"We can give you a shake-down. It's no worry."
"No, thanks. I must get home. I'm mustering to-morrow. Good night."
"Good night, Mister."
Power rode home at a foot pace. He thought of the girl all the way. Her beauty had moved him more than anything he had known.
Midnight had chimed at Surprise, and the camp was asleep. The party telling stories from their long chairs outside the staff quarters had been broken up an hour since in a last "A-haw." Mr. Wells had forgotten his cornet, and Mr. Horrington, rather muddled, had found his stretcher and blown out the light. Houses, humpies and tents were in the dark. But outside, the pallor of the moon fell, making filigree work of the leaves on the trees, and staring coldly into the eyes of sleepy curs, which blinked back from their beds in the grasses.
The camp was asleep; but one person had stayed awake. The slight figure of a woman sat at the top of the steps leading down from the verandah of Neville's house. She sat crouched up, chin in hands, so still as to be unearthly. She had sat thus with hardly a movement for a long time.
Maud had said good night to her father on their return. The house had seemed stifling. She went into her bedroom, drew the curtains wide from the window so that the room was filled with light, opened the door leading to the verandah, undressed, and went to bed. For more than an hour she lay awake, counting the moonbeams on the wall, and listening to the song of the mosquitoes. Then she gave up pretence. She sat up in bed, slipped a wrap roundher, and crossed to the window on bare feet. The night looked very charming outside, and soon she left the room, crossed the bare boards lightly as a night spirit, and came to a little balcony at the head of the steps leading down from the verandah. She sat down on the top step, putting her naked feet on the one below.
Yes, the night was charming out here—calm, empty and cooled by the ghosts of little breezes, which fluttered an instant on her face and fainted. There was pleasure in believing that she was the only one awake. It was strange to look on this slumbering camp, bearding the wilderness. She might have been a sentry watching that the hungry bush did not devour it in the hours of night. This habit of keeping the night watch had become a custom lately. The hour brought her more profit than any other of the twenty-four. She was not hot and fagged; she spoke the truth to herself; she could trust her judgments. The calm watered her soul as a shower of rain, so that it swelled up, and flowers broke from it. It was wonderful this growth of soul which lately had been her portion, this serenity brought about by losing herself in another. Sitting here, she told herself how thankful she ought to be. Night was very kind, like some nurse who whispers her child into sweet dreams.
This comprehension of life, this sureness of decision, had all grown up in two years. This renouncing of oneself that another might profit was the fountain from which gushed the purest waters at which the spirit could drink. Yet how many drank at that fountain? Instead, they sat at the windows of their houses in the streets of life, and remarked indifferently the pale faces glued to the panes across the way. Unless it happened that someone, sick with the bloodless silence, broke down one of those bolted doors and pushed inside, the faces sat always staring down the street, and the winds of desolation sweeping down the chimney at even, scattered the flames upon the hearth, and starved the watchers at their seats.
A good love was a wonderful thing, like the fire of the refiner, burning away the dross and leaving the pure metal. She had found it a philosopher's stone, making life golden, giving her humour to laugh when her father was tiresome, leaving her proof against the little annoyances of the day. And better than that. No shortcomings in the man she loved caused her misgiving now. He was easy to anger; a little selfish sometimes; he was thoughtless often. But love had brought understanding of him, and understanding meant forgiveness. She blessed him as she thought of him on his way acrossthe plain, rejoicing that she might serve him, thankful to him for the growth of spirit he had caused in her.
The little breezes sighed, fanned her a moment and passed on, a few leaves turned on the trees; but she sat wrapped in the serenity of her contemplation.
Power was abroad again before sunrise. Daylight moved over the country, and he bathed, dressed, and pulled on his boots while butcher birds called, and small finches bobbed and twittered in the bushes. As he made an end of his task, the sun rose with menacing countenance. He went outside, looked which way the breeze was, and next walked down the track to the stable. He stopped at the door, threw it open, and cried out loud, "Scandalous Jack! Hullo there!"
At the back of the stable sounded a shuffling, and a small man, with bristling beard and chipped yellow teeth set in a weather-worn face, came out of the shadow, broom in hand. He stood in front of Power, and put his hands together on top of the broom handle, spat carefully, wiped his hairy mouth and shouted—"Marnin', Guv'nor. You're late."
Power nodded. "I was late back from Surprise last night. I'll be away after breakfast though. Did they get in the black horse?"
"Aye, they brought him in yesterday. He broke from the mob and showed Mick his heels for two mile. He's first rate—a bit soft maybe—and as cranky as ever. Ye must watch him or he'll pelt you this side o' the flat. Aye, aye, ye may ride above a bit, but I'm telling yer." Scandalous jerked his head.
"I'll look at him."
"Come on then."
The two men disappeared into the stable. They came to a stall at the end of a row, and there, tied to a ring in the manger, stood a grand upstanding horse, black-coated from poll to coronet, which met their coming with ears laid down and a white flash of teeth. It was an animal to fill the eye of any man. It stood at sixteen hands to an inch or so either way, ribbed up as a barrel, with great quarters and shoulders sloped for speed. Its head was delicate for all its other proportions, but there was that in the eye to tell a man to go about his business warily. It showed a fair condition for a first day's stabling.
"Yes, he's pretty right," Power said. He called out to the animal to stand over, and went to its head, and he had looked it all about before coming away.
"Mick got off with his lot?" he said.
Scandalous Jack went on speaking at a shout."Aye, they were away be four in the marnin'. Mick says he'll be mustered and have the mob at Ten Mile midday. You're meeting him there, Guv'nor, for the cutting out, I reckon?" Power nodded his head. "Mick says to-night's camp's going up lower end of Pelican Pool." Scandalous looked very wise.
"What do you mean?"
"Mick's doin' good work there."
"You're a fool, Scandalous."
"I may be that. Some fools see more than wise men with spectacles. Have ye heard about the gouger's girl there?"
"What about her?"
"Mick's silly as a snake on her. They say she's a daddy for looks."
"I'm for breakfast," Power said. "Give this horse a look over. I'll want him in an hour."
Power went to breakfast. It was ready for him in a low bare room, with fly netting on doors and windows. One door opened on a verandah, where creepers waged war with the climate. Mrs. Elliott, the cook, and Maggie, the maid of all other work, had found excuse to wait for him. He knew the sign of old, and prepared to be discreet. He nodded his good morning. "Breakfast in?" he asked.
Maggie answered with great good will. "It's been getting cold this ten minutes."
