspinall?" asked Bill, as the tram stopped in theirway. 

"Yes. I can't afford trams now--times are too hard. "

"Sorry I don't happen to have no tickets on me!"

"Oh, don't mention it. I'm well used to walking. I'd rather walk thanride. "

They waited till the tram passed. 

"Some people"--said Bill, reflectively, but with a tinge of indignationin his tone, as they crossed the street--"some people can afford to ridein trams. 

"What's your trouble, Mrs Aspinall--if it's a fair thing to ask?" saidBill, as they turned the corner. 

This was all she wanted, and more; and when, about a mile later, shepaused for breath, he drew a long one, gave a short whistle, and said:

"Well, it's red-hot!"

Thus encouraged, she told her story again, and some parts of it for thethird and fourth and even fifth time--and it grew longer, as our storieshave a painful tendency to do when we re-write them with a view tocondensation. 

But Bill heroically repeated that it was "red-hot. "

"And I dealt off the grocer for fifteen years, and the wood-and-coalman for ten, and I lived in that house nine years last Easter Monday andnever owed a penny before, " she repeated for the tenth time. 

"Well, that's a mistake, " reflected Bill. "I never dealt off nobodymore'n twice in my life. .. . I heerd you was married again, MrsAspinall--if it's a right thing to ask?"

"Wherever did you hear that? I did get married again--to my sorrow. "

"Then you ain't Mrs Aspinall--if it's a fair thing to ask?"

"Oh, yes! I'm known as Mrs Aspinall. They all call me Mrs Aspinall. "

"I understand. He cleared, didn't he? Run away?"

"Well, yes--no---he---"

"I understand. He's s'posed to be dead?"

"Yes. "

"Well, that's red-hot! So's my old man, and I hope he don't resurrectagain. "

"You see, I married my second for the sake of my children. "

"That's a great mistake, " reflected Bill. "My mother married mystep-father for the sake of me, and she's never been done telling meabout it. "

"Indeed! Did _your_ mother get married again?"

"Yes. And he left me with a batch of step-sisters and step-brothers tolook after, as well as mother; as if things wasn't bad enough before. Wedidn't want no help to be pinched, and poor, and half-starved. I don'tsee where my sake comes in at all. "

"And how's your mother now?"

"Oh, she's all right, thank you. She's got a hard time of it, but she'spretty well used to it. "

"And are you still working at Grinder Brothers'?"

"No. I got tired of slavin' there for next to nothing. I got sick of mystep-father waitin' outside for me on pay-day, with a dirty, drunken, spieler pal of his waitin' round the corner for him. There wasn'tnothin' in it. It got to be too rough altogether. .. . Blast Grinders!"

"And what are you doing now?"

"Sellin' papers. I'm always tryin' to get a start in somethin' else, butI ain't got no luck. I always come back to, sellin' papers. "

Then, after a thought, he added reflectively: "Blast papers!"

His present ambition was to drive a cart. 

"I drove a cart twice, and once I rode a butcher's horse. A bloke workedme out of one billet, and I worked myself out of the other. I didn'tknow when I was well off. Then the banks went bust, and my last bosswent insolvent, and one of his partners went into Darlinghurst forsuicide, and the other went into Gladesville for being mad; and oneday the bailiff seized the cart and horse with me in it and a load oftimber. So I went home and helped mother and the kids to live on onemeal a day for six months, and keep the bum-bailiff out. Another covehad my news-stand. "

Then, after a thought "Blast reconstriction!"

"But you surely can't make a living selling newspapers?"

"No, there's nothin' in it. There's too many at it. The blessed womenspoil it. There's one got a good stand down in George Street, and she'sgot a dozen kids sellin'--they can't be all hers-and then she's gotthe hide to come up to my stand and sell in front of me. .. . What are youthinkin' about doin', Mrs Aspinall?"

"I don't know, " she wailed. "I really don't know what to do. "

And there still being some distance to go, she plunged into her tale ofmisery once more, not forgetting the length of time she had dealt withher creditors. 

Bill pushed his hat forward and walked along on the edge of the kerb. 

"Can't you shift? Ain't you got no people or friends that you can go tofor a while?"

"Oh, yes; there's my sister-in-law; she's asked me times without numberto come and stay with her till things got better, and she's got a hardenough struggle herself, Lord knows. She asked me again only yesterday. "

"Well, that ain't too bad, " reflected Bill. "Why don't you go?"

"Well, you see, if I did they wouldn't let me take my furniture, andshe's got next to none. "

"Won't the landlord let you take your furniture?"

"No, not him! He's one of the hardest landlords in Sydney--the worst Iever had. "

"That's red-hot!. .. I'd take it in spite of him. He can't do nothin'. "

"But I daren't; and even if I did I haven't got a penny to pay for avan. "

They neared the alley. Bill counted the flagstones, stepping from oneto another over the joints. "Eighteen-nineteen-twenty-twenty-one!"he counted mentally, and came to the corner kerbing. Then he turnedsuddenly and faced her. 

"I'll tell you what to do, " he said decidedly. "Can you get your thingsready by to-night? I know a cove that's got a cart. "

"But I daren't. I'm afraid of the landlord. "

"The more fool you, " said Bill. "Well, I'm not afraid of him. He can'tdo nothin'. I'm not afraid of a landlady, and that's worse. I know thelaw. He can't do nothin'. You just do as I tell you. "

"I'd want to think over it first, and see my sister-in-law. "

"Where does your sister-'n-law live?"

"Not far. "

"Well, see her, and think over it--you've got plenty of time to do itin--and get your things ready by dark. Don't be frightened. I've shiftedmother and an aunt and two married sisters out of worse fixes thanyours. I'll be round after dark, and bring a push to lend a hand. They're decent coves. "

"But I can't expect your friend to shift me for nothing. I told you Ihaven't got a---"

"Mrs Aspinall, I ain't that sort of a bloke, neither is my chum, andneither is the other fellows--'relse they wouldn't be friends of mine. Will you promise, Mrs Aspinall?"

"I'm afraid--I--I'd like to keep my few things now. I've kept them solong. It's hard to lose my few bits of things--I wouldn't care so muchif I could keep the ironin' table. "

"So you could, by law--it's necessary to your living, but it would costmore'n the table. Now, don't be soft, Mrs Aspinall. You'll have thebailiff in any day, and be turned out in the end without a rag. The lawknows no 'necessary. ' You want your furniture more'n the landlorddoes. He can't do nothin'. You can trust it all to me. .. . I knowedArvie. .. . Will you do it?"

"Yes, I will. "

At about eight o'clock that evening there came a mysterious knock atMrs Aspinall's door. She opened, and there stood Bill. His attitude wasbusiness-like, and his manner very impressive. Three other boys stoodalong by the window, with their backs to the wall, deeply interested inthe emptying of burnt cigarette-ends into a piece of newspaper laid inthe crown of one of their hats, and a fourth stood a little way alongthe kerb casually rolling a cigarette, and keeping a quiet eye out forsuspicious appearances. They were of different makes and sizes, butthere seemed an undefined similarity between them. 

"This is my push, Mrs Aspinall, " said Bill; "at least, " he addedapologetically, "it's part of 'em. Here, you chaps, this is MrsAspinall, what I told you about. "

They elbowed the wall back, rubbed their heads with their hats, shuffledround, and seemed to take a vacant sort of interest in abstract objects, such as the pavement, the gas-lamp, and neighbouring doors and windows. 

"Got the things ready?" asked Bill. 

"Oh, yes. "

"Got 'em downstairs?"

