The mild financial boarder, with desperate courage, is telling the landlady that he'll have to shift next week--it is too far to go to work, 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, as soon as he can get work nearer, he'll come back at once; also (oh, what cowards men are when women are concerned), he says he wishes she could shift 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 and shorthanded): "Well, I'm very sorry to lose you, Mr Sampson, very sorry indeed; but of course if you must go, you must. Of course you can't be expected to walk that distance every morning, and you mustn't be getting to work late, and losing your place... Of course we could get breakfast an 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 any time... Well, any way, if you ever want to come back, you know, your bed will be always ready for you, and you'll be treated just the same, and made 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 in sometimes... Well, anyway, if you ever do happen to hear of a decent young fellow who wants a good, clean, comfortable home, you'll be sure to 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 hopeless convicts might regard the unexpected liberation of one of their number.

This is the sort of life that gives a man a G.o.d-Almighty longing to break 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 I ever saw. He was working on his father's farm. He shook hands, looked anywhere but in my face--and said nothing. Presently I remarked at a venture "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 embarra.s.sed him, so I stuck my hands in my pockets, spat, and said, to set him at his ease: "It's blanky hot to-day. I don't know how you blanky blanks stand such blank weather! 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, and pretended to chew. He replied:

"My oath!"

The conversation flagged here. But presently, to my great surprise, he came 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 bark school?"

He looked away across the sidling, and was evidently getting uneasy. He shifted 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 does seem to get out of touch with the bush after living in cities for eight or 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'll send for a policeman."

"Blarst the cops! D'yer think I cares for 'em? Fur two pins I'd fetch a push an' smash yer ole shanty about yer ears--y'ole cow! _I only arsked if 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 way to do him a good turn; an' now I'm sorry I come--d.a.m.ned if I ain't--to be barracked like this, an' shoved down my own throat. (_Pause_) I want to tell Arvie that if he don't come ter work termorrer, another bloke'll collar 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 Anderson wants-ter see him."