She was a handsome girl in the early morning, before the heat fagged her. Mrs. Elliott, in middle life, ample and beaming, busied herself briskly doing nothing, waiting to take the talk her way. The two women attacked him together.
"You must eat a good breakfast, Mr. Power. You've a long day before you. You were very late abed, Mr. Power. You can't burn the candle at both ends."
"He's always late, Mrs. Elliott, when he comes back from Surprise." The women shook their heads at each other. "And how was Miss Neville, Mr. Power?"
"She was very well, thanks. I must get a turkey or a wallaby. I've lost my appetite for curry and steak half the week, and steak and curry the other half."
"And me so put about with the breakfast," exclaimed Mrs. Elliott, twisting her apron. "All men are the same, ungrateful, every man jack o' them. As soon look for gratitude from calves in a branding yard. Now I suppose as Miss Neville she'll be turning over a date for the wedding?"
"You're learning too many secrets, Mrs. Elliott."
"I know more than other folk already."
"And that means?"
Mrs. Elliott twirled her apron once more and looked wise. "I'm hinting nothing. I know where Mick O'Neill goes of a night."
Power tipped himself back in the chair. "What are you cackling over this morning? I hope your news is fresher than last?"
"What's he running after that gel for?"
"I've not heard of any girl."
"He's a good fer nothing fellow, and the little hussy's no better."
Maggie took up the tale. "They're all stupid on her 'cos she has a few looks. That's all a man wants."
"They're not all like that, Meg. Mr. Power here, he has more sense. He took up with Miss Neville, and though she's as nice as may be, her looks are nothing out of the bag."
Power said something under his breath. He went on with his breakfast, and the women despaired of him. In the end, out of a full mouth, he said:—
"You had better see Scandalous Jack. I'm too hungry for talking. He wanted to tell me a lot this morning."
"That nasty little man! I wouldn't demean myself with him. I told him half an hour since I'd put a kettle o' water over him if he showed his ugly face in at the door agen."
The women withdrew routed.
In a little while Power followed them from the room. Standing in the verandah, he lit a pipe. His swag had gone on in the cook's waggon, and there remained only a few minutes' office work and he might get away. The old willingness to be in the saddle took hold of him. His heart was in the cattle work. The longest day made him more ready for the next. A good horse, a whip to his hand, the bellow of a mob in his ears—these things kept his heart evergreen.
Morning had come, the birds had whistled him from bed, the sun had climbed up; but the glamour of last night had not passed quite away. He found himself—and little pleased he was at it—he found himself more than once waking to the day's affairs from dreams of a girl holding up a lantern at the doorway of a tent by a river.
Mrs. Elliott had forgiven the churlishness of breakfast, and waited with an ample lunch, secure from sun and flies. He promised to be back some day or other, took up a dripping water-bag and his whip, and passed to the stable. The black horse, saddled and waiting, fidgeted by the door, and Scandalous Jack was taking aggressive charge.
Scandalous thrust up his hard face to shout a warning.
"He'll be shaking yer up, boss, I reckon. He fooled me half an hour 'fore I had the saddle on him."
"Wants a day's work," Power said. He looked over the girths and secured the water-bag. All he did was gentle and cautious. At the touch of the wet canvas the black horse snorted, reared up and swung about. Scandalous, very fond of his corns, retired in a hurry. With voice and a firm handling Power kept the beast in check. He had completed matters in a few minutes. Whereupon he coiled the whip on his arm, and drew together the reins. He went about the mounting with cunning, and when the moment of moments came, was in the saddle in one movement.
The black horse squealed, and its head went down between its legs as a stone from a catapult. It came high off the ground, all four feet together, in a great bucking plunge which tried all Power's skill to ride. The ground fell away from him and spun about, there came to his ears a great straining of leather, and he knew a fierce shock as the brute went to earth. Instinct set him leaning back, with legs fierce gripping and toes down pointing. Horse and rider went up again, with a heave tremendous beyond belief, and there was an instant when Power stared down at emptiness. They were down and up in one breathing, and away with great bounds that threw them across the yard. A heave, a thud, a grunt and a swing brought them about, andon the heels of it they were going up into the air again. Down then and up into space again, all four feet together, groaning with the effort, while the hot dust streamed into Power's face. The rally was over in a dozen seconds, and the horse stood heaving, and Power settled himself in the saddle.
"Rough horse that!" Scandalous shouted from the fence.
"He makes it too hot to last."
"Don't take him cheap on that lay. He'll be rid of yer yet. He'll give yer all you know one of these days, and I'm taking no odds on who's the better."
It had just turned eight o'clock when Power began the ride, but already the sun was powerful, and the birds flagged at their songs. He journeyed at walking pace, watching the horse carefully the first few miles. Last traces of early cool were departing. A few threads of gossamer shimmered among the spikes of the grasses, and blundering hoofs tore them apart. A few feeding kangaroos sat at late breakfast. The homestead moved behind the trees, and he and the beast he rode were all that passed across the plain.
He grew contented at once now he had made a beginning of the day's work. As another man forgets his ill-humours in the counting-house,or the library, or his mistress's bower, so Power turned for distraction to his saddle and his whip. A bushman's heart was his birthright; a bushman's cunning was the legacy of fiery summer afternoons on horseback, and frosty winter dawns spent abroad. In the dreariest page of Nature he found reading. His eye was quick to read the riddle of the ways. The fall of a hill, the sweep of a dry creek bed, a few patterings of passage in the dust—these answered most questions he asked. In that country was no better judge of where to come up with a mob of cattle, nor one, be it night or day, who rode straighter to a point. He passed over the plain sitting easy in the saddle, pipe in mouth, whip on arm, his head fallen forward, as a man sits asleep. But his eyes peered abroad, and his brain was active. He rode to muster as the knight of old rode to the tourney.
His way led by a short cut through the ranges. The trysting place lay just beyond. At a few miles end, he was entering a pass of magnificence. The ranges lifted up on either hand, with mighty boulders resting about their sides, and difficult caves—home of bat and wallaby—opening dark mouths. The way took him below stunted trees, and over brittle fallen boughs, and across stones which slipped beneath the horse's feet. A second gully crossed thehead of the pass, and escapes led into the hills. Here was an old watch-ground of the blacks. The difficult part of the journey had come. Power left the saddle for the ground. The path turned left-handed, to clamber over a multitude of rocks to easier country. In the rains a waterfall swirled this way. Here and again here a pool of clear water was lodged in a basin of rock, and above one such pool Nature had scooped a shelter in the hill. Past tribes of men had left rude paintings on the wall. With snorts and steadying cries the journey was done, and man and beast came out into a wide timbered prospect.
