emned
in other rooms and cursed along the veranda where more shearers were
sleeping; and after a while I turned out.

The Giraffe was carefully fixing a mattress and pillows on the floor of
a wagonette, and presently a man, who looked like a corpse, was carried
out and lifted into the trap.

As the wagonette started, the shanty-keeper--a fat, soulless-looking
man--put his hand in his pocket and dropped a quid into the hat which
was still going round, in the hands of the Giraffe's mate, little Teddy
Thompson, who was as far below medium height as the Giraffe was above
it.

The Giraffe took the horse's head and led him along on the most level
parts of the road towards the railway station, and two or three chaps
went along to help get the sick man into the train.

The shearing-season was over in that district, but I got a job of
house-painting, which was my trade, at the Great Western Hotel (a
two-story brick place), and I stayed in Bourke for a couple of months.

The Giraffe was a Victorian native from Bendigo. He was well known in
Bourke and to many shearers who came through the great dry scrubs
from hundreds of miles round. He was stakeholder, drunkard's banker,
peacemaker where possible, referee or second to oblige the chaps when
a fight was on, big brother or uncle to most of the children in town,
final court of appeal when the youngsters had a dispute over a foot-race
at the school picnic, referee at their fights, and he was the stranger's
friend.

"The feller as knows can battle around for himself," he'd say. "But
I always like to do what I can for a hard-up stranger cove. I was a
green-hand jackaroo once meself, and I know what it is."

"You're always bothering about other people, Giraffe," said Tom Hall,
the shearers' union secretary, who was only a couple of inches shorter
than the Giraffe. "There's nothing in it, you can take it from me--I
ought to know."

"Well, what's a feller to do?" said the Giraffe. "I'm only hangin'
round here till shearin' starts agen, an' a cove might as well be doin'
something. Besides, it ain't as if I was like a cove that had old people
or a wife an' kids to look after. I ain't got no responsibilities. A
feller can't be doin' nothin'. Besides, I like to lend a helpin' hand
when I can."

"Well, all I've got to say," said Tom, most of whose screw went in
borrowed quids, etc. "All I've got to say is that you'll get no thanks,
and you might blanky well starve in the end."