Joe Wilson and His Mates

by Henry Lawson

  Telling Mrs Baker.

  Most Bushmen who hadn't 'known Bob Baker to speak to', had 'heard tellof him'. He'd been a squatter, not many years before, on the Macquarieriver in New South Wales, and had made money in the good seasons, andhad gone in for horse-racing and racehorse-breeding, and long trips toSydney, where he put up at swell hotels and went the pace. So after apretty severe drought, when the sheep died by thousands on his runs, BobBaker went under, and the bank took over his station and put a managerin charge.

  He'd been a jolly, open-handed, popular man, which means that he'd beena selfish man as far as his wife and children were concerned, forthey had to suffer for it in the end. Such generosity is often born ofvanity, or moral cowardice, or both mixed. It's very nice to hear thechaps sing 'For he's a jolly good fellow', but you've mostly got to payfor it twice--first in company, and afterwards alone. I once heard thechaps singing that I was a jolly good fellow, when I was leaving a placeand they were giving me a send-off. It thrilled me, and brought a warmgush to my eyes; but, all the same, I wished I had half the money I'dlent them, and spent on 'em, and I wished I'd used the time I'd wastedto be a jolly good fellow.

  When I first met Bob Baker he was a boss-drover on the greatnorth-western route, and his wife lived at the township of Solong onthe Sydney side. He was going north to new country round by the Gulf ofCarpentaria, with a big mob of cattle, on a two years' trip; and I andmy mate, Andy M'Culloch, engaged to go with him. We wanted to have alook at the Gulf Country.

  After we had crossed the Queensland border it seemed to me that the Bosswas too fond of going into wayside shanties and town pubs. Andy had beenwith him on another trip, and he told me that the Boss was only goingthis way lately. Andy knew Mrs Baker well, and seemed to think a deal ofher. 'She's a good little woman,' said Andy. 'One of the right stuff. Iworked on their station for a while when I was a nipper, and I know.She was always a damned sight too good for the Boss, but she believed inhim. When I was coming away this time she says to me, "Look here, Andy,I'm afraid Robert is drinking again. Now I want you to look after himfor me, as much as you can--you seem to have as much influence with himas any one. I want you to promise me that you'll never have a drink withhim."

  'And I promised,' said Andy, 'and I'll keep my word.' Andy was a chapwho could keep his word, and nothing else. And, no matter how the Bosspersuaded, or sneered, or swore at him, Andy would never drink with him.

  It got worse and worse: the Boss would ride on ahead and get drunk at ashanty, and sometimes he'd be days behind us; and when he'd catch up tous his temper would be just about as much as we could stand. At last hewent on a howling spree at Mulgatown, about a hundred and fifty milesnorth of the border, and, what was worse, he got in tow with a flashbarmaid there--one of those girls who are engaged, by the publicans upcountry, as baits for chequemen.

  He went mad over that girl. He drew an advance cheque from thestock-owner's agent there, and knocked that down; then he raised somemore money somehow, and spent that--mostly on the girl.

  We did all we could. Andy got him along the track for a couple ofstages, and just when we thought he was all right, he slipped us in thenight and went back.

  We had two other men with us, but had the devil's own bother on accountof the cattle. It was a mixed-up job all round. You see it was all bigruns round there, and we had to keep the bullocks moving along the routeall the time, or else get into trouble for trespass. The agent wasn'tgoing to go to the expense of putting the cattle in a paddock untilthe Boss sobered up; there was very little grass on the route or thetravelling-stock reserves or camps, so we had to keep travelling forgrass.

  The world might wobble and all the banks go bung, but the cattle haveto go through--that's the law of the stock-routes. So the agent wiredto the owners, and, when he got their reply, he sacked the Boss and sentthe cattle on in charge of another man. The new Boss was a drover comingsouth after a trip; he had his two brothers with him, so he didn't wantme and Andy; but, anyway, we were full up of this trip, so we arranged,between the agent and the new Boss, to get most of the wages due tous--the Boss had drawn some of our stuff and spent it.

  We could have started on the back track at once, but, drunk or sober,mad or sane, good or bad, it isn't Bush religion to desert a mate in ahole; and the Boss was a mate of ours; so we stuck to him.

  We camped on the creek, outside the town, and kept him in the camp withus as much as possible, and did all we could for him.

  'How could I face his wife if I went home without him?' asked Andy, 'orany of his old mates?'