It was a fair spot to hap on in that desolate country, with a good gathering of trees about a dry creek bed, and one or two late birds twittering in them, and a muster of insects going about their day's work over the hot ground. There were grateful patches of shade. This was Ten Mile. At noon O'Neill had vowed to be at hand with the mob. Power looked at the sun and guessed at ten o'clock. He turned over whether to go farther; but a wait in the shade was better argument than a ride in the open. He took the saddle from the black horse, and tethered the beast in a cool place, and he himself lay down at hand for a pipe and his thoughts. Presently a thread of smoke curled into the hotair, driving away disappointed the flies which came in their hosts a-visiting.
It was pleasant work lying here in the shade with nothing to disturb a fellow for an hour or two until the cattle came along, and the sunshine heat finding a way into the shadow to make a man drowsy. It was good to lie flat on one's back, blinking at the sunbeams through the leaves. It was good, too, to suck at a pipe and watch the blue smoke go up. And again it was good listening to the twitter of a few birds, and—opening eyes—to see insects examining the ins and outs of the tree trunks. It brought memories of other such lazy hours, snatched between a hard morning and a hard afternoon. Give a man good health and work, and there was little else he wanted to bring content.
How the smell of the scrub lingered this morning. Ordinarily the sun drove it early away. If he lived too long and became an old blind man, he would get someone to lead him to a patch of scrub at early morning that he might sharpen memory there.
It must be hot in the open. The sunlight was burning him wherever a break in the boughs let it through. He was a lucky chap to own this great stretch of country, and every head of cattle on it, to have good horses to ride, and to be his own master. No doubt there wereunlucky devils who never had these good things. A man knew little enough of other men when all was said and done, and cared little enough for their troubles either, if truth be told.
Yet things were a shade out of tune to-day, pretend as he might; put the feeling by as he would. Presently he sat up. With an oath, he knocked out his empty pipe on a stone. He whipped himself for a fool. He was a man with a mind of his own, he was in love with another woman; and a girl twenty years old, who had not spoken a dozen words to him, was taking up his thoughts all day. Ah! but she was the most perfect thing he had known.
The heat of the day came into the spot of his choosing, the sun climbed into the sky, and he judged the hour towards noon. He rose to his feet, pushed a handkerchief about his face, and grew busy gathering sticks on a square of barren ground.
There came through the timber, after many minutes, a far-off murmur, such as might travel from a distant surge of the sea, or from a heavy wind moving in a hollow. It was vague, and many would have been at pains to pick it up; but the horse lifted ears to it, and Power came out of his brown study. It arrived as a murmur; but the passing minutes gave it volume. It was strangely exciting. Power knew it from thebeginning. It was the roar of a mob of cattle driven against their will.
Presently the sound turned to broken bellowing, and into the tumult entered the snapping of boughs, the bang of whips, and the fierce voices of men. Power stood up. The mob must round the foot of a hill before coming into view. He laid a hand on the horse's bridle and waited for them.
They came in a little while—one or two as a beginning, afterwards the body of them. They dawdled forward, picking at the grass tufts, horning one another, and lifting heads to bellow. They showed to the eye a hardy, good-coloured mob of store cattle, the big part of them six-year bullocks, more ready for a doze by a waterhole than for this journey in the sun with men hanging at their houghs. They counted two hundred maybe, and three white stockmen and a couple of blackfellows handled them, turning them on the flanks, and hunting them forward in the rear. They were a suspicion nervous, and gave Power a wide berth; but the noon heat made them easy handling. By the time they were round the foot of the hill, a stockman, pulling about his horse, rid himself of their company and cantered across. The man pulled up a big chestnut animal a few yards from Power, and showed a happy, handsome faceunder a big brimmed hat. He was a good figure of a man, riding his horse with a swagger. He had wide kneepads to his saddle, and long rusty spurs at his heels, a shirt wide open at the neck, and in his hand a whip. His skin was brown. Sitting there, he looked a hardy fellow, one to put a good day's work behind him.
He had pulled his horse up from the canter. "Day, Mr. Power."
"Good day, Mick. They came along all right?"
"Yes, boss. A strong lot. Good travellers. An' quiet enough too. We'll make Morning Springs Wednesday certain."
Power nodded his head. "Did you cut those few out?"
"All bar a half-dozen. We can fix 'em at the camp to-night. There's a roan bull to be dropped. I don't know how he came with this lot. I didn't see him when we picked 'em up. He wants watching. He's cranky in the head." So speaking, the man leaned over and pointed his whip at a beast on the outside of the mob. "I suppose we're making camp here for an hour or two."
"My oath, yes. I'll get a fire going."
Mick O'Neill turned his horse about and put it to the canter. Again he made a figure becoming his name as the daddy stockman for ahundred miles about. Power filled a quart pot at the water-bag, and built and lit a fire. The flames rushed to embrace the hot wood. Others of the company arrived with filled quart pots and pushed them into the flames. The blackfellows held the cattle until they had drawn out and dropped to their knees. The horses were unsaddled and unbitted. The quart pots came from the fire. The tea was made. The sticks were trodden into the sand, and the company took themselves into the shade, to sprawl there, one eye waiting for the cattle, one hand waiting for the flies.
They kept to camp through the heat of the day, and little was spoken the while. They smoked and stared up through a lattice of leaves at the lofty sky. The fierceness of the sun was spent when Power gave the signal by sitting up. The horses were saddled, the men found their seats—there was galloping of hoofs, a banging of whips, and the mob flowed on the journey over the plain.
It was half-past six in the evening and the sun was down on the western sky, when the mob splashed into the shallows at the lower end of Pelican Pool. Cleanskin Joe, the lean rusty cook, who had spent a busy life darkening the doorways of most hotels in Queensland and New South Wales, had arrived there early in themorning, steering a two-horse buckboard loaded up with swags, camp furniture and tucker bags. Cleanskin Joe had built his fireplace, had put his Johnnie-cake in the ashes, had talked half the day with Jackie the black horse-tailer, coming after him with spare horses. Now, with his stew simmering, he cast a hundred glances into the distance for the tardy cattle. His eyes, once quick to meet an emergency, were bleared a trifle from that constant darkening of doors. But finally they and his ears could not be deceived, and he peered into the camp oven and turned the contents with a long-handled ladle.
