And, when it is finally lent, Bill says:

"Don't forget to give that paper back to me when yer done with it. Don't let any of those other blanks get holt of it, or the chances are I won't set 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 after much bush grumbling, accusation, recrimination, and denial--he severely and carefully re-arranges theme pages, folds the paper, and sticks it away up over a rafter, or behind a post or batten, or under his pillow where it will safe. He wants that paper to send to Jim.

Bill is but an indifferent hand at folding, and knows little or nothing about wrappers. He folds and re-folds the paper several times and in various ways, but the first result is often the best, and is finally adopted. The parcel looks more ugly than neat; but Bill puts a weight upon it so that it won't fly open, and looks round for a piece of string to tie it with. Sometimes he ties it firmly round the middle, sometimes at both ends; at other times he runs the string down inside the folds and ties it that way, or both ways, or all the ways, so as to be sure it won't come undone--which it doesn't as a rule. If he can't find a piece of string long enough, he ties two bits together, and submits the result to a rather severe test; and if the string is too thin, or he has to use thread, he doubles it. Then he worries round to find out who has got the ink, or whether anyone has seen anything of the pen; and when he gets them, he writes the address with painful exact.i.tude on the margin of the paper, sometimes in two or three places. He has to think a moment before he writes; and perhaps he'll scratch the back of his head afterwards with an inky finger, and regard the address with a sort of mild, pa.s.sive surprise. His old mate Jim was always plain Jim to him, and nothing else; but, in order to reach Jim, this paper has to be addressed to--

MR JAMES MITCh.e.l.l, c/o J. W. Dowell, Esq., Munnigrub Station--

and so on. "Mitch.e.l.l" seems strange--Bill couldn't think of it for the moment--and so does "James."

And, a week or so later, over on Coolgardie, or away up in northern Queensland, or bush-felling down in Maoriland, Jim takes a stroll up to the 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 a newspaper. They seldom write to each other, these old mates.

There were points, of course, upon which Bill and Jim couldn't agree--subjects upon which they argued long and loud and often in the old days; and it sometimes happens that Bill across an article or a paragraph which agrees with and, so to speak, barracks for a pet theory of his as against one held by Jim; and Bill marks it with a chuckle and four crosses at the corners--and an extra one at each side perhaps--and sends it on to Jim; he reckons it'll rather corner old Jim. The crosses are not over ornamental nor artistic, but very distinct; Jim sees them from the reverse side of the sheet first, maybe, and turns it over with interest to see what it is. He grins a good-humoured grin as he reads--poor old Bill is just as thick-headed and obstinate as ever--just as far gone on his old fad. It's rather rough on Jim, because he's too far off to argue; but, if he's very earnest on the subject, he'll sit down and write, using all his old arguments to prove that the man who wrote that rot was a fool. This is one of the few things that will make them write to each other. Or else Jim will wait till he comes across a paragraph in another paper which barracks for his side of the argument, and, in his opinion; rather knocks the stuffing out of Bill's man; then he marks it with more and bigger crosses and a grin, and sends it along to Bill. They are both democrats--these old mates generally are--and at times one comes across a stirring article or poem, and marks it with approval and sends it along. Or it may be a good joke, or the notice of the death of an old mate. What a wave of feeling and memories a little par 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 the bush--or a lily of the goldfields--call her Lily King. Both courted her at the same time, and quarrelled over her--fought over her, perhaps--and were parted by her for years. But that's all bygones. Perhaps she loved Bill, perhaps she loved Jim--perhaps both; or, maybe, she wasn't sure which. Perhaps she loved neither, and was only stringing them on.

Anyway, she didn't marry either the one or the other. She married another man--call him Jim Smith. And so, in after years, Bill comes across 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 it along to Jim. Then Bill sits and thinks and smokes, and thinks till the fire goes out, and quite forgets all about putting that necessary patch on his pants.

And away down on Auckland gum-fields, perhaps, Jim reads the par with a grin; then grows serious, and sits and sc.r.a.pes his gum by the flickering firelight in a mechanical manner, and--thinks. His thoughts are far away in 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 wife who comes back again, falls on her knees before him, and holds up her trembling arms and pleads with swimming, upturned eyes, which are eloquent with the love she felt too late.

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

MITCh.e.l.l DOESN'T BELIEVE IN THE SACK

"If ever I do get a job again," said Mitch.e.l.l, "I'll stick to it while there's a hand's turn of work to do, and put a few pounds together. I won't be the fool I always was. If I'd had sense a couple of years ago, I wouldn't be tramping through this d.a.m.ned sand and mulga now. I'll get a job on a station, or at some toff's house, knocking about the stables and garden, and I'll make up my mind to settle down to graft for four or five 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, Mitch.e.l.l. I haven't got any more work for 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 usual on Monday, and come up to the kitchen for my breakfast. Some time in the day the boss'll be knocking round and see me.

"'Why, Mitch.e.l.l,' he'll say, 'I thought you was gone.'

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

"'I thought I told you on Sat.u.r.day 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 sack on Sat.u.r.day_?'

"'It's no use;' I'll say, 'that sort of thing's played out. I've been had too often that way; I've been sacked once too often. Taking the sack's been the cause of all my trouble; I don't believe in it. If I'd never taken the sack I'd have been a rich man to-day; it might be all very well for horses, but it doesn't suit me; it doesn't hurt you, but it hurts me. I made up my mind that when I got a place to suit me, I'd stick in it. I'm comfortable here and satisfied, and you've had no cause to find fault with me. It's no use you trying to sack me, because I won't take it. I've been there before, and you might as well try to catch an old bird with chaff.'

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

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

"So I'll potter round and take things easy and call up at the kitchen as usual 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, or carpentering, or painting, or something, and then I'll begin to call up for 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 and thought together sociably. Our nose-bags were nice and heavy, and we still had about a pound of nail-rod between us.

The moon reminded my mate, Jack Mitch.e.l.l, of something--anything reminded him of something, in fact.

"Did you ever notice," said Jack, in a lazy tone, just as if he didn't want to tell a yarn--"Did you ever notice that people always shoot the moon 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 without saying good-bye to the landlord. I didn't know him very well at that time.

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

"To hang yourself with?" asked the mate.

"Yes--you're very smart," snapped Mitch.e.l.l; "never mind---. This reminds me that I got a chap at a pub to p.a.w.n my last suit, while I stopped inside and waited for an old mate to send me a pound; but I kept the shooter, and if he hadn't sent it I'd have been the late John Mitch.e.l.l long ago."

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

"Yes, that will pa.s.s; you're improving in the funny business. But about the yarn. There was two beds in my room at the pub, where I had to go away without shouting for the boss, and, as it happened, there was a strange chap sleeping in the other bed that night, and, just as I raised the 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 you say a word, I'll stoush yer!'