it. Don't
let any of those other blanks get holt of it, or the chances are I won't
set eyes on it again."

But the other blanks get it in their turn after being referred to Bill.
"You must ask Bill," says Jack to the next blank, "I got it from him."
And when Bill gets his paper back finally--which is often only after
much bush grumbling, accusation, recrimination, and denial--he severely
and carefully re-arranges theme pages, folds the paper, and sticks it
away up over a rafter, or behind a post or batten, or under his pillow
where it will safe. He wants that paper to send to Jim.

Bill is but an indifferent hand at folding, and knows little or nothing
about wrappers. He folds and re-folds the paper several times and in
various ways, but the first result is often the best, and is finally
adopted. The parcel looks more ugly than neat; but Bill puts a weight
upon it so that it won't fly open, and looks round for a piece of string
to tie it with. Sometimes he ties it firmly round the middle, sometimes
at both ends; at other times he runs the string down inside the folds
and ties it that way, or both ways, or all the ways, so as to be sure it
won't come undone--which it doesn't as a rule. If he can't find a piece
of string long enough, he ties two bits together, and submits the result
to a rather severe test; and if the string is too thin, or he has to use
thread, he doubles it. Then he worries round to find out who has got the
ink, or whether anyone has seen anything of the pen; and when he gets
them, he writes the address with painful exactitude on the margin of the
paper, sometimes in two or three places. He has to think a moment before
he writes; and perhaps he'll scratch the back of his head afterwards
with an inky finger, and regard the address with a sort of mild, passive
surprise. His old mate Jim was always plain Jim to him, and nothing
else; but, in order to reach Jim, this paper has to be addressed to--

MR JAMES MITCHELL,
c/o J. W. Dowell, Esq.,
Munnigrub Station--

and so on. "Mitchell" seems strange--Bill couldn't think of it for the
moment--and so does "James."

And, a week or so later, over on Coolgardie, or away up in northern
Queensland, or bush-felling down in Maoriland, Jim takes a stroll up to
the post office after tea on mail night. He doesn't expect any letters,
but there might be a paper from Bill. Bill generally sends him a
newspaper. They seldom write to each other, these old ma