Now all the world knows that cooks from sheep stations give you grilled chops and curry and stew the round of the year, and cooks on cattle stations serve grilled steak and curry and stew until you turn aside in sorrow; but Cleanskin Joe was a man of resource, and every breakfast he chopped up rissoles, rolling them on the back of the buckboard where had gathered the grime of ten years' honest service. Because of this, and because too many whiskies had cured him of a love of water, either for inside or outer use, he had won his name of Cleanskin Joe.
He was a man of history.
Once upon a time Cleanskin Joe and the Honourable So-and-so, both out at elbows with the world just then, had found a copper show around forty miles from the nearest hotel. They woke up one morning on bowing terms with wealth. They had broken a new lode going any percentage you like of ore. They stared at it without a word to say.
The Honourable So-and-so had a vision. He saw dogs and women and wine.
And Cleanskin Joe saw the price of a whisky.
And Mr. So-and-so saw horses and cards and more wine.
And Cleanskin Joe saw the price of another whisky.
And Mr. So-and-so saw freedom from the Jews, and green tables and yet more wine.
And Cleanskin Joe saw prices of endless whiskies.
Then said Mr. So-and-so, "Our one chance, old man, is to miss the hotel." Cleanskin Joe wagged his head. Said Mr. So-and-so, "We must cut the waggon road to miss it by a dozen miles."
They drove their road over rise and down dip, plying the tools with right good will because of that vision. One night Mr. So-and-so would say—"How about direction, dear fellow? Are we enough to the right?" And next night it was Cleanskin Joe. "I reckon we're safe to miss that blankey place now, holdin' left as we're doing."
But who shall win when Fate playshide-and-seek? On the hottest day of the hottest summer in man's memory, they drove the road into a clearing of the bush where the doors of the Drink-me-Dry Hotel leaned open to meet them.
. . . . . . .
Cleanskin Joe blinked his eyes through the smoke when Power cantered up. "Evening, boss. I was lookin' for yer an hour since. What time do yer want tucker ready?"
"Half an hour will finish us. There's a bit of cutting out to do. What about a drop of tea?"
"Right on the spot. Take care. It's durned hot."
Power drank the tea, and urged his horse about. The bullocks straggled from the pool where they had been drinking. Power had given orders to keep the horses from water, and the cattle were rounded up on the way from the shallows.
Presently the mob was bunched. First there came a time of talking and shaking of heads. At the end of it, Power and O'Neill worked a way into the jumble of animals, looking this way and that for the half dozen cows, and keeping a wide eye for accidents. The beasts gave them fair roadway, backing over here and there with snorting and a sweep of the head. "Here we are," Power said.
He leaned a little forward and with a nice movement dropped his whip on to the quarters of a red cow. On the instant the black horse answered the signal. Power gave the reins to its neck and sat back with waiting whip. Not far away O'Neill followed ready for what might come. The black horse moved to the red cow's shoulder, and steered her with a pretty cunning to the outside of the mob, nor lost place a single time, though she twisted, turned and propped with skill. It was a game of trick and shift to liven the eye of any man. She came presently to the outermost circle, bellowing with nervousness and hurry. The black horse was at her shoulder goading her farther into the open. She lost her head and trotted a few paces from the mob, and that moment turned the scales against her. As the black horse got into his stride, Power let out his whip, and O'Neill came up behind with a hurry of hoofs. They fell upon her with a scramble of blows. She bellowed, threw up her head, tried to swing back to the mob, slipped, heard the bang of whips about her ears, and took to her heels across the plain, with both men at her tail. She showed them her heels for a quarter of a mile. "She's right!" Power cried out.
The last of the cows was cut out as dusk began to settle. There remained only a few minutes todark. "There's that bull yet," Power said. He sat on a heaving horse, and lifted his hat from his head. The men pushed a passage into the mob again. The herd was showing rather nervous, and took handling to hold together. The roan bull met their coming with a bellow and a shake of the head. But the black horse stood to his shoulder, and the journey to the outside began. All the way the bull showed little liking for the hustling, but his efforts to trick the enemy availed him nothing, and he found himself of a sudden on the outside of the mob, and a black horse urging him farther into the open. In a flash he turned very ugly. It was the turn of a hair whether he rushed or not. There was no waiting to add up chances, a wasted moment meant his loss into the mob. Power brought his whip down, and a long broad mark curled up in the smoking hair. The bull roared and dropped his head. He was coming this time with no two meanings. Power swept up the reins to pull the horse aside. Ill luck was at his back. He found himself jammed in a press of cattle. He shook his feet clear of the stirrups. He made ready with the whip again. He cut into the bull again, and he felt the horse go beneath him, and himself falling back into a huddle of bellowing beasts. With all his might he pulled the horseclear of the horns. Horse and bull and he came down in a scurry on the ground. He rolled clear of the saddle. He scrambled on to a knee. He spat the dust from his mouth. And then the mob at his back split, and O'Neill rode up in a fury, a whip waiting in his hand. The bull was on its knees, jerking to its feet. A hurry of blows fell about its face. It stumbled, slipped, and sprawled on its back. The whip stopped falling, and a man jumped from his horse to the ground. With great quickness he caught up the bull's tail, and thrust a foot into a hollow of its hip. Thus he held it on the ground without any great effort. There was shouting as the men called to each other.
"Are yer orl right?"
"Think so."
"Can you get clear?"
"Aye!"
On the words followed a scramble of hoofs and a heave as the black horse gained his haunches. Power was on his feet, and had thrown a leg across the saddle. Another scramble, another heave gave the horse its legs and Power a seat a-top of it. Power swung it to one hand with rein and spurs, and leant far from the saddle towards the horse standing by. "Let go when you can!" he cried out. "I have your horse!"
The man on the ground sprang clear of the bull. He clapped both hands on the arch of the saddle, and vaulted into the seat. Shaken, and with lost breath, the bull found its feet, but it had not thrown the sweat from its eyes before the whips fell on it with a cruel fury. Its courage was no more. It took to its heels across the plain.
"Close go that," O'Neill said. "Are you hurt any?"
"No, I fell clear. You got me out of a hole. I'll do as much for you some day."
"All in a day's work," O'Neill said. "'Struth! I reckon it's time for a pipe."
Quite suddenly the night stepped into the shoes of day. Darkness arrived in a hurry, and the stars pushed themselves out of the sky. The camp was chosen, the first watch was set. The horses, hobbled and with bells about their necks, moved musically into the shadows, the little company found the way to the cook's fire. There was stew in the camp oven, and a ladle at hand. A pile of tin dishes was on the ground. The Johnnie-cake waited on a box, and the earth lay spread for a table. There is many a worse roof than the sky offers, and many a more restless bed than a mattress of grasses.
