im; I want a few shillings from you, Joe. I nearly
forgot you. The poor fellow only got in about a fortnight's work,
and there's a wife and youngsters in Sydney. I'll be down after you
to-morrow. I promised to go to Comesomehow* and get the people together
and start an agitation for a half-time school there. Anyway, I'll be
there by the end of the week. Good-bye, Joe. I must get some more money
for the rouser from some of those chaps before they start."

[* There is a postal district in new South Wales called
"Come-by-Chance"]

Comesomehow was a wretched cockatoo settlement, a bit off the track,
about one hundred and fifty miles on our road home, where the settlers
lived like savages and the children ran wild. I reckoned that Peter
would have his work cut out to start a craving for education in that
place.

By saying he'd be there I think he intended to give me a hint, in case
anything happened. I believe now that Jack's wife had got anxious and
had written to him.

We jogged along comfortably and happily for three or four days, and as
we passed shanty after shanty, and town after town, without Jack showing
the slightest inclination to pull up at any of them, I began to feel
safe about him.

Then it happened, in the simplest way, as most things of this sort
happen if you don't watch close.

The third night it rained, rained heavens-hard, and rainy nights can be
mighty cold out on those plains, even in midsummer. Jack and I rigged up
a strip of waterproof stuff we had to cover the swags on the packhorse,
but the rain drove in, almost horizontally, and we got wet through,
blankets, clothes and all. Jack got a bad cold and coughed fit to break
himself; so about daylight, when the rain held up a bit, we packed up
and rode on to the next pub, a wretched little weather-board place in
the scrub.

Jack reckoned he'd get some stuff for his cold there. I didn't like to
speak, but before we reached the place I said, "You won't touch a drink,
Jack."

"Do you think I'm a blanky fool?" said Jack, and I shut up.

The shanty was kept by a man who went by the name of Thomas, a notorious
lamber-down,* as I found out afterwards. He was a big, awkward bullock
of a man, a selfish, ignorant brute, as anyone might have seen by his
face; but he had a loud voice, and adopted a careless,
rollicking, hail-fellow-well-met! come-in-and-sit-down-man-alive!
clap-you-on-the-back style, which deceived a good many, or which a go