elf. At the same time he reckoned up, with
some anxiety, the money he had in his pocket. Should it prove
insufficient, who knew what further affronts were in store for him.

But Ocock had recovered his oily sleekness.

"A close shave that, sir, a VE-RY close shave! With Warnock on the
bench I thought we could manage to pull it off. Had it been Guppy now
... Still, all's well that ends well, as the poet says. And now for a
trifling matter of business."

"How much do I owe you?"

The bill--it was already drawn up--for "solicitor's and client's costs"
came to twenty odd pounds. Mahony paid it, and stalked out of the
office.

But this was still not all. Once again Grindle ran after him, and
pinned him to the floor.

"I say, Mr. Mahony, a rare joke--gad, it's enough to make you burst
your sides! That old thingumbob, the plaintiff, ye know, now what'n
earth d'you think 'e's been an' done? Gets outer court like one
o'clock--'e'd a sorter rabbit-fancyin' business in 'is backyard. Well,
'ome 'e trots an' slits the guts of every blamed bunny, an' chucks the
bloody corpses inter the street. Oh lor! What do you say to that, eh?
Unfurnished in the upper storey, what? Heh, heh, heh!"

Chapter III

How truly "home" the poor little gimcrack shanty had become to him,
Mahony grasped only when he once more crossed its threshold and Polly's
arms lay round his neck.

His search for Johnny Ocock had detained him in Melbourne for over a
week. Under the guidance of young Grindle he had scoured the city, not
omitting even the dens of infamy in the Chinese quarter; and he did not
know which to be more saddened by: the revolting sights he saw, or his
guide's proud familiarity with every shade of vice. But nothing could
be heard of the missing lad; and at the suggestion of Henry Ocock he
put an advertisement in the ARGUS, offering a substantial reward for
news of Johnny alive or dead.

While waiting to see what this would bring forth, he paid a visit to
John Turnham. It had not been part of his scheme to trouble his new
relatives on this occasion; he bore them a grudge for the way they had
met Polly's overture. But he was at his wits' end how to kill time:
chafing at the delay was his main employment, if he were not worrying
over the thought of having to appear before old Ocock without his son.
So, one midday he called at Turnham's place of business in Flinders
Lane, and was affably received by John, who carried him off to lunch