"There's no upstairs. The rooms above belong to the next house. "

"And a nice house it is, " said Bill, "for rooms to belong to. I wonder, "he reflected, cocking his eye at the windows above; "I wonder how thepolice manage to keep an eye on the next house without keepin' an eye onyours--but they know. "

He turned towards the street end of the alley and gave a low whistle. Out under the lamp from behind the corner came a long, thin, shambling, hump-backed youth, with his hat down over his head like an extinguisher, dragging a small bony horse, which, in its turn, dragged a rickety cartof the tray variety, such as is used in the dead marine trade. Behindthe cart was tied a mangy retriever. This affair was drawn up oppositethe door. 

"The cove with a cart" was introduced as 'Chinny'. He had no chinwhatever, not even a receding chin. It seemed as though his chin hadbeen cut clean off horizontally. When he took off his hat he showed tothe mild surprise of strangers a pair of shrewd grey eyes and a broadhigh forehead. Chinny was in the empty bottle line. 

"Now, then, hold up that horse of yours for a minute, Chinny, " said Billbriskly, "'relse he'll fall down and break the shaft again. " (It hadalready been broken in several places and spliced with strips of deal, clothes-line, and wire. ) "Now, you chaps, fling yourselves about and getthe furniture out. "

This was a great relief to the push. They ran against each other and thedoor-post in their eagerness to be at work. The furniture--what Mrs A. Called her "few bits of things"--was carried out with elaborate care. The ironing table was the main item. It was placed top down in thecart, and the rest of the things went between the legs without bulgingsufficiently to cause Chinny any anxiety. 

Just then the picket gave a low, earnest whistle, and they were aware ofa policeman standing statue-like under the lamp on the opposite corner, and apparently unaware of their existence. He was looking, sphinx-like, past them towards the city. 

"It can't be helped; we must put on front an' go on with it now, " saidBill. 

"He's all right, I think, " said Chinny. "He knows me. "

"He can't do nothin', " said Bill; "don't mind him, Mrs Aspinall. Now, then (to the push), tie up. Don't be frightened of the dorg-what are youfrightened of? Why! he'd only apologize if you trod on his tail. "

The dog went under the cart, and kept his tail carefully behind him. 

The policeman--he was an elderly man--stood still, looking towards thecity, and over it, perhaps, and over the sea, to long years agone inIreland when he and the boys ducked bailiffs, and resisted evictionswith "shticks, " and "riz" sometimes, and gathered together at the risingof the moon, and did many things contrary to the peace of GraciousMajesty, its laws and constitutions, crown and dignity; as a reward forwhich he had helped to preserve the said peace for the best years of hislife, without promotion; for he had a great aversion to running in "theboys"--which included nearly all mankind--and preferred to keep, and wasmost successful in keeping, the peace with no other assistance than thatof his own rich fatherly brogue. 

Bill took charge of two of the children; Mrs Aspinall carried theyoungest. 

"Go ahead, Chinny, " said Bill. 

Chinny shambled forward, sideways, dragging the horse, with one long, bony, short-sleeved arm stretched out behind holding the rope reins; thehorse stumbled out of the gutter, and the cart seemed to pause a moment, as if undecided whether to follow or not, and then, with many ricketycomplaints, moved slowly and painfully up on to the level out of thegutter. The dog rose with a long, weary, mangy sigh, but with a lazysort of calculation, before his rope (which was short) grew taut--whichwas good judgment on his part, for his neck was sore; and his feet beingtender, he felt his way carefully and painfully over the metal, as ifhe feared that at any step he might spring some treacherous, air-triggertrap-door which would drop and hang him. 

"Nit, you chaps, " said Bill, "and wait for me. " The push rubbed itshead with its hat, said "Good night, Mrs Ashpennel, " and was absent, spook-like. 

When the funeral reached the street, the lonely "trap" was, somehow, two blocks away in the opposite direction, moving very slowly, and veryupright, and very straight, like an automaton. 

BOGG OF GEEBUNG

At the local police court, where the subject of this sketch turned upperiodically amongst the drunks, he had "James" prefixed to his name forthe sake of convenience and as a matter of form previous to his beingfined forty shillings (which he never paid) and sentenced to "a monthhard" (which he contrived to make as soft as possible). The locallarrikins called him "Grog, " a very appropriate name, all thingsconsidered; but to the Geebung Times he was known until the day of hisdeath as "a well-known character named Bogg. " The antipathy of the localpaper might have been accounted for by the fact that Bogg strayed intothe office one day in a muddled condition during the absence of thestaff at lunch and corrected a revise proof of the next week's leader, placing bracketed "query" and "see proof" marks opposite the editor'smost flowery periods and quotations, and leaving on the margin somegeneral advice to the printers to "space better. " He also corrected aLatin quotation or two, and added a few ideas of his own in good French. 

But no one, with the exception of the editor of the Times, ever dreamedthat there was anything out of the common in the shaggy, unkempt headupon which poor Bogg used to "do his little time, " until a young Englishdoctor came to practise at Geebung. One night the doctor and the managerof the local bank and one or two others wandered into the bar of theDiggers' Arms, where Bogg sat in a dark corner mumbling to himself asusual and spilling half his beer on the table and floor. Presently somedrunken utterances reached the doctor's ear, and he turned round in asurprised manner and looked at Bogg. The drunkard continued to mutterfor some time, and then broke out into something like the fag-end ofa song. The doctor walked over to the table at which Bogg wassitting, and, seating himself on the far corner, regarded the drunkardattentively for some minutes; but the latter's voice ceased, his headfell slowly on his folded arms, and all became silent except the drip, drip of the overturned beer falling from the table to the form and fromthe form to the floor. 

The doctor rose and walked back to his friends with a graver face. 

"You seem interested in Bogg, " said the bank manager. 

"Yes, " said the doctor. 

"What was he mumbling about?"

"Oh, that was a passage from Homer. "

"What?"

The doctor repeated his answer. 

"Then do you mean to say he understands Greek?"

"Yes, " said the doctor, sadly; "he is, or must have been, a classicalscholar. "

The manager took time to digest this, and then asked:

"What was the song?"

"Oh, that was an old song we used to sing at the Dublin University, "said the doctor. 

During his sober days Bogg used to fossick about among the old mullockheaps, or split palings in the bush, and just managed to keep out ofdebt. Strange to say, in spite of his drunken habits, his credit wasas good as that of any man in the town. He was very unsociable, seldomspeaking, whether drunk or sober; but a weary, hard-up sundowner wasalways pretty certain to get a meal and a shake-down at Bogg's lonelybut among the mullock heaps. It happened one dark night that a littlepush of local larrikins, having nothing better to amuse them, wendedtheir way through the old mullock heaps in the direction of the lonelylittle bark hut, with the object of playing off an elaborately plannedghost joke on Bogg. Prior to commencing operations, the leader of thejokers put his eye to a crack in the bark to reconnoitre. He didn't seemuch, but what he did see seemed to interest him, for he kept his eyethere till his mates grew impatient. Bogg sat in front of his roughlittle table with his elbows on the same, and his hands supportinghis forehead. Before him on the table lay a few articles such as ladynovelists and poets use in their work, and such as bitter cynics oftenwear secretly next their bitter, cynical hearts. 

There was the usual faded letter, a portrait of a girl, something thatlooked like a pressed flower, and, of course, a lock of hair. PresentlyBogg folded his arms over these things, and his face sank lower andlower, till nothing was visible to the unsuspected watcher exceptthe drunkard's rough, shaggy hair; rougher and wilder looking in theuncertain light of the slush-lamp. 

The larrikin turned away, and beckoned his comrades to follow him. 

"Wot is it?" asked one, when they had gone some distance. The leadersaid, "We're a-goin' ter let 'im alone; that's wot it is. "

There was some demur at this, and an explanation was demanded; but theboss bully unbuttoned his coat, and spat on his hands, and said:

"We're a-goin' ter let Bogg alone; that's wot it is. "

So they went away and let Bogg alone. 

