rgue with him, had to accept the inevitable.

"All my luck will desert me now," he said to himself, when he was
safely in a train bound for Sydney. "I've lost my fetish."

At Tenterfield he bought a paper, and saw to his delight that heavy rain
had set in in the Western district, and that all the country was
flooded.

"I hope those two bloodhounds may be drowned too," he said, as he lay
down to sleep.

Nearing Sydney, the next morning, he heard the newsboy crying out
"_Herald_. Dreadful floods!" and jumping up, he bought a copy. Opening
it, he received a shock, for his eyes caught the broad head-lines:

HEAVY FLOODS IN QUEENSLAND.

27 LIVES LOST.

THOUSANDS OF STOCK DROWNED.

TERRIBLE SCENES.

DALBY COMPLETELY FLOODED.

RAILWAY LINE WASHED AWAY.

He eagerly read the detailed account of the flood from the beginning.

"Hallo, what's this?" he cried, jumping up. "By Jove! I'm drowned! I'm
dead," and he read the paragraph again.

"This afternoon a man rode in and reported that the body of a young
man was in the creek at Campbell Camp Crossing. The police were
informed, and they brought the corpse into the town, which was in a
terribly battered condition. It was immediately identified by a
shearer, named Brown, as the body of a young English gentleman,
named Villiers Wyckliffe, who was touring the back blocks and was
bound for Chinchilla station. The body was buried this morning."

"Joe Brown, you are a brick. I'll drink your health," said Wyck,
producing the flask. Then he sat down and read the paragraph again,
scarcely believing his eyes. Fortunately he was alone in the
compartment; otherwise, fellow-passengers might have thought him mad. He
paced the car, whistled, and sang, and called out over and over again:

"By Jove, I'm dead! Hurrah! Hurrah!" Then he sat down again and thought
it all out. At last he rose and unscrewing the cap of his flask, cried:

"Fred Philamore, I drink your health. Villiers Wyckliffe is dead, and
Fred Philamore, a young English gentleman, out for colonial experience,
arrives in Sydney. What a good job I shaved. No one will recognize me
now; at least they won't when I've done. I always had a fancy for red
hair, and mine will dye beautifully. I'll make the acquaintance of Mr.
Morris and his amiable friend, Winter, and if I don't have some fun,
it's a caution. I'll make it warm for you, Reg Morris, before I'm d