"black" man in flapping clothes and
gay turban. Still the regular hawkers are a more respectable class of
men, and their visits are often eagerly welcomed by the housewife in
the lonely country, many miles from a township, who finds herself
confronted with such problems as the necessity for lacing Johnny's
Sunday boots with strips of green hide, or the more serious one of a
dearth of trouser-buttons for his garments.

It is the casual hawker who is looked on with disfavour, and strikes
terror to the heart of many women. He has very frequently no money and
less principle; and being without reputation to sustain in the
district, is careless of his doings along a route that he probably does
not intend to visit again. He knows perfectly well that women and
children are afraid of him, and as a rule is very willing to work upon
that fear--though the sight of a man, or of a dog with character, is
sufficient to make him the most servile of his race. But where he meets
a lonely woman he is a very apparition of terror.

There was one hawker who came regularly to Billabong; a cheery old
fellow, well known and respected, whose caste was not strict enough to
prevent his refusing the station hospitality, and whose appearance was
always welcome. He had been coming so long that he knew them all well,
and took an almost affectionate interest in Jim and Norah, always
bringing some little gift for the latter. The men liked him, for he had
been known to "turn to" and work at a bush fire "as hearty as if he
weren't a fat little image av a haythen," said Murty O'Toole; Norah was
always delighted when old Ram Das came up the track, his unwieldy body
on two amazingly lean legs. Even Mary would not have been scared at his
appearance.

But this was not Ram Das--this Indian who stood looking at her with that
queer little half-smile, so different from the old man's wide and
cheerful grin. It was a strange man, and a terrible one in Mary's
sight. She gaped at him feebly across the table, and he watched her
with keen, calculating eyes. Presently he spoke again, this time a
little impatiently.

"You ask-a meesis annything to-day?"

"Nothin' to-day," said Mary, quickly and nervously.

"You ask-a meesis."

"She don't want anything," the girl quavered.

"You ask-a."

"I tell you she don't want anything--there ain't any missis," Mary said.
He looked at her unbelievingly, and broke into a speech of broken
English that was quite unintelligible