A few days later the following paragraph appeared in the _GeebungTimes_: "A well-known character named Bogg was found drowned in theriver on Sunday last, his hat and coat being found on the bank. At alate hour on Saturday night a member of our staff saw a man walkingslowly along the river bank, but it was too dark to identify theperson. "

We suppose it was Bogg whom the _Times_ reported, but of course wecannot be sure. The chances are that it was Bogg. It was pretty evidentthat he had committed suicide, and being "a well-known character, " nodoubt he had reasons for his rash act. Perhaps he was walking by himselfin the dark along the river bank, and thinking of those reasons whenthe _Times_ man saw him. Strange to say, the world knows least aboutthe lives and sorrows of "well-known characters" of this kind, no matterwhat their names might be, and--well, there is no reason why we shouldbore a reader, or waste any more space over a well-known character namedBogg. 

SHE WOULDN'T SPEAK

Well, we reached the pub about dinner-time, dropped our swags outside, had a drink, and then went into the dinin'-room. There was a lot ofjackaroo swells, that had been on a visit to the squatter, or something, and they were sittin' down at dinner; and they seemed to think by theirlooks that we ought to have stayed outside and waited till they weredone--we was only two rough shearers, you know. There was avery good-looking servant girl waitin' on 'em, and she was allsmiles--laughin', and jokin', and chyackin', and barrickin' with 'emlike anything. 

I thought a damp expression seemed to pass across her face when me andmy mate sat down, but she served us and said nothing--we was only twodusty swaggies, you see. Dave said "Good day" to her when we came in, but she didn't answer; and I could see from the first that she'd made upher mind not to speak to us. 

The swells finished, and got up and went out, leaving me and Dave andthe servant girl alone in the room; but she didn't open her mouth--notonce. Dave winked at her once or twice as she handed his cup, but itwasn't no go. Dave was a good-lookin' chap, too; but we couldn't get herto say a word--not one. 

We finished the first blanky course, and, while she was gettin' ourpuddin' from the side-table, Dave says to me in a loud whisper, so's shecould hear: "Ain't she a stunner, Joe! I never thought there was sichfine girls on the Darlin'!"

But no; she wouldn't speak. 

Then Dave says: "They pitch a blanky lot about them New Englan' gals;but I'll back the Darlin' girls to lick 'em holler as far's looks isconcerned, " says Dave. 

But no; she wouldn't speak. She wouldn't even smile. Dave didn'tsay nothing for awhile, and then he said: "Did you hear about thatred-headed barmaid at Stiffner's goin' to be married to the bank managerat Bourke next month, Joe?" says Dave. 

But no, not a single word out of her; she didn't even look up, or lookas if she wanted to speak. 

Dave scratched his ear and went on with his puddin' for awhile. Thenhe said: "Joe, did you hear that yarn about young Scotty and oldwhatchisname's missus?"

"Yes, " I says; "but I think it was the daughter, not the wife, and youngScotty, " I says. 

But it wasn't no go; that girl wouldn't speak. 

Dave shut up for a good while, but presently I says to Dave "I see thatthem hoops is comin' in again, Dave. The paper says that this here LadyDuff had one on when she landed. "

"Yes, I heard about it, " says Dave. "I'd like to see my wife in one, butI s'pose a woman must wear what all the rest does. "

And do you think that girl would speak? Not a blanky word. 

We finished our second puddin' and fourth cup of tea, and I was justgettin' up when Dave catches holt on my arm, like that, and pulls medown into my chair again. 

"'Old on, " whispers Dave; "I'm goin' to make that blanky gal speak. "

"You won't, " I says. 

"Bet you a five-pound note, " says Dave. 

"All right, " I says. 

So I sits down again, and Dave whistles to the girl, and he passes alonghis cup and mine. She filled 'em at once, without a word, and we gotoutside our fifth cup of tea each. Then Dave jingled his spoon, andpassed both cups along again. She put some hot water in the pot thistime, and, after we'd drunk another couple of cups, Dave mutteredsomethin' about drownin' the miller. 

"We want tea, not warm water, " he growled, lookin' sulky and passin'along both cups again. 

But she never opened her mouth; she wouldn't speak. She didn't even, look cross. She made a fresh pot of tea, and filled our cups again. She didn't even slam the cups down, or swamp the tea over into thesaucers--which would have been quite natural, considerin'. 

"I'm about done, " I said to Dave in a low whisper. "We'll have to giveit up, I'm afraid, Dave, " I says. 

"I'll make her speak, or bust myself, " says Dave. 

And I'm blest if he didn't go on till I was so blanky full of tea thatit brimmed over and run out the corners of my mouth; and Dave was nearas bad. At last I couldn't drink another teaspoonful without holdingback my head, and then I couldn't keep it down, but had to let it runback into the blanky cup again. The girl began to clear away at theother end of the table, and now and then she'd lay her hand on theteapot and squint round to see if we wanted any more tea. But she neverspoke. She might have thought a lot--but she never opened her lips. 

I tell you, without a word of a lie, that we must have drunk about adozen cups each. We made her fill the teapot twice, and kept her waitin'nearly an hour, but we couldn't make her say a word. She never said asingle word to us from the time we came in till the time we went out, nor before nor after. She'd made up her mind from the first not to speakto us. 

We had to get up and leave our cups half full at last. We went out andsat down on our swags in the shade against the wall, and smoked and gavethat tea time to settle, and then we got on to the track again. 

THE GEOLOGICAL SPIELER

 There's nothing so interesting as Geology, even to common and ignorant people, especially when you have a bank or the side of a cutting, studded with fossil fish and things and oysters that were stale when Adam was fresh to illustrate by. (Remark made by Steelman, professional wanderer, to his pal and pupil, Smith. )

The first man that Steelman and Smith came up to on the last embankment, where they struck the new railway line, was a heavy, gloomy, labouringman with bowyangs on and straps round his wrists. Steelman bade him thetime of day and had a few words with him over the weather. The man ofmullock gave it as his opinion that the fine weather wouldn't last, andseemed to take a gloomy kind of pleasure in that reflection; he saidthere was more rain down yonder, pointing to the southeast, than themoon could swallow up--the moon was in its first quarter, during whichtime it is popularly believed in some parts of Maoriland that thesouth-easter is most likely to be out on the wallaby and the weatherbad. Steelman regarded that quarter of the sky with an expressionof gentle remonstrance mingled as it were with a sort of fatherlyindulgence, agreed mildly with the labouring man, and seemed lost for amoment in a reverie from which he roused himself to inquire cautiouslyafter the boss. There was no boss, it was a co-operative party. Thatchap standing over there by the dray in the end of the cutting was theirspokesman--their representative: they called him boss, but that was onlyhis nickname in camp. Steelman expressed his thanks and moved on towardsthe cutting, followed respectfully by Smith. 

Steelman wore a snuff-coloured sac suit, a wide-awake hat, a pair ofprofessional-looking spectacles, and a scientific expression; there wasa clerical atmosphere about him, strengthened, however, by an air as ofunconscious dignity and superiority, born of intellect and knowledge. He carried a black bag, which was an indispensable article in hisprofession in more senses than one. Smith was decently dressed in sobertweed and looked like a man of no account, who was mechanically devotedto his employer's interests, pleasures, or whims. 

The boss was a decent-looking young fellow, with a good face--rathersolemn--and a quiet manner. 

"Good day, sir, " said Steelman. 

"Good day, sir, " said the boss. 

"Nice weather this. "

"Yes, it is, but I'm afraid it won't last. "

"I am afraid it will not by the look of the sky down there, " venturedSteelman. 

"No, I go mostly by the look of our weather prophet, " said the boss witha quiet smile, indicating the gloomy man. 

"I suppose bad weather would put you back in your work?"

"Yes, it will; we didn't want any bad weather just now. "

Steelman got the weather question satisfactorily settled; then he said:

"You seem to be getting on with the railway. "

"Oh yes, we are about over the worst of it. "

"The worst of it?" echoed Steelman, with mild surprise: "I should havethought you were just coming into it, " and he pointed to the ridgeahead. 