Supper ended, and there came the hour when pipes are pulled out. Power went out of thefirelight presently, and listened to the mob getting to camp for the night. There was a little bellowing from over there, and now and then sounds of scurry, but nothing to cause unquiet. He came back to O'Neill. "I'm going across to Gregory's for a while," he said. "He was talking about a copper show of his. I'll be back for my watch. I don't think you will have any trouble. Good night." He thought O'Neill looked up over-quickly. "I don't think you will have any trouble," he repeated. "Would you sooner I stayed? I will if you like."
"There's no need, boss," said the other indifferently. "I didn't know you knew them over there." The man began whistling.
"So long, then."
"So long, boss."
Power picked up his whip by way of company, and took the road to the camp. The journey was done in ten minutes' time. The moon had not risen, and he found the place in darkness, and from somewhere at hand came the sudden bark of the dog. The tents were empty, but the hessian building—a shabby affair—showed lamplight through half-a-dozen holes, and sounds of movement came from inside. The gouger called out roughly to the dog, but the brute barked on at full voice, backing away into the shadows. Power brought his whip-handle down on the door-post. The doorway was empty of a door, and he looked into a room lit by a couple of lanterns. He had time to see a table and seats, knocked together haphazard, and a woman of middle life bending over a basin at the farther end. Then the opening was filled by the gouger, who peered out into the dark.
"Good evening," Power said.
"Same to you," said the gouger. And headded with a wrinkling up of his eyes—"I can't see more than half way through a brick wall in this durned light. Anything up?"
"I'm camping on the Pool to-night. You told me to take a look at your show when I was round. I've come along on the chance. Maybe I've turned up at an off time. In that case it's my own funeral, that's all. Couldn't get away before."
"So that's the lay. You're right enough. I'll fix you in a shake. It's five minutes through the scrub. I can pick yer up a specimen or two what's lying round about the shanty, if the women have let 'em be. But, but"——the gouger began to lose his words and screw his mouth up and finger his beard——. "Strike me," he said. "Strike me if I know you."
The woman had left her work, and now peered over his shoulder. She nudged him. "Yes, yer do, boss," she said in a heavy whisper. "It's Mr. Power, of Kaloona—him as brought yer back last night."
"You aren't getting at me?" said he of the beard in an aside.
"Aw!"
Then Gregory, the gouger, turned very friendly.
"Mr. Power it is," he cried out, rolling the upper half of his body, and showing his dirtyteeth. "It's Mr. Power come for a look at the show. My eyes haven't got the hang o' the dark yet. Come inside, Mr. Power. I'm glad you found the way here, square and all I am."
With something of a to-do the couple backed from the doorway, and Power went into the room. Two lamps, placed high up, gave the light, which was poor and depressing, and round about the globes beat frantically a great army of insects. Power went into the room, and the close air made him pause. He stopped to blink his eyes at the light. A moment later he looked up, and across the table, busy at some cups in a basin, he saw the girl he had dreamed of half the day.
The wonder of her beauty came over him again with a feeling akin to pain. She was looking him in the face with frank curiosity. He it was who felt embarrassed and first turned away. He laughed at his scruples next moment, and returned her stare for stare. He looked her over slowly to discover her secret. And he succeeded ill. For her loveliness was anchored to no this or that. She stood in the shabby room, a jewel of such price as asked no setting. Her beauty would never stale, having found the secret of the dawn which arrives morning by morning, ready and wonderful, though all else is passing by in the turning of the years. Themen, who presently would come to kneel in homage there, would wonder at this glorious body no less the last hour than the first.
Her hair was brown and shining, and heaped up about her head. Her eyes were of a dark colour, of great size, and moment by moment sleepy with dreams or bright with brief fires. Her mouth was heavy with passion and gaoler of a thousand quick moods; her lips were bright, and behind them little teeth gleamed white and charming. Her dress was open at the neck, where her firm throat swept to her bosom. Her arms, bare to the elbows, had taken their brown from the sun, but their shapeliness was a wonder and delight. Her hands were slender and quick as they moved in the water. What age was she? Twenty, it might be.
"Good evening, Mister," she said.
"Good evening," he answered.
Gregory and his wife were hovering at his back. It was "Sit down, Mr. Power," and "Make yerself at home, Mr. Power. I wish we had a better seat for you, Mr. Power; but we haven't been here above two week, and the boss isn't for doing more graft than he need."
"It's that show, as I've told the old gel. It tires a bloke out," said Gregory. The woman answered him with a curl of the lip.
Power sat down on an up-ended box. Hecould put his elbow on the table, which had been knocked together slap-dash with a few nails. After further to-do Gregory sat at hand with a pipe in his mouth. The women started again on their business. In the pause in matters which came on this sitting down Power felt the staleness of the room. He had time to wonder why he had come. He took a second look at Mrs. Gregory. She showed the ruins of good looks which the climate and hard living had squandered. Her face was full of greed and craft. The man at his side was a mixture of rogue and fool. Power had given up a smoke and a yarn in the cool for this. For he didn't care the crack of a whip for the show. His line was cattle, not copper. Then the girl had brought him here. And to-morrow he was to see the girl he loved. He was a fool for his pains.
He was a fool for his pains, yet he would not have been more content staying away. Something drew him here by roots deep down in him. How her beauty moved him! Here stood a savage child, with her longings crudely waiting on her lips, possessed of a body which was holy. Why was she here, growing up alone and unwatched, to age before her time? It was the law that painted the wings of the butterfly and brought the cripple into the world; the law,jumbled beyond man's following, that caused suns to blaze and worlds to groan in labour that meanest gnat might spin a giddy hour.
He must pull himself together.
"That was your mob on the road this afternoon, I reckon?" the woman asked, looking up of a sudden.
"Yes, we came from the Ten Mile."
"A handy lot," Gregory said, wagging his head, and spitting with a pretty skill through the doorway.
"Do you reckon to be long on the road with them?" the woman asked once more.
"I'm travelling to Morning Springs. We ought to be back inside the week."
The washing had come to an end. The girl collected the clean crockery and grew busy at a shelf. The woman threw the water outside the door, and dried her hands on a rag. "You come for a look at the boss's show?" she said as she finished.
"Yes, I heard one or two speaking of it, and thought I might come along."
"Do you do anything in the copper way?"
