im; he would wait
till Brummy was asleep, collar the stuff, and clear. It was his job,
anyway, and the money was his by rights. He'd have his rights.

Brummy, who carried the billy, gave Swampy a long tramp before he camped
and made a fire. They had tea in silence, and smoked moodily apart until
Brummy turned in. They usually slept on the ground, with a few leaves
under them, or on the sand where there was any, each wrapped in his own
blankets, and with their spare clothes, or rags rather, for pillows.
Presently Swampy turned in and pretended to sleep, but he lay awake
watching, and listening to Brummy's breathing. When he thought it was
safe he moved cautiously and slipped his hand under Brummy's head, but
Brummy's old pocket-book--in which he carried some dirty old letters in
a woman's handwriting--was not there. All next day Swampy watched Brummy
sharply every time he put his hands into his pockets, to try and find
out in which pocket he kept his money. Brummy seemed very cheerful and
sociable, even considerate, to his mate all day, and Swampy pretended to
be happy. They yarned more than they had done for many a day. Brummy was
a heavy sleeper, and that night Swampy went over him carefully and felt
all his pockets, but without success. Next day Brummy seemed in high
spirits--they were nearing Bourke, where they intended to loaf round
the pubs for a week or two. On the third night Swampy waited till about
midnight, and then searched Brummy, every inch of him he could get at,
and tickled him, with a straw of grass till he turned over, and ran his
hands over the other side of him, and over his feet (Brummy slept with
his socks on), and looked in his boots, and in the billy and in the
tucker-bags, and felt in every tuft of grass round the camp, and under
every bush, and down a hollow stump, and up a hollow log: but there
was no pocket-book. Brummy couldn't have lost the money and kept it
dark--he'd have gone back to look for it at once. Perhaps he'd thrown
away the book and sewn the money in his clothes somewhere. Swampy crept
back to him and felt the lining of his hat, and was running his hand
over Brummy's chest when Brummy suddenly started to snore, and Swampy
desisted without loss of time. He crept back to bed, breathing short,
and thought hard. It struck him that there was something aggressive
about that snore. He began to suspect that Brummy was up to his little
game, and it pained him.

Next morning Brummy was de