"Oh, our section doesn't go any further than that pole you see stickingup yonder. We had the worst of it back there across the swamps--workingup to our waists in water most of the time, in midwinter too--and ateighteenpence a yard. "

"That was bad. "

"Yes, rather rough. Did you come from the terminus?"

"Yes, I sent my baggage on in the brake. "

"Commercial traveller, I suppose?" asked the boss, glancing at Smith, who stood a little to the rear of Steelman, seeming interested in thework. 

"Oh no, " said Steelman, smiling--"I am--well--I'm a geologist; this ismy man here, " indicating Smith. "(You may put down the bag, James, andhave a smoke. ) My name is Stoneleigh--you might have heard of it. "

The boss said, "Oh, " and then presently he added "indeed, " in anundecided tone. 

There was a pause--embarrassed on the part of the boss--he was silentnot knowing what to say. Meanwhile Steelman studied his man andconcluded that he would do. 

"Having a look at the country, I suppose?" asked the boss presently. 

"Yes, " said Steelman; then after a moment's reflection: "I am travellingfor my own amusement and improvement, and also in the interest ofscience, which amounts to the same thing. I am a member of the RoyalGeological Society--vice-president in fact of a leading Australianbranch;" and then, as if conscious that he had appeared guilty ofegotism, he shifted the subject a bit. "Yes. Very interesting countrythis--very interesting indeed. I should like to make a stay here for aday or so. Your work opens right into my hands. I cannot remember seeinga geological formation which interested me so much. Look at the face ofthat cutting, for instance. Why! you can almost read the history of thegeological world from yesterday--this morning as it were--beginningwith the super-surface on top and going right down through the differentlayers and stratas--through the vanished ages--right down and backto the pre-historical--to the very primeval or fundamental geologicalformations!" And Steelman studied the face of the cutting as if he couldread it like a book, with every layer or stratum a chapter, and everystreak a note of explanation. The boss seemed to be getting interested, and Steelman gained confidence and proceeded to identify and classifythe different "stratas and layers, " and fix their ages, and describe theconditions and politics of man in their different times, for the boss'sbenefit. 

"Now, " continued Steelman, turning slowly from the cutting, removinghis glasses, and letting his thoughtful eyes wander casually over thegeneral scenery--"now the first impression that this country would leaveon an ordinary intelligent mind--though maybe unconsciously, would beas of a new country--new in a geological sense; with patches of an oldergeological and vegetable formation cropping out here and there; as forinstance that clump of dead trees on that clear alluvial slope there, that outcrop of limestone, or that timber yonder, " and he indicated adead forest which seemed alive and green because of the parasites. "Butthe country is old--old; perhaps the oldest geological formation in theworld is to be seen here, the oldest vegetable formation in Australasia. I am not using the words old and new in an ordinary sense, youunderstand, but in a geological sense. "

The boss said, "I understand, " and that geology must be a veryinteresting study. 

Steelman ran his eye meditatively over the cutting again, and turning toSmith said:

"Go up there, James, and fetch me a specimen of that slaty outcrop yousee there--just above the coeval strata. "

It was a stiff climb and slippery, but Smith had to do it, and he didit. 

"This, " said Steelman, breaking the rotten piece between his fingers, "belongs probably to an older geological period than its position wouldindicate--a primitive sandstone level perhaps. Its position on thatlayer is no doubt due to volcanic upheavals--such disturbances, orrather the results of such disturbances, have been and are the cause ofthe greatest trouble to geologists--endless errors and controversy. Yousee we must study the country, not as it appears now, but as itwould appear had the natural geological growth been left to matureundisturbed; we must restore and reconstruct such disorganized portionsof the mineral kingdom, if you understand me. "

The boss said he understood. 

Steelman found an opportunity to wink sharply and severely at Smith, whohad been careless enough to allow his features to relapse into a vacantgrin. 

"It is generally known even amongst the ignorant that rock grows--growsfrom the outside--but the rock here, a specimen of which I hold inmy hand, is now in the process of decomposition; to be plain it isrotting--in an advanced stage of decomposition--so much so that you arenot able to identify it with any geological period or formation, even asyou may not be able to identify any other extremely decomposed body. "

The boss blinked and knitted his brow, but had the presence of mind tosay: "Just so. "

"Had the rock on that cutting been healthy--been alive, as it were--youwould have had your work cut out; but it is dead and has been deadfor ages perhaps. You find less trouble in working it than you wouldordinary clay or sand, or even gravel, which formations together arereally rock in embryo--before birth as it were. "

The boss's brow cleared. 

"The country round here is simply rotting down--simply rotting down. "

He removed his spectacles, wiped them, and wiped his face; then hisattention seemed to be attracted by some stones at his feet. He pickedone up and examined it. 

"I shouldn't wonder, " he mused, absently, "I shouldn't wonder if thereis alluvial gold in some of these creeks and gullies, perhaps tin oreven silver, quite probably antimony. "

The boss seemed interested. 

"Can you tell me if there is any place in this neighbourhood where Icould get accommodation for myself and my servant for a day or two?"asked Steelman presently. "I should very much like to break my journeyhere. "

"Well, no, " said the boss. "I can't say I do--I don't know of any placenearer than Pahiatua, and that's seven miles from here. "'

"I know that, " said Steelman reflectively, "but I fully expected to havefound a house of accommodation of some sort on the way, else I wouldhave gone on in the van. '

"Well, " said the boss. "If you like to camp with us for to night, atleast, and don't mind roughing it, you'll be welcome, I'm sure. "

"If I was sure that I would not be putting you to any trouble, orinterfering in any way with your domestic economy---"

"No trouble at all, " interrupted the boss. "The boys will be only tooglad, and there's an empty whare where you can sleep. Better stay. It'sgoing to be a rough night. "

After tea Steelman entertained the boss and a few of the more thoughtfulmembers of the party with short chatty lectures on geology and othersubjects. 

In the meantime Smith, in another part of the camp, gave selections on atin whistle, sang a song or two, contributed, in his turn, to the sailoryarns, and ensured his popularity for several nights at least. Afterseveral draughts of something that was poured out of a demijohn into apint-pot, his tongue became loosened, and he expressed an opinion thatgeology was all bosh, and said if he had half his employer's money he'dbe dashed if he would go rooting round in the mud like a blessed oldant-eater; he also irreverently referred to his learned boss as "OldRocks" over there. He had a pretty easy billet of it though, he said, taking it all round, when the weather was fine; he got a couple ofnotes a week and all expenses paid, and the money was sure; he was onlyrequired to look after the luggage and arrange for accommodation, grubout a chunk of rock now and then, and (what perhaps was the most irksomeof his duties) he had to appear interested in old rocks and clay. 

Towards midnight Steelman and Smith retired to the unoccupied wharewhich had been shown them, Smith carrying a bundle of bags, blankets, and rugs, which had been placed at their disposal by their good-naturedhosts. Smith lit a candle and proceeded to make the beds. Steelman satdown, removed his specs and scientific expression, placed the glassescarefully on a ledge close at hand, took a book from his bag, andcommenced to read. The volume was a cheap copy of Jules Verne's _Journeyto the Centre of the Earth_. A little later there was a knock atthe door. Steelman hastily resumed the spectacles, together with thescientific expression, took a note-book from his pocket, opened it onthe table, and said, "Come in. " One of the chaps appeared with a billyof hot coffee, two pint-pots, and some cake. He said he thought youchaps might like a drop of coffee before you turned in, and the boyshad forgot to ask you to wait for it down in the camp. He also wantedto know whether Mr Stoneleigh and his man would be all right and quitecomfortable for the night, and whether they had blankets enough. Therewas some wood at the back of the whare and they could light a fire ifthey liked. 