  The Boss got himself turned out of the pub. where the barmaid was, andthen he'd hang round the other pubs., and get drink somehow, and fight,and get knocked about. He was an awful object by this time, wild-eyedand gaunt, and he hadn't washed or shaved for days.

  Andy got the constable in charge of the police station to lock him upfor a night, but it only made him worse: we took him back to the campnext morning and while our eyes were off him for a few minutes heslipped away into the scrub, stripped himself naked, and started to hanghimself to a leaning tree with a piece of clothes-line rope. We got tohim just in time.

  Then Andy wired to the Boss's brother Ned, who was fighting the drought,the rabbit-pest, and the banks, on a small station back on the border.Andy reckoned it was about time to do something.

  Perhaps the Boss hadn't been quite right in his head before he starteddrinking--he had acted queer some time, now we came to think ofit; maybe he'd got a touch of sunstroke or got brooding over histroubles--anyway he died in the horrors within the week.

  His brother Ned turned up on the last day, and Bob thought he was thedevil, and grappled with him. It took the three of us to hold the Bossdown sometimes.

  Sometimes, towards the end, he'd be sensible for a few minutes and talkabout his 'poor wife and children'; and immediately afterwards he'dfall a-cursing me, and Andy, and Ned, and calling us devils. He cursedeverything; he cursed his wife and children, and yelled that they weredragging him down to hell. He died raving mad. It was the worst case ofdeath in the horrors of drink that I ever saw or heard of in the Bush.

  Ned saw to the funeral: it was very hot weather, and men have to beburied quick who die out there in the hot weather--especially men whodie in the state the Boss was in. Then Ned went to the public-housewhere the barmaid was and called the landlord out. It was a desperatefight: the publican was a big man, and a bit of a fighting man; butNed was one of those quiet, simple-minded chaps who will carry a thingthrough to death when they make up their minds. He gave that publicannearly as good a thrashing as he deserved. The constable in charge ofthe station backed Ned, while another policeman picked up the publican.Sounds queer to you city people, doesn't it?

  Next morning we three started south. We stayed a couple of days atNed Baker's station on the border, and then started on ourthree-hundred-mile ride down-country. The weather was still very hot, sowe decided to travel at night for a while, and left Ned's place at dusk.He parted from us at the homestead gate. He gave Andy a small packet,done up in canvas, for Mrs Baker, which Andy told me contained Bob'spocket-book, letters, and papers. We looked back, after we'd gone apiece along the dusty road, and saw Ned still standing by the gate; anda very lonely figure he looked. Ned was a bachelor. 'Poor old Ned,' saidAndy to me. 'He was in love with Mrs Bob Baker before she got married,but she picked the wrong man--girls mostly do. Ned and Bob were togetheron the Macquarie, but Ned left when his brother married, and he's beenup in these God-forsaken scrubs ever since. Look, I want to tell yousomething, Jack: Ned has written to Mrs Bob to tell her that Bob died offever, and everything was done for him that could be done, and that hedied easy--and all that sort of thing. Ned sent her some money, and sheis to think that it was the money due to Bob when he died. Now I'll haveto go and see her when we get to Solong; there's no getting out of it,I'll have to face her--and you'll have to come with me.'

  'Damned if I will!' I said.

  'But you'll have to,' said Andy. 'You'll hav
e to stick to me; you'resurely not crawler enough to desert a mate in a case like this? I'llhave to lie like hell--I'll have to lie as I never lied to a womanbefore; and you'll have to back me and corroborate every lie.'

  I'd never seen Andy show so much emotion.

  'There's plenty of time to fix up a good yarn,' said Andy. He said nomore about Mrs Baker, and we only mentioned the Boss's name casually,until we were within about a day's ride of Solong; then Andy told me theyarn he'd made up about the Boss's death.

  'And I want you to listen, Jack,' he said, 'and remember every word--andif you can fix up a better yarn you can tell me afterwards. Now itwas like this: the Boss wasn't too well when he crossed the border. Hecomplained of pains in his back and head and a stinging pain in the backof his neck, and he had dysentery bad,--but that doesn't matter; it'slucky I ain't supposed to tell a woman all the symptoms. The Boss stuckto the job as long as he could, but we managed the cattle and made it aseasy as we could for him. He'd just take it easy, and ride on from campto camp, and rest. One night I rode to a town off the route (or you did,if you like) and got some medicine for him; that made him better for awhile, but at last, a day or two this side of Mulgatown, he had to giveup. A squatter there drove him into town in his buggy and put him upat the best hotel. The publican knew the Boss and did all he could forhim--put him in the best room and wired for another doctor. We wired forNed as soon as we saw how bad the Boss was, and Ned rode night and dayand got there three days before the Boss died. The Boss was a bit offhis head some of the time with the fever, but was calm and quiet towardsthe end and died easy. He talked a lot about his wife and children, andtold us to tell the wife not to fret but to cheer up for the children'ssake. How does that sound?'