"I've an interest in a show or two. I don't go much on it."
"The boss's show looks A1. One of the Surprise men was down for a look round in the morning."
"Ah, who was that?"
"Mr. —— Moll, what's his name?"
"Mr. King," said the girl.
"And what did King say about it?"
"He talked big enough," Gregory put in. "But he seemed as interested in the gel there. He said he might be along agen."
"Dad, yer tongue's too big for yer mouth."
"Well, he seemed uncommon shook on yer. I reckon he thought yer show better than my show. A-haw, haw, haw! A-haw, haw, he-haw!"
"Mr. King is a pleasant-spoken gentleman," Mrs. Gregory said.
"And," said Gregory, "I'd have thought him pleasanter if he had come to a bargain."
The girl, Moll Gregory, came back from the shelf. She put both hands upon the table, and bent a little over it. Her great eyes looked into Power's face. "Do you know Mr. King?" she said.
"I often run across him."
"Wot is he like?"
"King's a good fellow."
"He says funny things."
"What did he say?"
"Oh, he looked at me, you know, like men look when they're after a lark, and he says: 'I came to look at copper and I found gold.' Icouldn't take up his meaning quite, but I guessed he was trying to fool me."
The woman interrupted. "Maybe you're thinking of making an offer for the show?"
"Don't rush him, old woman. Maybe I'll hang on to it."
"No, yer won't. You'll sell out and clear from the game. I want to see some life. I'm tired of these dull holes, I am. You'll fool the thing up and get took down, as you've been a dozen times."
Something in this sentence put Gregory on a new turn of thought, for he put his pipe on the table, clawed his beard a moment, and got up. "D'yer know anything of wire strainers?" He began to hunt in a corner and brought out parts of a clumsy machine, together with a tangle of wire. The woman flew at him.
"If you'd give by that foolery and do a bit of shovelling we might be better off. Who wants a wire strainer where there isn't a fence for two hundred mile? You make me sick, yer do."
"Steady on, mother." Gregory fell into explanation, and in time brought out a potato digger of his invention, and illustrated that fortune was but a stay-away. Mrs. Gregory gave over talk, and drew an ancient illustrated paper from somewhere, and sat down to turn the leaves. The girl employed herself with onething and another, going in and out of the doorway, and seeming intent on her business; but Power knew she watched him, and he himself missed nothing she did. Her beauty was beyond the telling. Whether she walked, whether she sat, whether she stood a moment by the doorway peering into the night, she was so wonderful that nothing else was worth the looking.
What was happening to him to-night!
At last Gregory was persuaded to put his inventions back in their corner and light lanterns. "You'd better come along, gel," he said. "We may want you to hold a light." He and Moll Gregory and Power set out, and Power came to remember the journey as many pictures of one girl who passed from light into shadow and from shadow into light. She strode beside him with the free walk of a goddess. They arrived at the shaft, and she stood over the black mouth, holding a lantern to guide the downward clamber. From his station at the bottom, Power saw her bending overhead, with one hand on the windlass for support, and the stars of the sky gathered together for background. He looked here and there at the broken earth as Gregory bade him, and the dull green of the copper appeared in abundance. It was dirty work and hot, with ever a trickle of dirt down the back of the neck, and he wished himself well up at the top again.They had climbed up presently, and very soon had made the road home. The close air of the hut gave them ill greeting. Gregory put down the lantern noisily on the table, blew a big breath out of his mouth, and ran a finger round the neck of his shirt.
"This weather's no good for climbing about in," he said.
The woman looked up from her paper with a keen face. "Wot did you think of the show, Mr. Power?"
"I don't know much about that sort of thing, Mrs. Gregory. It looks thundering good."
Gregory began to think. "There's specimens about the place," he said, "but durn me if I know where to come on them."
"You left two or three by the pool, Dad."
"Could you find 'em?"
"Maybe."
"Have a look then, gel."
"It doesn't matter," Power said.
"It will be no worry." Moll Gregory picked up the lantern and was going out of the door. Power crossed the room of a sudden.
"I'll come with you. It will save bringing them back."
"Orl right, Mr. Power."
They went out into the dark. The moon would rise in a few minutes; but now the nightwas dark and still and close. The sky was filled with stars shining with the fierce heat of the tropics. The Southern Cross lay against the horizon; but in the North, Orion was climbing up, and the Scorpion curled his tail in the middle of the sky. The dog shuffled from the shadows after them, and very soon man and girl had passed between the trees by the bank of the waterhole. They were walking side by side, the girl bearing the lantern, and it was as they came upon the bank that Moll Gregory broke silence.
"It was round here," she said, pausing to take bearing. "Dad left them one day when he couldn't be bothered taking them home."
She put the lantern this way and that, and they made careful search. But their trouble was empty of profit.
"This is where they was," she said. "Maybe Mr. King lifted them. There's been no one else this way."
"It doesn't matter," Power answered. "The show was good enough."
They were looking into the Pool, which the gloom made mysterious and of great size. The water was fretted with the images of stars. Big moths came out of the dark to beat against the lantern. Power spoke because it was impossible to stand there without a reason.
"A grand place this."
"It isn't so bad. Bit slow after Mount Milton."
"Do you want people?"
"I'm not particular; but a gel wants a bit of life sometimes. It's terrible weary of a time without a sight of anyone new. Sometimes I'm fair spoiling for a bit of fun."
"What do you do with yourself? Do you read?"
"I'm no great hand at learning. I got no schoolin'."
"Never been to school?"
"No, we always lived out back where there was none. I've not been christened neither. Never saw a church for that matter. There was a parson what came round our parts once with a pack-'orse. I fair scared him out of his life when I let on about it. He was for fixing me straight then."
"Why didn't you let him?"
"Something happened. I forget."
There came a space of silence. She lifted her great eyes. "Yes, I'm spoiling for a bit of life. I'm sick of seeing nothing. I reckon maybe you've moved about, Mister?"
"I travelled a bit."
"That Mr. King, he's been about a bit."
"Did he say so?"
"Yes, he said—aw, it doesn't matter what he said. It was something stupid."
"What was it?"
"Aw——"
"Tell me."
"Aw, he only said as he'd been all over the world, but hadn't met a gel to equal me. He said all the silks and satins in the world would never do me proper. He said as he'd be back in a day or two. Do you reckon he'll come?"
It was Power who was put out of countenance. He said after a moment—"D'you want him to come?"
"I won't be worried if he do. He knows how to talk a gel round."