Mr Stoneleigh expressed his thanks and his appreciation of the kindnessshown him and his servant. He was extremely sorry to give them anytrouble. 

The navvy, a serious man, who respected genius or intellect in any shapeor form, said that it was no trouble at all, the camp was very dulland the boys were always glad to have someone come round. Then, aftera brief comparison of opinions concerning the probable duration of theweather which had arrived, they bade each other good night, and thedarkness swallowed the serious man. 

Steelman turned into the top bunk on one side and Smith took the loweron the other. Steelman had the candle by his bunk, as usual; he lit hispipe for a final puff before going to sleep, and held the light up for amoment so as to give Smith the full benefit of a solemn, uncompromisingwink. The wink was silently applauded and dutifully returned by Smith. Then Steelman blew out the light, lay back, and puffed at his pipe fora while. Presently he chuckled, and the chuckle was echoed by Smith; byand by Steelman chuckled once more, and then Smith chuckled again. Therewas silence in the darkness, and after a bit Smith chuckled twice. ThenSteelman said:

"For God's sake give her a rest, Smith, and give a man a show to getsome sleep. "

Then the silence in the darkness remained unbroken. 

The invitation was extended next day, and Steelman sent Smith on to seethat his baggage was safe. Smith stayed out of sight for two or threehours, and then returned and reported all well. 

They stayed on for several days. After breakfast and when the men weregoing to work Steelman and Smith would go out along the line with theblack bag and poke round amongst the "layers and stratas" in sight ofthe works for a while, as an evidence of good faith; then they'd driftoff casually into the bush, camp in a retired and sheltered spot, andlight a fire when the weather was cold, and Steelman would lie onthe grass and read and smoke and lay plans for the future and improveSmith's mind until they reckoned it was about dinner-time. And in theevening they would come home with the black bag full of stones and bitsof rock, and Steelman would lecture on those minerals after tea. 

On about the fourth morning Steelman had a yarn with one of the mengoing to work. He was a lanky young fellow with a sandy complexion, andseemingly harmless grin. In Australia he might have been regarded as a"cove" rather than a "chap, " but there was nothing of the "bloke" abouthim. Presently the cove said:

"What do you think of the boss, Mr Stoneleigh? He seems to have taken agreat fancy for you, and he's fair gone on geology. "

"I think he is a very decent fellow indeed, a very intelligent youngman. He seems very well read and well informed. "

"You wouldn't think he was a University man, " said the cove. 

"No, indeed! Is he?"

"Yes. I thought you knew!"

Steelman knitted his brows. He seemed slightly disturbed for the moment. He walked on a few paces in silence and thought hard. 

"What might have been his special line?" he asked the cove. 

"Why, something the same as yours. I thought you knew. He was reckonedthe best--what do you call it?--the best minrologist in the country. Hehad a first-class billet in the Mines Department, but he lost it--youknow--the booze. "

"I think we will be making a move, Smith, " said Steelman, later on, whenthey were private. "There's a little too much intellect in this camp tosuit me. But we haven't done so bad, anyway. We've had three days' goodboard and lodging with entertainments and refreshments thrown in. " Thenhe said to himself: "We'll stay for another day anyway. If those beggarsare having a lark with us, we're getting the worth of it anyway, and I'mnot thin-skinned. They're the mugs and not us, anyhow it goes, and I cantake them down before I leave. "

But on the way home he had a talk with another man whom we might setdown as a "chap. "

"I wouldn't have thought the boss was a college man, " said Steelman tothe chap. 

"A what?"

"A University man--University education. "

"Why! Who's been telling you that?"

"One of your mates. "

"Oh, he's been getting at you. Why, it's all the boss can do to writehis own name. Now that lanky sandy cove with the birth-mark grin--it'shim that's had the college education. "

"I think we'll make a start to-morrow, " said Steelman to Smith in theprivacy of their where. "There's too much humour and levity in this campto suit a serious scientific gentleman like myself. "

MACQUARIE'S MATE

The chaps in the bar of Stiffner's shanty were talking about Macquarie, an absent shearer--who seemed, from their conversation, to be betterknown than liked by them. 

"I ain't seen Macquarie for ever so long, " remarked Box-o'-Tricks, aftera pause. "Wonder where he could 'a' got to?"

"Jail, p'r'aps--or hell, " growled Barcoo. "He ain't much loss, anyroad. "

"My oath, yer right, Barcoo!" interposed "Sally" Thompson. "But, now Icome to think of it, Old Awful Example there was a mate of his one time. Bless'd if the old soaker ain't comin' to life again!"

A shaky, rag-and-dirt-covered framework of a big man rose uncertainlyfrom a corner of the room, and, staggering forward, brushed the staringthatch back from his forehead with one hand, reached blindly for theedge of the bar with the other, and drooped heavily. 

"Well, Awful Example, " demanded the shanty-keeper. "What's up with younow?"

The drunkard lifted his head and glared wildly round with bloodshoteyes. 

"Don't you--don't you talk about him! _Drop it_, I say! DROP it!"

"What the devil's the matter with you now, anyway?" growled the barman. "Got 'em again? Hey?"

"Don't you--don't you talk about Macquarie! He's a mate of mine! Here!Gimme a drink!"

"Well, what if he is a mate of yours?" sneered Barcoo. "It don't reflec'much credit on you--nor him neither. "

The logic contained in the last three words was unanswerable, and AwfulExample was still fairly reasonable, even when rum oozed out of himat every pore. He gripped the edge of the bar with both hands, let hisruined head fall forward until it was on a level with his temporarilyrigid arms, and stared blindly at the dirty floor; then he straightenedhimself up, still keeping his hold on the bar. 

"Some of you chaps, " he said huskily; "one of you chaps, in this barto-day, called Macquarie a scoundrel, and a loafer, and a blackguard, and--and a sneak and a liar. "

"Well, what if we did?" said Barcoo, defiantly. "He's all that, and acheat into the bargain. And now, what are you going to do about it?"

The old man swung sideways to the bar, rested his elbow on it, and hishead on his hand. 

"Macquarie wasn't a sneak and he wasn't a liar, " he said, in a quiet, tired tone; "and Macquarie wasn't a cheat!"

"Well, old man, you needn't get your rag out about it, " said SallyThompson, soothingly. "P'r'aps we was a bit too hard on him; and itisn't altogether right, chaps, considerin' he's not here. But, then, youknow, Awful, he might have acted straight to you that was his mate. Themeanest blank--if he is a man at all--will do that. "

"Oh, to blazes with the old sot!" shouted Barcoo. "I gave my opinionabout Macquarie, and, what's more, I'll stand to it. "

"I've got--I've got a point for the defence, " the old man went on, without heeding the interruptions. "I've got a point or two for thedefence. "

"Well, let's have it, " said Stiffner. 

"In the first place--in the first place, Macquarie never talked about noman behind his back. "

There was an uneasy movement, and a painful silence. Barcoo reachedfor his drink and drank slowly; he needed time to think--Box-o'-Tricksstudied his boots--Sally Thompson looked out at the weather--theshanty-keeper wiped the top of the bar very hard--and the rest shiftedround and "s'posed they'd try a game er cards. "

Barcoo set his glass down very softly, pocketed his hands deeply anddefiantly, and said:

"Well, what of that? Macquarie was as strong as a bull, and the greatestbully on the river into the bargain. He could call a man a liar to hisface--and smash his face afterwards. And he did it often, too, and withsmaller men than himself. "

There was a breath of relief in the bar. 

"Do you want to make out that I'm talking about a man behind his back?"continued Barcoo, threateningly, to Awful Example. "You'd best takecare, old man. "

"Macquarie wasn't a coward, " remonstrated the drunkard, softly, but inan injured tone. 

"What's up with you, anyway?" yelled the publican. "What yer growlingat? D'ye want a row? Get out if yer can't be agreeable!"

The boozer swung his back to the bar, hooked himself on by his elbows, and looked vacantly out of the door. 