  I'd been thinking while I listened, and an idea struck me.

  'Why not let her know the truth?' I asked. 'She's sure to hear ofit sooner or later; and if she knew he was only a selfish, drunkenblackguard she might get over it all the sooner.'

  'You don't know women, Jack,' said Andy quietly. 'And, anyway, even ifshe is a sensible woman, we've got a dead mate to consider as well as aliving woman.'

  'But she's sure to hear the truth sooner or later,' I said, 'the Bosswas so well known.'

  'And that's just the reason why the truth might be kept from her,' saidAndy. 'If he wasn't well known--and nobody could help liking him, afterall, when he was straight--if he wasn't so well known the truth mightleak out unawares. She won't know if I can help it, or at least not yeta while. If I see any chaps that come from the North I'll put them upto it. I'll tell M'Grath, the publican at Solong, too: he's a straightman--he'll keep his ears open and warn chaps. One of Mrs Baker's sistersis staying with her, and I'll give her a hint so that she can warn offany women that might get hold of a yarn. Besides, Mrs Baker is sure togo and live in Sydney, where all her people are--she was a Sydney girl;and she's not likely to meet any one there that will tell her the truth.I can tell her that it was the last wish of the Boss that she shouldshift to Sydney.'

  We smoked and thought a while, and by-and-by Andy had what he called a'happy thought'. He went to his saddle-bags and got out the small canvaspacket that Ned had given him: it was sewn up with packing-thread, andAndy ripped it open with his pocket-knife.

  'What are you doing, Andy?' I asked.

  'Ned's an innocent old fool, as far as sin is concerned,' said Andy. 'Iguess he hasn't looked through the Boss's letters, and I'm just going tosee that there's nothing here that will make liars of us.'

  He looked through the letters and papers by the light of the fire. Therewere some letters from Mrs Baker to her husband, also a portrait of herand the children; these Andy put aside. But there were other lettersfrom barmaids and women who were not fit to be seen in the same streetwith the Boss's wife; and there were portraits--one or two flash ones.There were two letters from other men's wives too.

  'And one of those men, at least, was an old mate of his!' said Andy, ina tone of disgust.

  He threw the lot into the fire; then he went through the Boss'spocket-book and tore out some leaves that had notes and addresses onthem, and burnt them too. Then he sewed up the packet again and put itaway in his saddle-bag.

  'Such is life!' said Andy, with a yawn that might have been half a sigh.

  We rode into Solong early in the day, turned our horses out in apaddock, and put up at M'Grath's pub. until such time as we made up ourminds as to what we'd do or where we'd go. We had an idea of waitinguntil the shearing season started and then making Out-Back to the bigsheds.

  Neither of us was in a hurry to go and face Mrs Baker. 'We'll go afterdinner,' said Andy at first; then after dinner we had a drink, and feltsleepy--we weren't used to big dinners of roast-beef and vegetables andpudding, and, besides, it was drowsy weather--so we decided to have asnooze and then go. When we woke up it was late in the afternoon, so wethought we'd put it off till after tea. 'It wouldn't be manners to walkin while they're at tea,' said Andy--'it would look as if we only camefor some grub.'

  But while we were at tea a little girl came with a message that MrsBaker wanted to see us, and would be very much obliged if we'd callup as soon as possible. You see, in those small towns you can't movewithout the thing getting round inside of half an hour.

  'We'll have to face the music now!' said Andy, 'and no get out of it.'He seemed to hang back more than I did. There was another pub. oppositewhere Mrs Baker lived, and when we got up the street a bit I said toAndy--

  'Suppose we go and have another drink first, Andy? We might be kept inthere an hour or two.'

  'You don't want another drink,' said Andy, rather short. 'Why, you seemto be going the same way as the Boss!' But it was Andy that edged offtowards the pub. when we got near Mrs Baker's place. 'All right!' hesaid. 'Come on! We'll have this other drink, since you want it so bad.'

