emains," says Pinckney, "that you have for an uncle the Earl
of Kerrymull."

"And that I'm his best hated nephew, paid to keep out of his sight,"
comes back Larry.

"But you are where an Earl-uncle counts for most," suggests Pinckney.
"By judicious choice of a father-in-law----"

"Rot!" breaks in Larry. "Am I a cheap adventurer in a third-rate
melodrama? Waster I may be; but no dowry hunter."

"As though you could not like, for herself alone, any one of the
half-dozen pretty girls who are foolish enough to be crazy over you,"
says Pinckney.

"As though I'd be blighter enough to let myself fall in love with any of
the sweet dears!" says Larry. "I'm in my thirties, Man."

"There's widows aplenty," hints Pinckney.

"Bless 'em all!" says Larry. "I'd not load one of them with a wild,
impecunious Irishman like myself."

"Then what?" says Pinckney. "Also where, and whither?"

"Bulgaroo," says Larry, wavin' vague into space.

"Is that a form of self-destruction?" asks Pinckney.

"Almost," says Larry. "It's the nearest town to Sir Horace Vaughn's No.
6 sheep ranch. Quaint little spot, Bulgaroo; chiefly corrugated iron
villas and kangaroo scrub, two hundred-odd miles back from Sidney. I'm
due there at the end of next month."

"My regards to the Bulgaroovians," says I.

"Is this just a whim of yours, or a crazy plan?" says Pinckney.

"Both," says Larry. "No. 6 is where I went to do penance when the Earl
and I had our grand smashup. Eighteen months I put in before he settled
an allowance on me. They'll give me another foreman's job. I'll stay
three years this time, saving pay and remittance drafts, and at the end
I'll have hoarded enough to buy an interest, or a ranch of my own.
That's the theory. Actually, I shall probably take an amazing thirst
into Bulgaroo about once a month, buy vile champagne at the Queen's
Arms, and otherwise disport myself like a true sheepherder. The finis
will not sound pretty."

Pinckney stares at him puzzled for a minute, and then turns to me.
"Shorty," says he, "you're a Celt. What do you make of him?"

"My guess is that there's a skirt in the background," says I.

"Oh-ho!" says Pinckney.

"Touched!" says Larry.

Pinckney aims the cigarette case at him, remarkin' savage, "The story or
your life. Come, now!"

Larry springs that wistful, twisty smile of his and goes on. "It
happened here, eight years ago, as I was on my way to No. 6. I'd picked
up a beastly fever somewhere, and