"I've got--another point for the defence, " he muttered. "It's alwaysbest--it's always best to keep the last point to--the last. "

"Oh, Lord! Well, out with it! _Out with it_!"

"_Macquarie's dead_! That--that's what it is!"

Everyone moved uneasily: Sally Thompson turned the other side to thebar, crossed one leg behind the other, and looked down over his hip atthe sole and heel of his elastic-side--the barman rinsed the glassesvigorously--Longbones shuffled and dealt on the top of a cask, and someof the others gathered round him and got interested--Barcoo thought heheard his horse breaking away, and went out to see to it, followed byBox-o'-Tricks and a couple more, who thought that it might be one oftheir horses. 

Someone--a tall, gaunt, determined-looking bushman, with square featuresand haggard grey eyes--had ridden in unnoticed through the scrub to theback of the shanty and dismounted by the window. 

When Barcoo and the others re-entered the bar it soon became evidentthat Sally Thompson had been thinking, for presently he came to thegeneral rescue as follows:

"There's a blessed lot of tommy-rot about dead people in this world--alot of damned old-woman nonsense. There's more sympathy wasted over deadand rotten skunks than there is justice done to straight, honest-livin'chaps. I don't b'lieve in this gory sentiment about the dead at theexpense of the living. I b'lieve in justice for the livin'--and the deadtoo, for that matter--but justice for the livin'. Macquarie was a badegg, and it don't alter the case if he was dead a thousand times. "

There was another breath of relief in the bar, and presently somebodysaid: "Yer tight, Sally!"

"Good for you, Sally, old man!" cried Box-o'-Tricks, taking it up. "An', besides, I don't b'lieve Macquarie is dead at all. He's always dyin', orbeing reported dead, and then turnin' up again. Where did you hear aboutit, Awful?"

The Example ruefully rubbed a corner of his roof with the palm of hishand. 

"There's--there's a lot in what you say, Sally Thompson, " he admittedslowly, totally ignoring Box-o'-Tricks. "But--but---'

"Oh, we've had enough of the old fool, " yelled Barcoo. "Macquarie was aspieler, and any man that ud be his mate ain't much better. "

"Here, take a drink and dry up, yer ole hass!" said the man behind thebar, pushing a bottle and glass towards the drunkard. "D'ye want a row?"

The old man took the bottle and glass in his shaking bands and painfullypoured out a drink. 

"There's a lot in what Sally Thompson says, " he went on, obstinately, "but--but, " he added in a strained tone, "there's another point thatI near forgot, and none of you seemed to think of it--not even SallyThompson nor--nor Box-o'-Tricks there. "

Stiffner turned his back, and Barcoo spat viciously and impatiently. 

"Yes, " drivelled the drunkard, "I've got another point for--for thedefence--of my mate, Macquarie--"

"Oh, out with it! Spit it out, for God's sake, or you'll bust!" roaredStiffner. "What the blazes is it?"

"HIS MATE'S ALIVE!" yelled the old man. "Macquarie's mate's alive!That's what it is!"

He reeled back from the bar, dashed his glass and hat to the boards, gave his pants, a hitch by the waistband that almost lifted him off hisfeet, and tore at his shirt-sleeves. 

"Make a ring, boys, " he shouted. "His mate's alive! Put up your hands, Barcoo! By God, his mate's alive!"

Someone had turned his horse loose at the rear and had been standing bythe back door for the last five minutes. Now he slipped quietly in. 

"Keep the old fool off, or he'll get hurt, " snarled Barcoo. 

Stiffner jumped the counter. There were loud, hurried words ofremonstrance, then some stump-splitting oaths and a scuffle, consequentupon an attempt to chuck the old man out. Then a crash. Stiffner andBox-o'-Tricks were down, two others were holding Barcoo back, andsomeone had pinned Awful Example by the shoulders from behind. 

"Let me go!" he yelled, too blind with passion to notice the movementsof surprise among the men before him. "Let me go! I'll smash--anyman--that--that says a word again' a mate of mine behind his back. Barcoo, I'll have your blood! Let me go! I'll, I'll, I'll-- Who'sholdin' me? You--you---"

"It's Macquarie, old mate!" said a quiet voice. 

Barcoo thought he heard his horse again, and went out in a hurry. Perhaps he thought that the horse would get impatient and break loose ifhe left it any longer, for he jumped into the saddle and rode off. 

BALDY THOMPSON

Rough, squarish face, curly auburn wig, bushy grey eyebrows andmoustache, and grizzly stubble--eyes that reminded one of Dampier theactor. He was a squatter of the old order--new chum, swagman, drover, shearer, super, pioneer, cocky, squatter, and finally bank victim. Hehad been through it all, and knew all about it. 

He had been in parliament, and wanted too again; but the men mistrustedhim as Thompson, M. P. , though they swore by him as old Baldy Thompsonthe squatter. His hobby was politics, and his politics were badly boxed. When he wasn't cursing the banks and government he cursed the country. He cursed the Labour leaders at intervals, and seemed to think that hecould run the unions better than they could. Also, he seemed to thinkthat he could run parliament better than any premier. He was generallyvoted a hard case, which term is mostly used in a kindly sense out back. 

He was always grumbling about the country. If a shearer or rouseaboutwas good at argument, and a bit of a politician, he hadn't to slave muchat Thompson's shed, for Baldy would argue with him all day and pay forit. 

"I can't put on any more men, " he'd say to travellers. "I can't put on alot of men to make big cheques when there's no money in the bank to pay'em--and I've got all I can do to get tucker for the family. I shorenothing but burrs and grass-seed last season, and it didn't paycarriage. I'm just sending away a flock of sheep now, and I won't makethreepence a head on 'em. I had twenty thousand in the bank seasonbefore last, and now I can't count on one. I'll have to roll up my swagand go on the track myself next. "

"All right, Baldy, " they'd say, "git out your blooming swag and comealong with us, old man; we'll stick to you and see you through. "

"I swear I'd show you round first, " he'd reply. "Go up to the store andget what rations you want. You can camp in the huts to-night, and I'llsee you in the morning. "

But most likely he'd find his way over after tea, and sit on his heelsin the cool outside the hut, and argue with the swagmen about unionismand politics. And he'd argue all night if he met his match. 

The track by Baldy Thompson's was reckoned as a good tucker track, especially when a dissolution of parliament was threatened. Then theguileless traveller would casually let Baldy know that he'd got hisname on the electoral list, and show some interest in Baldy's politicalopinions, and oppose them at first, and finally agree with them and seea lot in them--be led round to Baldy's way of thinking, in fact; andultimately depart, rejoicing, with a full nose-bag, and a quiet grin forhis mate. 

There are many camp-fire yarns about old Baldy Thompson. 

One New Year the shearers--shearing stragglers--roused him in the deadof night and told him that the shed was on fire. He came out in hisshirt and without his wig. He sacked them all there and then, but ofcourse they went to work as usual next morning. There is something sadand pathetic about that old practical joke--as indeed there is with allbush jokes. There seems a quiet sort of sadness always running throughoutback humour--whether alleged or otherwise. 

There's the usual yarn about a jackaroo mistaking Thompson for a brotherrouser, and asking him whether old Baldy was about anywhere, and Baldysaid:

"Why, are you looking for a job?"

"Yes, do you think I stand any show? What sort of a boss is Baldy?"

"You'd tramp from here to Adelaide, " said Baldy, "and north to theGulf country, and wouldn't find a worse. He's the meanest squatter inAustralia. The damned old crawler! I grafted like a nigger for him forover fifty years"--Baldy was over sixty--"and now the old skunk won'teven pay me the last two cheques he owes me--says the bank has goteverything he had--that's an old cry of his, the damned old sneak; seemsto expect me to go short to keep his wife and family and relations incomfort, and by God I've done it for the last thirty or forty years, andI might go on the track to-morrow worse off than the meanest old whalerthat ever humped bluey. Don't you have anything to do with ScabbyThompson, or you'll be sorry for it. Better tramp to hell than take ajob from him. "

"Well, I think I'll move on. Would I stand any show for some tucker?"

