"Yes. You knew him, then?"

The stranger seemed to have lost a great deal of his a.s.surance. He turned his side to the counter, hooked his elbow on it, and gazed out through the door along Sunset Track.

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

"No; the whole family went away. I think there's one of the sons in business 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 sons are in Queensland, I think; and both the girls are married and in Sydney."

"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 before the 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--Lord knows where. They weren't much loss, to all accounts. The sons got into trouble, 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 and the 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 you knew 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 intend to have a Christmas here--in fact, I came a long way out of my road a-purpose.... I meant to have just one more Christmas with old Ben Hake an' the rest of the boys--but I didn't know as they'd moved on so far west. 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 old signs want touchin' up and paintin' jest as had as ever; an' there's that old palin' fence that me an' Ben Hake an' Jimmy Nowlett put up twenty year ago. I've tramped and travelled long ways since then. But things is changed--at least, people is.... Well, I must be goin'. There's nothing to keep me here. I'll push on and get into my track again. It's cooler 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 or proprietor's point of view, or from the point of view (if any) occupied by the shareholders on the subject; but, nevertheless, it is a time-honoured and a good old custom. Perhaps, for several reasons, it was more prevalent among diggers than with the comparatively settled bushmen of to-day--the poor, hopeless, wandering swaggy doesn't count in the matter, for he has neither the wherewithal nor the opportunity to honour the old custom; also his movements are too sadly uncertain to permit of his being honoured by it. We refer to the remailing of newspapers and journals from one mate to another.

Bill gets his paper and reads it through conscientiously from beginning to end by candle or slush-lamp as he lies on his back in the hut or tent with his pipe in his mouth; or, better still, on a Sunday afternoon as he reclines on the gra.s.s in the shade, in all the glory and comfort of a clean pair of moleskins and socks and a clean shirt. And when he has finished reading the paper--if it is not immediately bespoke--he turns it right side out, folds it, and puts it away where he'll know where to find it. The paper is generally bespoke in the following manner:

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

And Bill says:

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