The moon began to rise. As it left the horizon it was as large as a cartwheel and as rich as a copper platter. Its light began to find a way into many places. The waters of the Pool grew very fair. But nothing in that prospect was fair as the girl at Power's side.
Who knows what thoughts just then came knocking at the doors of his brain? Truth to tell he fell to frowning and nursing his lower lip. The girl was impatient before he came out of his brown study.
"I have to get back," he said. "The moon is up. I am taking next watch."
"Mick O'Neill is with you, isn't he?"
"He is in charge now. I relieve him. D'you know him?"
"He's often this way."
They were on the way back to the hut. "Is he interested in copper, too?"
The girl looked up in a puzzled way.
"Well, copper or no copper," Power said of a sudden, "you've a straight man there. I don't know any better one. That's about it."
He fell into thought again, walking at no great pace with eyes upon the ground. His preoccupation brought a pout to the girl's lips. She said: "You're to be a week on the road, aren't you?"
"That's about it."
"Will you be seeing us agen?"
"Would you like me to?"
"I reckon dad likes a yarn of a night."
"And what about yourself?"
"Aw, yes." Saying this she looked up and laughed.
"Listen, girl, here's the camp. Stand still. King told you he had never met a girl to equal you. I can tell you more than that. I can tell you that no queen with her crown on her head and her throne underneath her ever held the power you hold. You can make the wise man foolish, and fill the fool with learning. You can take the clean man to the mire, and cause thedirty man to wash his hands. Ah, girl! don't listen."
"Aw, get out," she said.
"Back agen." Gregory called out, pushing his bunch of dirty beard out at the door. "Did you tumble on them?"
"No luck," Power said. "It's no matter. There isn't any doubt about the show. I'm back to say good night. I've my watch to stand over there."
"Won't you have a cup of tea," said the woman, coming to the door.
"Not this time; I can't wait. I'm sorry."
"Ye'll be back sometime?"
"Yes, I'll look you up in a few days. Maybe you'll have opened up the show a bit by then. Well, good night."
"Good night, Mr. Power."
"Good night, Mr. Power."
"So long, Mister."
Next day Power kept his promise, and rode into Surprise as soon as he could. He let go the horse in a yard, and tramped the stony stretch which lies before the house. Outside the accountant's office he came across Mr. Neville and Maud. He heard Maud's cry, "Well done, Jim," and the old man waved a stick in the act of pouncing on a passer by. Maud came up in great glee.
"How quick you've been. I was not expecting you till sunset."
"I've had good luck. They're a strong lot. Mick O'Neill is taking them to the hollow. You must ride out with me to-night for a look at them."
"But I can't, Jim. And I'd love to. These wretched people come to-day. Don't you remember? I can't leave them to father the first night."
"I forgot them. Hang it! that settles it, I suppose."
"We're on the way to meet the coach now. Come along. You have nothing else to do, have you?"
"I'll come, of course. You ought to pull that hat down, girl. Your face is getting burnt to bits."
"You said you liked me brown."
Old Neville was hard engaged with the passer by. The two people heard his harangue, and saw him blowing cigar smoke in a hurry. Soon he drove the enemy through the office door, pursuing him hard in retreat. At once Maud went close to Power.
"Jim," she said, "I've been so nice to father all day. He is splendid just now. As soon as you get him alone, ask him about our marriage. He'll be reasonable this time, I know. I'll find you a chance. Why, Jim, what's the matter to-day?"
"Matter with me?"
"Yes, you're down on your luck, aren't you?"
"You are always thinking something, Maud."
The thread of talk was broken, and they wandered into the office with nothing to say. It was built of iron sheets, held together with wooden beams. Frequent ledgers and other dreary volumes took their rest upon the tables, and files of ageing papers dangled by strings along the walls. The dust of spent willy-willyshad found the upper shelves, and many an industrious fly had left a lifetime's labour on ceiling and woodwork. The corpulent cockroach walked here after the heat of the day, and the spider spread his net in the loftier corners. For at Surprise a happy line is drawn between the must-be and the need-not, and the word "broom" is not used among the best people.
The place was full of a sickly heat, but the day was Saturday, and King only had stayed behind. They found him writing at the lower end. Half-way down Neville had secured his victim between a table and a chair. The person in this unhappy case was an elderly man of a very broken appearance. He might have been a gentleman a long time ago. His hair was grey, but a moustache of any colour you please drooped over his mouth. His eyes were pale blue, with a blink, and his chin grew a day-old stubble of beard. He wore round his neck a collar of many washings and a doubtful ironing, and a tie in a limp old age. He wore no coat, which is the summer fashion; his trousers were of khaki stuff and wrinkled meekly at his boots. The toes of his boots leaned up in search of something kinder than the stones. On the little finger of his left hand showed the signet ring of the house of Horrington, of Such-and-such Hall, England.
Prosperity and Mr. Horrington were coldly acquainted. Horrington was an idealist among men. Some pass their days mapping out new continents, others knit their brows over the printing press and the steam engine. Horrington had resolved on reading the riddle of how to build a fortune within call of a hotel and without hard work. He had met with poor success. He had eschewed hard work, and he had lived within reach of a hotel; but prosperity had shrugged shoulders at him. Devotion to an idea had lost him the affection of his cousin, Sir John; had found him a passage to Australia; had drifted him presently from town to bush. Unable to contend singly with ill-fortune, he had married a faded woman, who took him and his burdens, no one knew why. Mrs. Horrington painted a little, sang a little, worked her needle a little, played the piano a little—and these arts she taught the daughters of those parents who are not exacting if terms be cheap. So Horrington had kept constant to his idea. But the lean times had brought the pair to an alien land. For at Surprise they paint only when a new coat is due to the poppet-legs, and only ply the needle should a wall need repair. At Surprise the mouth-organ and the concertina soothe the ache for higher things.
The old man came to an end of his breath.
"Sir," Mr. Horrington began with a certain dignity. "You will own I have heard you with patience."
"Eh?" the old man grunted.
"And I repeat I have every right to complain on finding myself put on a beggarly allowance of water at a moment's notice."
"We may be doing a perish before the rains come."
"Why, Good Lord! sir, what's a kerosene tin of water to a family? My wife is not a strong woman, and like all women in poor health, she's ready to blame others for her shortcomings. She has it at the back of her mind that I make a difficulty carrying the water; though, Good Lord! I've scraped my shins often enough on the tins. When I turned up with a single bucket this morning, and the goat had to go short, she put the blame at once on me. She wouldn't listen until she saw for herself the tanks were locked. Then home she went to throw herself on the bed. 'Never enough wood chopped to light a fire, now no water to wash with, not a soul to speak to, never anything to look at'—that's what I listened to until I left the place."