"Him! He wouldn't give a dog a crust, and like as not he'd get you runin for trespass if he caught you camping on the run. But come along tothe store and I'll give you enough tucker to carry you on. "

He patronized literature and arts, too, though in an awkward, furtiveway. We remember how we once turned up at the station hard up and shortof tucker, and how we entertained Baldy with some of his own ideas asours--having been posted beforehand by our mate--and how he told us toget some rations and camp in the hut and see him in the morning. 

And we saw him in the morning, had another yarn with him, agreed andsympathized with him some more, were convinced on one or two questionswhich we had failed to see at first, cursed things in chorus with him, and casually mentioned that we expected soon to get some work on apolitical paper. 

And at last he went inside and brought out a sovereign. "Wrap this in apiece of paper and put it in your pocket, and don't lose it, " he said. 

But we learnt afterwards that the best way to get along with Baldy, andsecure his good will, was to disagree with him on every possible point. 

FOR AULD LANG SYNE

These were ten of us there on the wharf when our first mate left forMaoriland, he having been forced to leave Sydney because he could notget anything like regular work, nor anything like wages for the work hecould get. He was a carpenter and joiner, a good tradesman and a roughdiamond. He had got married and had made a hard fight for it during thelast two years or so, but the result only petrified his conviction that"a lovely man could get no blessed show in this condemned country, "as he expressed it; so he gave it best at last--"chucked it up, " as hesaid--left his wife with her people and four pounds ten, until such timeas he could send for her--and left himself with his box of tools, a pairof hands that could use them, a steerage ticket, and thirty shillings. 

We turned up to see him off. There were ten of us all told and abouttwice as many shillings all counted. He was the first of the old push togo--we use the word push in its general sense, and we called ourselvesthe mountain push because we had worked in the tourist towns a gooddeal--he was the first of the mountain push to go; and we felt somehow, and with a vague kind of sadness or uneasiness, that this was thebeginning of the end of old times and old things. We were plasterers, bricklayers, painters, a carpenter, a labourer, and a plumber, and wereall suffering more or less--mostly more--and pretty equally, becauseof the dearth of regular graft, and the consequent frequency of theoccasions on which we didn't hold it--the "it" being the price of oneor more long beers. We had worked together on jobs in the city andup-country, especially in the country, and had had good times togetherwhen things were locomotive, as Jack put it; and we always managed toworry along cheerfully when things were "stationary. " On more than onebig job up the country our fortnightly spree was a local institutionwhile it lasted, a thing that was looked forward to by all parties, whether immediately concerned or otherwise (and all were concernedmore or less), a thing to be looked back to and talked over untilnext pay-day came. It was a matter for anxiety and regret to the localbusiness people and publicans, and loafers and spielers, when our jobswere finished and we left. 

There were between us the bonds of graft, of old times, of poverty, ofvagabondage and sin, and in spite of all the right-thinking person maythink, say or write, there was between us that sympathy which in ourtimes and conditions is the strongest and perhaps the truest of allhuman qualities, the sympathy of drink. We were drinking mates together. We were wrong-thinking persons too, and that was another bond ofsympathy between us. 

There were cakes of tobacco, and books, and papers, and several flasksof "rye-buck"--our push being distantly related to a publican whowasn't half a bad sort--to cheer and comfort our departing mate on hisuncertain way; and these tokens of mateship and the sake of auld langsyne were placed casually in his bunk or slipped unostentatiously intohis hand or pockets, and received by him in short eloquent silence (sortof an aside silence), and partly as a matter of course. Every now andthen there would be a surreptitious consultation between two of us anda hurried review of finances, and then one would slip quietly ashore andpresently return supremely unconscious of a book, magazine, or parcel offruit bulging out of his pocket. 

You may battle round with mates for many years, and share and sharealike, good times or hard, and find the said mates true and straightthrough it all; but it is their little thoughtful attentions when youare going away, that go right down to the bottom of your heart, and liftit up and make you feel inclined--as you stand alone by the rail whenthe sun goes down on the sea--to write or recite poetry and otherwisemake a fool of yourself. 

We helped our mate on board with his box, and inspected his bunk, andheld a consultation over the merits or otherwise of its position, andgot in his way and that of the under-steward and the rest of the crewright down to the captain, and superintended our old chum's generalarrangements, and upset most of them, and interviewed various membersof the crew as to when the boat would start for sure, and regarded theirstatements with suspicion, and calculated on our own account how longit would take to get the rest of the cargo aboard, and dragged our mateashore for a final drink, and found that we had "plenty of time to slipashore for a parting wet" so often that his immediate relations grewanxious and officious, and the universe began to look good, and kind, and happy, and bully, and jolly, and grand, and glorious to us, and weforgave the world everything wherein it had not acted straight towardsus, and were filled full of love for our kind of both genders--forthe human race at large--and with an almost irresistible longing to goaboard, and stay at all hazards, and sail along with our mate. Wehad just time "to slip ashore and have another" when the gangway waswithdrawn and the steamer began to cast off. Then a rush down the wharf, a hurried and confused shaking of hands, and our mate was snatchedaboard. The boat had been delayed, and we had waited for three hours, and had seen our chum nearly every day for years, and now we found wehadn't begun to say half what we wanted to say to him. We gripped hishand in turn over the rail, as the green tide came between, till therewas a danger of one mate being pulled aboard--which he wouldn't haveminded much--or the other mate pulled ashore, or one or both yankedoverboard. We cheered the captain and cheered the crew and thepassengers--there was a big crowd of them going and a bigger crowd ofenthusiastic friends on the wharf--and our mate on the forward hatch; wecheered the land they were going to and the land they had left behind, and sang "Auld Lang Syne" and "He's a Jolly Good Fellow" (and so yelledall of us) and "Home Rule for Ireland Evermore"--which was, I don'tknow why, an old song of ours. And we shouted parting injunctions andexchanged old war cries, the meanings of which were only known to us, and we were guilty of such riotous conduct that, it being now Sundaymorning, one or two of the quieter members suggested we had better dropdown to about half-a-gale, as there was a severe-looking old sergeantof police with an eye on us; but once, in the middle of a heart-stirringchorus of "Auld Lang Sync, " Jack, my especial chum, paused for breathand said to me:

"It's all right, Joe, the trap's joining in. "

And so he was--and leading. 

But I well remember the hush that fell on that, and several otheroccasions, when the steamer had passed the point. 

And so our first mate sailed away out under the rising moon and underthe morning stars. He is settled down in Maoriland now, in a house ofhis own, and has a family and a farm; but somehow, in the bottom of ourhearts, we don't like to think of things like this, for they don't fitin at all with "Auld Lang Syne. "'

There were six or seven of us on the wharf to see our next mate go. Hisultimate destination was known to himself and us only. We had pickets atthe shore end of the wharf, and we kept him quiet and out of sight;the send-off was not noisy, but the hand-grips were very tight and thesympathy deep. He was running away from debt, and wrong, and dishonour, a drunken wife, and other sorrows, and we knew it all. 

Two went next--to try their luck in Western Australia; they wereplasterers. Ten of us turned up again, the push having been reinforcedby one or two new members and an old one who had been absent on thefirst occasion. It was a glorious send-off, and only two found beds thatnight--the government supplied the beds. 

And one by one and two by two they have gone from the wharf since then. Jack went to-day; he was perhaps the most irreclaimable of us all--ahard case where all cases were hard; and I loved him best--anyway I knowthat, wherever Jack goes, there will be someone who will barrack for meto the best of his ability (which is by no means to be despised as faras barracking is concerned), and resent, with enthusiasm and force ifhe deems it necessary, the barest insinuation which might be made tothe effect that I could write a bad line if I tried, or be guilty of anaction which would not be straight according to the rules of mateship. 