  We had the drink, then we buttoned up our coats and started across theroad--we'd bought new shirts and collars, and spruced up a bit. Half-wayacross Andy grabbed my arm and asked--

  'How do you feel now, Jack?'

  'Oh, I'M all right,' I said.

  'For God's sake!' said Andy, 'don't put your foot in it and make a messof it.'

  'I won't, if you don't.'

  Mrs Baker's cottage was a little weather-board box affair back in agarden. When we went in through the gate Andy gripped my arm again andwhispered--

  'For God's sake stick to me now, Jack!'

  'I'll stick all right,' I said--'you've been having too much beer,Andy.'

  I had seen Mrs Baker before, and remembered her as a cheerful, contentedsort of woman, bustling about the house and getting the Boss's shirtsand things ready when we started North. Just the sort of woman that iscontented with housework and the children, and with nothing particularabout her in the way of brains. But now she sat by the fire looking likethe ghost of herself. I wouldn't have recognised her at first. I neversaw such a change in a woman, and it came like a shock to me.

  Her sister let us in, and after a first glance at Mrs Baker I had eyesfor the sister and no one else. She was a Sydney girl, about twenty-fouror twenty-five, and fresh and fair--not like the sun-browned women wewere used to see. She was a pretty, bright-eyed girl, and seemed quickto understand, and very sympathetic. She had been educated, Andy hadtold me, and wrote stories for the Sydney 'Bulletin' and other Sydneypapers. She had her hair done and was dressed in the city style, andthat took us back a bit at first.

  'It's very good of you to come,' said Mrs Baker in a weak, weary voice,when we first went in. 'I heard you were in town.'

  'We were just coming when we got your message,' said Andy. 'We'd havecome before, only we had to see to the horses.'

  'It's very kind of you, I'm sure,' said Mrs Baker.

  They wanted us to have tea, but we said we'd just had it. Then MissStandish (the sister) wanted us to have tea and cake; but we didn't feelas if we could handle cups and saucers and pieces of cake successfullyjust then.

  There was something the matter with one of the c
hildren in a back-room,and the sister went to see to it. Mrs Baker cried a little quietly.

  'You mustn't mind me,' she said. 'I'll be all right presently, and thenI want you to tell me all about poor Bob. It's seeing you, that saw thelast of him, that set me off.'

  Andy and I sat stiff and straight, on two chairs against the wall,and held our hats tight, and stared at a picture of Wellington meetingBlucher on the opposite wall. I thought it was lucky that that picturewas there.

  The child was calling 'mumma', and Mrs Baker went in to it, and hersister came out. 'Best tell her all about it and get it over,' shewhispered to Andy. 'She'll never be content until she hears all aboutpoor Bob from some one who was with him when he died. Let me take yourhats. Make yourselves comfortable.'

  She took the hats and put them on the sewing-machine. I wished she'd letus keep them, for now we had nothing to hold on to, and nothing to dowith our hands; and as for being comfortable, we were just about ascomfortable as two cats on wet bricks.

  When Mrs Baker came into the room she brought little Bobby Baker, aboutfour years old; he wanted to see Andy. He ran to Andy at once, and Andytook him up on his knee. He was a pretty child, but he reminded me toomuch of his father.

  'I'm so glad you've come, Andy!' said Bobby.

  'Are you, Bobby?'

  'Yes. I wants to ask you about daddy. You saw him go away, didn't you?'and he fixed his great wondering eyes on Andy's face.

  'Yes,' said Andy.

  'He went up among the stars, didn't he?'

  'Yes,' said Andy.

  'And he isn't coming back to Bobby any more?'

  'No,' said Andy. 'But Bobby's going to him by-and-by.'

  Mrs Baker had been leaning back in her chair, resting her head on herhand, tears glistening in her eyes; now she began to sob, and her sistertook her out of the room.

  Andy looked miserable. 'I wish to God I was off this job!' he whisperedto me.

  'Is that the girl that writes the stories?' I asked.

  'Yes,' he said, staring at me in a hopeless sort of way, 'and poemstoo.'

  'Is Bobby going up among the stars?' asked Bobby.

  'Yes,' said Andy--'if Bobby's good.'

  'And auntie?'

  'Yes.'

  'And mumma?'

  'Yes.'

  'Are you going, Andy?'

  'Yes,' said Andy hopelessly.

  'Did you see daddy go up amongst the stars, Andy?'

  'Yes,' said Andy, 'I saw him go up.'

  'And he isn't coming down again any more?'

