was vaguely understood (as most things are vaguely understood out
there in the drought-haze) that the place the Army came to save us from
was hotter than Bourke. We didn't hanker to go to a hotter place than
Bourke. But that year there was an extraordinary reason for the Army's
great financial success there.

She was a little girl, nineteen or twenty, I should judge, the prettiest
girl I ever saw in the Army, and one of the prettiest I've ever seen
out of it. She had the features of an angel, but her expression was
wonderfully human, sweet and sympathetic. Her big grey eyes were sad
with sympathy for sufferers and sinners, and her poke bonnet was full
of bunchy, red-gold hair. Her first appearance was somewhat
dramatic--perhaps the Army arranged it so.

The Army used to pray, and thump the drum, and sing, and take up
collections every evening outside Watty Bothways' Hotel, the Carriers'
Arms. They performed longer and more often outside Watty's than any
other pub in town--perhaps because Watty was considered the most
hopeless publican and his customers the hardest crowd of boozers in
Bourke. The band generally began to play about dusk. Watty would lean
back comfortably in a basket easy-chair on his wide veranda, and clasp
his hands, in a calm, contented way, while the Army banged the drum and
got steam up, and whilst, perhaps, there was a barney going on in the
bar, or a bloodthirsty fight in the backyard. On such occasions there
was something like an indulgent or fatherly expression on his fat and
usually emotionless face. And by and by he'd move his head gently and
doze. The banging and the singing seemed to soothe him, and the praying,
which was often very personal, never seemed to disturb him in the least.

Well, it was about dusk one day; it had been a terrible day, a hundred
and something startling in the shade, but there came a breeze after
sunset. There had been several dozen of buckets of water thrown on the
veranda floor and the ground outside. Watty was seated in his accustomed
place when the Army arrived. There was no barney in the bar because
there was a fight in the backyard, and that claimed the attention of all
the customers.

The Army prayed for Watty and his clients; then a reformed drunkard
started to testify against publicans and all their works. Watty settled
himself comfortably, folded his hands, and leaned back and dozed.

The fight was over, and the chaps began to drop round to the bar. The