Ah well! I am beginning to think it is time I emigrated too; I'll pullmyself together and battle round and raise the price of a steerageticket, and maybe a pound or two over. There may not be anybody to seeme off, but some of the boys are sure to be on the wharf or platform"over there, " when I arrive. Lord! I almost hear them hailing now! andwon't I yell back! and perhaps there won't be a wake over old times insome cosy bar parlour, or camp, in Western Australia or Maoriland somenight in a year to come. 

NOTES ON AUSTRALIANISMS. 

Based on my own speech over the years, with some checking in thedictionaries. Not all of these are peculiar to Australian slang, but areimportant in Lawson's stories, and carry overtones. 

 bagman: commercial traveller Bananaland: Queensland billabong. Based on an aboriginal word. Sometimes used for an anabranch (a bend in a river cut off by a new channel, but more often used for one that, in dry season or droughts especially, is cut off at either or both ends from the main stream. It is often just a muddy pool, and may indeed dry up completely. Billy: quintessentially Australian. It is like (or may even be made out of) a medium-sized can, with wire handles and a lid. Used to boil water. If for tea, the leaves are added into the billy itself; the billy may be swung ('to make the leaves settle') or a eucalyptus twig place across the top, more ritual than pragmatic. These stories are supposedly told while the billy is suspended over the fire at night, at the end of a tramp. (Also used in want of other things, for cooking) blackfellow (also, blackman): condescending for Australian Aboriginal blackleg: someone who is employed to cross a union picket line to break a workers' strike. As Molly Ivins said, she was brought up on the three great commandments: do not lie; do not steal; never cross a picket line. Also scab. Blanky or ---: Fill in your own favourite word. Usually however used for "bloody" blucher: a kind of half-boot (named after Austrian general) blued: of a wages cheque: all spent extravagantly--and rapidly. Bluey: swag. Supposedly because blankets were mostly blue (so Lawson) boggabri: never heard of it. It is a town in NSW: the dictionaries seem to suggest that it is a plant, which fits context. What then is a 'tater-marrer' (potato-marrow?). Any help? bowyangs: ties (cord, rope, cloth) put around trouser legs below knee bullocky: Bullock driver. A man who drove teams of bullocks yoked to wagons carrying e. G. Wool bales or provisions. Proverbially rough and foul mouthed. Bush: originally referred to the low tangled scrubs of the semi-desert regions ('mulga' and 'mallee'), and hence equivalent to "outback". Now used generally for remote rural areas ("the bush") and scrubby forest. Bushfire: wild fires: whether forest fires or grass fires. Bushman/bushwoman: someone who lives an isolated existence, far from cities, "in the bush". (today: a "bushy") bushranger: an Australian "highwayman", who lived in the 'bush'-- scrub--and attacked especially gold carrying coaches and banks. Romanticised as anti-authoritarian Robin Hood figures--cf. Ned Kelly--but usually very violent. 

 cheque: wages for a full season of sheep-shearing; meant to last until the next year, including a family, but often "blued' in a 'spree' chyack: (chy-ike) like chaffing; to tease, mildly abuse cocky: a farmer, esp. Dairy farmers (='cow-cockies') cubby-house: or cubby. Children's playhouse ("Wendy house" is commercial form))

 Darlinghurst: Sydney suburb--where the gaol was in those days dead marine: empty beer bottle dossing: sleeping rough or poorly (as in a "doss-house") doughboy: kind of dumpling drover: one who "droves" cattle or sheep. Droving: driving on horseback cattle or sheep from where they were fattened to a a city, or later, a rail-head. Drown the miller: to add too much water to flour when cooking. Used metaphorically in story. 

 fossick: pick over areas for gold. Not mining as such. Half-caser: Two shillings and sixpence. As a coin, a half-crown. Half-sov. : a coin worth half a pound (sovereign)

 Gladesville: Sydney suburb--site of mental hospital. Goanna: various kinds of monitor lizards. Can be quite a size. 

 Homebush: Saleyard, market area in Sydney humpy: originally an aboriginal shelter (=gunyah); extended to a settler's hut

 jackaroo: (Jack + kangaroo; sometimes jackeroo)--someone, in early days a new immigrant from England, learning to work on a sheep/cattle station (U. S. "ranch") jumbuck: a sheep (best known from Waltzing Matilda: "where's that jolly jumbuck, you've got in your tucker bag". 

 larrikin: anything from a disrespectful young man to a violent member of a gang ("push"). Was considered a major social problem in Sydney of the 1880's to 1900. The _Bulletin_, a magazine in which much of Lawson was published, spoke of the "aggressive, soft-hatted "stoush brigade". Anyone today who is disrespectful of authority or convention is said to show the larrikin element in the Australian character. Larrikiness: jocular feminine form leather-jacket: kind of pancake (more often a fish, these days) lucerne: cattle feed-a leguminous plant, alfalfa in US lumper: labourer; esp. On wharves?

 mallee: dwarfed eucalyptus trees growing in very poor soil and under harsh rainfall conditions. Usually many stems emerging from the ground, creating a low thicket. Maoriland: Lawson's name for New Zealand marine, dead: see dead mooching: wandering idly, not going anywhere in particular mug: gullible person, a con-man's 'mark' (potential victim) mulga: Acacia sp. ("wattle" in Australian) especially Acacia aneura; growing in semi-desert conditions. Used as a description of such a harsh region. Mullock: the tailings left after gold has been removed. In Lawson generally mud (alluvial) rather than rock myall: aboriginal living in a traditional--pre-conquest--manner

 narked: annoyed navvies: labourers (especially making roads, railways; originally canals, thus from 'navigators') nobbler: a drink nuggety: compact but strong physique; small but well-muscled

 pannikin: metal mug peckish: hungry--usually only mildly so. Use here is thus ironic. Poley: a dehorned cow poddy-(calf): a calf separated from its mother but still needing milk

 rouseabout: labourer in a (sheep) shearing shed. Considered to be, as far as any work is, unskilled labour. 

 sawney: silly, gormless selector: small farmer who under the "Selection Act (Alienation of Land Act", Sydney 1862 could settle on a few acres of land and farm it, with hope of buying it. As the land had been leased by "squatters" to run sheep, they were NOT popular. The land was usually pretty poor, and there was little transport to get food to market, many, many failed. (The same mistake was made after WWI-- returned soldiers were given land to starve on. ) shanty: besides common meaning of shack it refers to an unofficial (and illegal) grog-shop; in contrast to the legal 'pub'. Spieler; con artist sliprails: in lieu of a gate, the rails of a fence may be loosely socketed into posts, so that they may 'let down' (i. E. One end pushed in socket, the other end resting on the ground). See 'A Day on a Selection' spree: prolonged drinking bout--days, weeks. Stoush: a fight, strike, the perhaps the Shearers' strike in Barcaldine, Queensland, 1891 gjc] sundowner: a swagman (see) who is NOT looking for work, but a "handout". Lawson explains the term as referring to someone who turns up at a station at sundown, just in time for "tea" i. E. The evening meal. In view of the Great Depression of the time, these expressions of attitude are probably unfair, but the attitudes are common enough even today. Surry Hills: Sydney inner suburb (where I live) swagman (swaggy): Generally, anyone who is walking in the "outback" with a swag. (See "The Romance of the Swag" in Children of the Bush, also a PG Etext) Lawson also restricts it at times to those whom he considers to be tramps, not looking for work but for "handouts". See 'travellers'. 'swelp: mild oath of affirmation ="so help me [God]" travellers: "shearers and rouseabouts travelling for work" (Lawson). Whare: small Maori house--is it used here for European equivalent? Help anyone? whipping the cat: drunk