  'No,' said Andy.

  'Why isn't he?'

  'Because he's going to wait up there for you and mumma, Bobby.'

  There was a long pause, and then Bobby asked--

  'Are you going to give me a shilling, Andy?' with the same expression ofinnocent wonder in his eyes.

  Andy slipped half-a-crown into his hand. 'Auntie' came in and told himhe'd see Andy in the morning and took him away to bed, after he'd kissedus both solemnly; and presently she and Mrs Baker settled down to hearAndy's story.

  'Brace up now, Jack, and keep your wits about you,' whispered Andy to mejust before they came in.

  'Poor Bob's brother Ned wrote to me,' said Mrs Baker, 'but he scarcelytold me anything. Ned's a good fellow, but he's very simple, and neverthinks of anything.'

  Andy told her about the Boss not being well after he crossed the border.

  'I knew he was not well,' said Mrs Baker, 'before he left. I didn't wanthim to go. I tried hard to persuade him not to go this trip. I had afeeling that I oughtn't to let him go. But he'd never think of anythingbut me and the children. He promised he'd give up droving after thistrip, and get something to do near home. The life was too much forhim--riding in all weathers and camping out in the rain, and living likea dog. But he was never content at home. It was all for the sake of meand the children. He wanted to make money and start on a station again.I shouldn't have let him go. He only thought of me and the children! Oh!my poor, dear, kind, dead husband!' She broke down again and sobbed, andher sister comforted her, while Andy and I stared at Wellington meetingBlucher on the field of Waterloo. I thought the artist had heaped up thedead a bit extra, and I thought that I wouldn't like to be trod on byhorses, even if I was dead.

  'Don't you mind,' said Miss Standish, 'she'll be all right presently,'and she handed us the 'Illustrated Sydney Journal'. This was a greatrelief,--we bumped our heads over the pictures.

  Mrs Baker made Andy go on again, and he told her how the Boss broke downnear Mulgatown. Mrs Baker was opposite him and Miss Standish oppositeme. Both of them kept their eyes on Andy's face: he sat, with his hairstraight up like a brush as usual, and kept his big innocent grey eyesfixed on Mrs Baker's face all the time he was speaking. I watched MissStandish. I thought she was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen; it was abad case of love at first sight, but she was far and away above me, andthe case was hopeless. I began to feel pretty miserable, and to thinkback into the past: I just heard Andy droning away by my side.

  'So we fixed him up comfortable in the waggonette with the blanketsand coats and things,' Andy was saying, 'and the squatter started intoMulgatown.... It was about thirty miles, Jack, wasn't it?' he asked,turning suddenly to me. He always looked so innocent that there weretimes when I itched to knock him down.

  'More like thirty-five,' I said, waking up.

  Miss Standish fixed her eyes on me, and I had another look at Wellingtonand Blucher.

  'They were all very good and kind to the Boss,' said Andy. 'They thoughta lot of him up there. Everybody was fond of him.'

  'I know it,' said Mrs Baker. 'Nobody could help liking him. He was oneof the kindest men that ever lived.'

  'Tanner, the publican, couldn't have been kinder to his own brother,'said Andy. 'The local doctor was a decent chap, but he was only a youngfellow, and Tanner hadn't much faith in him, so he wired for an olderdoctor at Mackintyre, and he even sent out fresh horses to meet thedoctor's buggy. Everything was done that could be done, I assure you,Mrs Baker.'

  'I believe it,' said Mrs Baker. 'And you don't know how it relieves meto hear it. And did the publican do all this at his own expense?'

  'He wouldn't take a penny, Mrs Baker.'

  'He must have been a good true man. I wish I could thank him.'

  'Oh, Ned thanked him for you,' said Andy, though without meaning morethan he said.

  'I wouldn't have fancied that Ned would have thought of that,' said MrsBaker. 'When I first heard of my poor husband's death, I thought perhapshe'd been drinking again--that worried me a bit.'

  'He never touched a drop after he left Solong, I can assure you, MrsBaker,' said Andy quickly.

  Now I noticed that Miss Standish seemed surprised or puzzled, once ortwice, while Andy was speaking, and leaned forward to listen to him;then she leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands behind her headand looked at him, with half-shut eyes, in a way I didn't like. Once ortwice she looked at me as if she was going to ask me a question, but Ialways looked away quick and stared at Blucher and Wellington, or intothe empty fireplace, till I felt that her eyes were off me. Then sheasked Andy a question or two, in all innocence I believe now, but itscared him, and at last he watched his chance and winked at her sharp.Then she gave a little gasp and shut up like a steel trap.

