a spice of the devil and the Lord in his soul. Next came Claud
Dufair, a handsome remittance man with an eye-glass and a drawl. This
fellow had personality. He insisted on wearing a white collar and
using kid gloves when doing anything, from dung lifting to sheep
shearing. Paddy Doolan was the third member. He was an Irishman by
birth, but Australian by adoption. He had been in the Bush since he
was a kid. A kind soul was Paddy, with the usual weakness--the craving
for the "cratur." Fourth, and by no means least, was Sandy Brown, a
Glasgow stoker, who had skipped away in a tramp from the Broomielaw
because of another fellow's wife.

A mixed bunch, these four, you will agree. All with a history, part of
it bad, but the main part certainly good. It takes a good heart to be
a Bushman. Work is hard, the heat is trying, pleasures few, and the
chances of wealth are only meagre. But the Australian Bush has a lure
of its own. It calls the bravest and the best. It calls and holds the
men primed for adventure, unafraid of death, and full of that innate
charm and gallantry which is always the particular prerogative of the
wanderer. No questions are asked in this land. A man's soul is never
probed, nor is he expected to reveal his birth, or the cause of his
being there. It is the place to hide a broken heart or mend an erring
past. But it is only a place for men. And this quartette was full of
the war. They were itching to fight. This advertisement, therefore,
cheered their hearts and clinched their hopes.

"Well, boys," said Bill, "this is our call. We'd better join."

"Hear, hear!" remarked the others. That was all. They immediately
packed their swag for the road. That afternoon they received their pay
from the squatter. While Buster, Brown, and Doolan said good-bye to
the master and mistress on the veranda, Claud was kissing Sybil, the
charming daughter of the house, a tender farewell. For Sybil Graham
loved the "English Johnny," as her friends called Claud. Her love was
returned--not in the way he had treated some women in England, but with
that reverence which is born out of true affection. This Englishman,
despite his faults, had a veneration for the straightforward type which
can be found in the Australian squatter's home.

"Come on, Claud--here's the coach," yelled Bill from the veranda. They
embraced once more, then stepped out of doors.

"Good-bye, boys--God bless you!" said old Graham wi