"Plenty lice--good cookee--welly ni'."

"By gummies! Hi seed the time Hi'd 'a' stopped yer jorrin', Dave!"

said a quavering voice, dominating some argument at the other end of the table.

"Hi seed me fightin' in a sawr-pit f'r tew hewrs an' sebmteen minits, by the watch; an' fetched 'ome in a barrer. Now wot's the hupshot?

Did 'n' Hi say, 'Look hout! we'll git hit to rights'?"

"But you (adv.) well thought we'd get rain," persisted the old man's antagonist--an open-mouthed, fresh-faced rouseabout, who was just undergoing that colonising process so much dreaded by mothers and deplored by the clergy.

"'Ow the (fourfold expletive) do you hundertake to know wot Hi thort?

But wot war the hupshot? 'Look hout!' ses Hi; 'we'll git hit to rights!'

An' did we, hor did we not? Straight, now, Dave?"

"You're like Ca.s.sandra, Jack," I observed, to fill up the pause which marked Dave's discomfiture.

"That bloke as spoke las', 'e's got more hunder 'is 'at nor a six-'underd-an'-fo'ty-hacre padd.i.c.k full o' sich soojee speciments as you fellers," said the old man impressively. "Wich o' you knows hanythink about Ca.s.sandra? Hin 'twenty-six hit war, an' hit seems like las' week.

Hi druv ole Major Learm'th to them races, Hi did; an' wen the 'osses comes hin, 'e looks roun' an' ses to 'is labour, a-stannin' aside the kerridge, 'Ca.s.sandra fust,' ses 'e, 'an' the rest nowheers,' ses 'e.

Now what's the hupshot? Collings'll see the day. Them's ole Jack Goldsmith's words, an' jis' you mark 'em. Collings'll see the day! Yes, Dave,"

continued the heart of the old man to the Psalmist; "Hi won ten bob on Ca.s.sandra that day; an' ten bob war ten bob them times," &c., &c.

All this while, I had been observing the silent swagman, who seemed to grow uneasy under my notice.

"I was remarking to a friend just now that I fancied I had seen you before,"

I explained.

"Well, they ain't actilly sore, so much as sort o' dazzly and dim,"

replied the man, in evident relief. "I been tryin' mostly everything this last four year, but I got better hopes now nor ever I had before.

A boundary man he give me a little bottle o' stuff the other day; an' it seems to be about the correct thing. Jist feels like a spoonful o' red-hot ashes in your eye; an' if a drop falls outside, it tums your skin black.

That ought to cut away the sort o' gla.s.sy phlegm off o' the optic nerve?"

"No; you want none of these burning quack remedies; you want three months'

careful treatment"----

"I ain't denyin' it," interrupted the man, sadly and sullenly. "An' I don't thank Tom for bein' so fast," he continued, raising his voice in attempted anger. "He ain't the man I took him for--an' I'm sayin' it to his face."

The general conversation dropped, and Tam, pannikin in hand, rose and advanced to his mate's side.

"An' wha' is't ye're sayin' till ma face, Andraw?" he asked loudly, but with gentleness and commiseratiom "Puir body's haird o' hearin',"

he explained to the company.

"I'm sayin' you'd no right to go blurtin' out about a man gittin' a stretch for a thing o' that sort. Seems like as if there was a job for one of us on this station, an' you was takin' a mean advantage to collar it.

It ain't like you"----

"Od, whisht! ye puir thrawart body! " interrupted Tam hastily.

"You might 'a' went about it a bit more manly," continued the other, with the querulousness of a sick child. "I don't deny I done three months; but so help"----

"Whisht! ye daft"----

"So help me G.o.d, I never deserved it. I knowed no more about it nor the babe unborn, till I got it off o' the bobby that nabbed me."

"But how could you (adj.) well get three months for a thing you (adj.) well knew nothing about?" asked the catechumen rouseabout. (Henceforth, the reader will have to supply from his own imagination the clumsy and misplaced expletive which preceded each verb used by this young fellow.)

"Ye moight foine it dang aisy yeerself, Dave," observed a middle-aged diner significantly.

"I been a misfortunate man, there's no denyin'," continued the swagman; "but I never done a injury to n.o.body in my life, so fur as I'm aware about."

"What did he get the three months for?" asked Dave, turning to Tam.

"Gin ye speer onythin' frae me," replied Carlyle's townie, after slowly surveying his questioner from head to foot, "A maun inform ye A ken naethin'

bit gude o' Andraw; an' A hae warkit wi' him mair nir fowr minth. 'Deed, the puir body taks owre muckle thocht fir ithers, an' disna' spare himsel' ava.

A ken naethin' aboot yon three minth; yon 's atween Andsaw an's Makker; an' A'll nae jidge onybody, sin' we maun a' be judgit by Ane wha jidgeth iprightly. Bit as lang's A hae a pickle siller, Andraw'll no want."

And Tam returned to his seat.

"What would I want of burnin' a stack?" remonstrated Andrew, blinking defiantly round the table. "Tell you how it come. Hold on a minute"-- he went to the bucket, and refilled his pannikin--"It was this way: I was jist startin' to thatch a new haystack for two ole bosses o' mine, on the Vic. side o' the Murray, when up comes a trooper.

"'What's your name?' says he.

"'Andrew Glover,' says I.

"'Well, Andrew Glover, you're my prisoner--charged with burnin' a stack,'

says he. 'I must fetch you along,' says he. So he gives me the usual warnin', an' walks me off to the logs."

"And how did it go?" shouted Dave, who had shifted his pannikin and plate to Andrew's side.

"Well, the Court day it come roun'; an' when my case was called, the prosecutor he steps down off the bench, an' gives evidence; an' I foun' him sayin' somethin' about not wantin' to press the charge; an' there was a bit of a confab; an' then I foun' the Bench askin' me if I'd sooner be dealt with summary, or be kep' for the Sessions; an' I said summary by all means; so they give me three months."

"What was the prosecutor's name? "shouted Dave.

"Waterman."

"So called because he opens the carriage-doors," I remarked involuntarily.

"Do you know him, Collins?" persisted Dave.

"I neither know him nor do I feel any aching void in consequence," I replied, pointedly interpolating, in two places, the quidnunc's flowers of speech.

"How did the evidence go, mate?" asked the young fellow greedily.

"Eh?"

"How did the evidence go?"

"Oh yes! Well, I'm a bit hard o' hearin'--I dunno if you notice it on me, but I am--an' sometimes I'm worse nor other times; so I did n't ketch most o' what went on; an' the prosecutor he was a good bit off o' me; an' there was a sort o' echo. But I foun' one o' the magistrates sayin', 'Quite so, Mr. Waterman--quite so, Mr. Waterman,' every now an' agen; an' I was on'y too glad to git off with three months. I'd 'a' got twelve, if I'd bin remanded for a proper trial. The jailer told me after--he told me this Waterman come out real manly. Seems, he got the charge altered to Careless Use o' Fire. So I can't help giving him credit, in a manner o' speakin'. But, so help me G.o.d, I never burned no stack."

"Did you know this Waterman?" interrogated Dave. "Was you ever on his place?"

"Well, yes; I was on his place, askin' him for work, as it might be this mornin'; an' he give me rats for campin' so near his place, as it might be las' night. Seems, it was nex' mornin' his stack was burnt, jist after sunrise. But, so help me G.o.d, I never done it."

"(Adj.) shaky sort o' yarn," commented the bullock driver, in grave pity.