  The sick child in the bedroom coughed and cried again. Mrs Baker wentto it. We three sat like a deaf-and-dumb institution, Andy and I staringall over the place: presently Miss Standish excused herself, and wentout of the room after her sister. She looked hard at Andy as she leftthe room, but he kept his eyes away.

  'Brace up now, Jack,' whispered Andy to me, 'the worst is coming.'

  When they came in again Mrs Baker made Andy go on with his story.

  'He--he died very quietly,' said Andy, hitching round, and resting hiselbows on his knees, and looking into the fireplace so as to have hisface away from the light. Miss Standish put her arm round her sister.'He died very easy,' said Andy. 'He was a bit off his head at times,
butthat was while the fever was on him. He didn't suffer much towards theend--I don't think he suffered at all.... He talked a lot about you andthe children.' (Andy was speaking very softly now.) 'He said that youwere not to fret, but to cheer up for the children's sake.... It was thebiggest funeral ever seen round there.'

  Mrs Baker was crying softly. Andy got the packet half out of his pocket,but shoved it back again.

  'The only thing that hurts me now,' says Mrs Baker presently, 'is tothink of my poor husband buried out there in the lonely Bush, so farfrom home. It's--cruel!' and she was sobbing again.

  'Oh, that's all right, Mrs Baker,' said Andy, losing his head a little.'Ned will see to that. Ned is going to arrange to have him brought downand buried in Sydney.' Which was about the first thing Andy had told herthat evening that wasn't a lie. Ned had said he would do it as soon ashe sold his wool.

  'It's very kind indeed of Ned,' sobbed Mrs Baker. 'I'd never havedreamed he was so kind-hearted and thoughtful. I misjudged him allalong. And that is all you have to tell me about poor Robert?'

  'Yes,' said Andy--then one of his 'happy thoughts' struck him. 'Exceptthat he hoped you'd shift to Sydney, Mrs Baker, where you've got friendsand relations. He thought it would be better for you and the children.He told me to tell you that.'

  'He was thoughtful up to the end,' said Mrs Baker. 'It was just likepoor Robert--always thinking of me and the children. We are going toSydney next week.'

  Andy looked relieved. We talked a little more, and Miss Standish wantedto make coffee for us, but we had to go and see to our horses. We got upand bumped against each other, and got each other's hats, and promisedMrs Baker we'd come again.

  'Thank you very much for coming,' she said, shaking hands with us. 'Ifeel much better now. You don't know how much you have relieved me. Now,mind, you have promised to come and see me again for the last time.'

  Andy caught her sister's eye and jerked his head towards the door to lether know he wanted to speak to her outside.

  'Good-bye, Mrs Baker,' he said, holding on to her hand. 'And don't youfret. You've--you've got the children yet. It's--it's all for the best;and, besides, the Boss said you wasn't to fret.' And he blundered outafter me and Miss Standish.

  She came out to the gate with us, and Andy gave her the packet.

  'I want you to give that to her,' he said; 'it's his letters and papers.I hadn't the heart to give it to her, somehow.'

  'Tell me, Mr M'Culloch,' she said. 'You've kept something back--youhaven't told her the truth. It would be better and safer for me to know.Was it an accident--or the drink?'

  'It was the drink,' said Andy. 'I was going to tell you--I thought itwould be best to tell you. I had made up my mind to do it, but, somehow,I couldn't have done it if you hadn't asked me.'

  'Tell me all,' she said. 'It would be better for me to know.'

  'Come a little farther away from the house,' said Andy. She came alongthe fence a piece with us, and Andy told her as much of the truth as hecould.

  'I'll hurry her off to Sydney,' she said. 'We can get away this week aswell as next.' Then she stood for a minute before us, breathing quickly,her hands behind her back and her eyes shining in the moonlight. Shelooked splendid.

  'I want to thank you for her sake,' she said quickly. 'You are good men!I like the Bushmen! They are grand men--they are noble! I'll probablynever see either of you again, so it doesn't matter,' and she put herwhite hand on Andy's shoulder and kissed him fair and square on themouth. 'And you, too!' she said to me. I was taller than Andy, and hadto stoop. 'Good-bye!' she said, and ran to the gate and in, waving herhand to us. We lifted our hats again and turned down the road.

  I don't think it did either of us any harm.