cause the carpenter left before the job was finished, Lord Douglas
locked his tools in an outhouse and refused to give them up; and when
the carpenter, with the spirit of an Australian workman, broke the
padlock and removed his tool-chest, the landlord gave him in charge for
breaking and entering. The chaps defended the case and won it, and hated
Lord Douglas as much as if he were their elder brother. Mitchell was the
only one to put in a word for him.

"I've been puzzling it out," said Mitchell, as he sat nursing his best
leg in the Union Office, "and, as far as I can see, it all amounts to
this--we're all mistaken in Lord Douglas. We don't know the man.
He's all right. We don't understand him. He's really a sensitive,
good-hearted man who's been shoved a bit off the track by the world.
It's the world's fault--he's not to blame. You see, when he was a
youngster he was the most good-natured kid in the school; he was always
soft, and, consequently, he was always being imposed upon, and bullied,
and knocked about. Whenever he got a penny to buy lollies he'd count 'em
out carefully and divide 'em round amongst his schoolmates and brothers
and sisters. He was the only one that worked at home, and consequently
they all hated him. His father respected him, but didn't love him,
because he wasn't a younger son, and wasn't bringing his father's grey
hairs down in sorrow to the grave. If it was in Australia, probably Lord
Douglas was an elder son and had to do all the hard graft, and teach
himself at night, and sleep in a bark skillion while his younger
brothers benefited--they were born in the new brick house and went to
boarding-schools. His mother had a contempt for him because he wasn't a
black sheep and a prodigal, and, when the old man died, the rest of the
family got all the stuff and Lord Douglas was kicked out because they
could do without him now. And the family hated him like poison ever
afterwards (especially his mother), and spread lies about him--because
they had treated him shamefully and because his mouth was shut--they
knew he wouldn't speak. Then probably he went in for Democracy and
worked for Freedom, till Freedom trod on him once too often with her
hob-nailed boots. Then the chances are, in the end, he was ruined by
a girl or woman, and driven, against his will, to take refuge in pure
individualism. He's all right, only we don't appreciate him. He's
only fighting against his old ideals--his old self that comes