"Where did ye go to?"
"I had an appointment."
"Near the hotel, I reckon."
"Your joke, sir, could be in better taste. I had business with one of the shift bosses."
"At the hotel?"
"We did happen to meet at the hotel."
"He, he!"
"Because I have been unfortunate, sir, I think there is no need for rudeness. In a politer country, where I have ridden my twice or three times weekly to my cousin's hounds, I——"
The old man broke up the audience with a flourish of his stick.
King left his work when Maud and Power arrived. "Oh, Jim, I've just remembered." Maud called out. "Mr. King was down at the river yesterday, and saw the pretty girl. You know whom I mean? Mr. King hasn't been the same since. None of his balances came right this morning. He said she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. Didn't you, Mr. King?"
"I expect so."
"Jim, you must see her, just to tell me it's true what they say. Would you think her the loveliest thing in the world?"
"I don't know."
"Don't look so glum over it. Will you go and see her?"
"I have seen her."
"You? When?"
"On the way home when I left you last time."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't think of it."
"You stupid! And what was she like?"
"Like? Oh, she was very pretty."
"Is that all you can say? Tell me about her. What was she doing?"
"Doing? I don't know what she was doing. She had a lantern in her hand."
"You want shaking, Jim! Mr. King told me much more. Didn't you look at her? Mr. King said a hundred shadows were at hide-and-seek in her hair, and when he came to talk about her eyes, he sat down—the words in his mouth stopped his tongue moving."
"Perhaps that is why Power says nothing now," King said.
"I hope not," Maud cried quickly. And she fell to teasing. "No, poor old Jim was thinking of his bullocks when he saw her."
"What should I have thought about, the cattle or Moll Gregory?"
"Neither. You should have been thinking of me. I see you know her name."
"Yes, I've learned that."
King shut up the ledger with a bang. "That's enough for Saturday. What's next? A smoke, a drink or the coach? I vote a drink."
"I vote the coach," Maud cried.
"Here's a cigarette," said Power. "You must find it hot here of an afternoon."
"I do. The sun gets round on to the wall, and I feel as charitable as a woman with an empty woodbox."
"You ought to give up this uncomfortable bachelor life, Mr. King," said Maud. "You ought to go down South and marry some nice girl."
"Alas! my purse is not as full as once it was. A fool and his money are soon parted, they say. I should have to marry a girl with money, and a girl and her money are equally soon married—by someone else."
Neville came up behind. "How ye do chatter, Maud. We'd better get along to that coach. Who's coming? King, ye had better come along." He jerked his head over his shoulder. "Hey, Horrington, ye can tell your wife she can have what water she wants and I'll be by to see you carry it." Marching four abreast, they passed out of the office.
Surprise is not a beautiful place. The hills holding it are the greenest in that country, and lean up and down in gentle curves. But the bottom of the basin has grown shabby with much use. Patches of sand cover it, in company with clumps of spinifex put out of repair by disillusioned goats. The tents and humpies of thecamp rise up on this in seedy and unordered rank, and low-born fowls doze at the doorways. In the middle of the congregation stands one building somewhat more gracious. A glittering roof protects it, and there is paint upon the walls. Above the doorway runs the legend—Surprise Valley Hotel.
On Saturday afternoon they keep holiday at Surprise. It is then the butcher kills for the second time in the week, and Mrs. Bloxham, Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Niven meet at his lean-to for Sunday's dinner and a half-hour gossip. They find talk until the coach arrives. About the same time, Bloxham, Johnson and Niven put an eye to their premises, pulling together a hole in the wall here, a slit in the roof there. They, in due course, turn steps to the hotel for the coming of the coach. At four o'clock, about that place, you find all the best people of Surprise.
The party from the office took the direction of the hotel. Old Neville with a great play of his stick held the lead. He kept the talk his way. Said he: "I can't make out what this fellow is coming for. Bringing his wife, too. She'd as well been left behind. He wrote something about coming for a holiday, being in poor health or something. It beats me what he thinks to find here. He'll be leavin' by the first coach, Ireckon. I shan't mind. I've too much on hand to be trotting round with beef tea. Maud will have to see to them."
"Selwyn is the name, isn't it?" Power said.
The old man nodded his head. "Huh, huh! There was an assayer of that name here once three or four year back. There was no houses then; didn't scarce run a tent, and he and me and a couple of other fellows was camped where the stable is. He had some damned silver thing something like a flute, and one night a feller out of pity asked him to play it. It was the horriblest row ever you heard. The chap that asked him made some excuse and went so far away he nearly got bushed. He went on playing till near midnight, I reckon. When we were all asleep the damned row woke us up again. I sits up and lets fly in a great rage: 'For God's sake, man,' I said, 'a fair thing is a fair thing. We've listened to you half the damned night already. D'ye think,' says I—and then I see all of a sudden it was the dingoes howling. He, he! Huh, huh, huh!"
"Father, you put a bit to that story every time."
"And it's not everyone knows how to do that, my girl."
"Hullo, here's a new place," Power said. "You've grown it since last week."
"Smith, the schoolmaster," answered the old man with a jerk of the head. "He's doing his week here. I mean to catch him home if I can. I'm the man for a gentleman that lets his horse into my feed-room."
"Let him alone, father. He is hunted enough without you. You must have seen him, Jim. He's the man that looks as though something is just about to happen. He's married to a book and never gets past the first chapter. We ought to be sorry for him. He's meant for a town. I don't know what brought him here. Let's be romantic. Perhaps he loved some girl and lost her."
"In that case," King said, "I'll keep my sympathy. There are enough mourners for the man who has loved some woman and lost her. My heart goes out to the man who has loved some woman and can't lose her."
"Huh, huh!" cried the old man from the lead. "Ye needn't pity him, Maud. He has some woman to follow him round."
They had come to a couple of tents standing solitary. Neville rattled in the doorway of the first with his stick. "Hey, there, who's home?" The tent door was open for the world to look inside. At a table, consisting of a large board placed on a couple of travelling bags, Mr. Smith sat writing. An armful of books was at hiselbow, and a litter of papers had tumbled round his heels. He was a man of fair complexion, going early bald on top. He sighed with great melancholy when the knock came, and put a hand to his forehead. On top of this he conjured up a mechanical smile and rose to his feet.