is trade. But
I'll tell ye no more till ye give me your answer. Yes or no?"

"I'm afraid I don't even write an office hand; and as for figures----"

Mr. Macbean laughed outright.

"Did I say I was going to take ye into the bank, mun?" cried he.
"There's three of us already to do the writin' an' the cipherin,' an'
three's enough. Can you ride?"

"I have ridden."

"And ye'll do any rough job I set ye to?"

"The rougher the better."

"That's all I ask. There's a buggy and a pair for ye to mind, and mebbe
drive, though it's horseback errands you'll do most of. I'm an old
widower, living alone with an aged housekeeper. The cashier and the
clerk dig in the township, and I need to have a man of some sort about
the place; in fact, I have one, but I'll soon get rid of him if you'll
come instead. Understand, you live in the house with me, just like the
jackeroos on the stations; and like the jackeroos, you do all the odd
jobs and dirty work that no one else'll look at; but, unlike them, you
get two pounds a week from the first for doing it."

Mr. Andrew Macbean had chanced upon a magic word. It was the position of
"jackeroo," or utility parlor-man, on one or other of the stations to
which he carried introductions, that his young countryman had set before
him as his goal. True, a bank in a bush township was not a station in
the bush itself. On the other hand, his would-be friend was not the
first to warn Fergus against the futility of expecting more than a
nominal salary as a babe and suckling in Colonial experience; and
perhaps the prime elements of that experience might be gained as well in
the purlieus of a sufficiently remote township as in realms unnamed on
any map. It will be seen that the sober stripling was reduced to
arguing with himself, and that his main argument was not to be admitted
in his own heart. The mysterious eccentricity of his employer, coupled
with the adventurous character of his alleged prospects, was what
induced the lad to embrace both in defiance of an unimaginative
hard-headedness which he aimed at rather than possessed.

With characteristic prudence he had left his baggage on board the
river-steamer, and his own hands carried it piecemeal to the bank. This
was a red-brick bungalow with an ample veranda, standing back from the
future street that was as yet little better than a country road. The
veranda commanded a long perspective of pines, but no further bricks and
mortar, and but very few