rd shanties--the three
pubs., the two stores, and the post-office. The town tailing off into
weather-board boxes with tin tops, and old bark huts--relics of the
digging days--propped up by many rotting poles. The men, when at home,
mostly asleep or droning over their pipes or hanging about the verandah
posts of the pubs., saying, ''Ullo, Bill!' or ''Ullo, Jim!'--or
sometimes drunk. The women, mostly hags, who blackened each other's and
girls' characters with their tongues, and criticised the aristocracy's
washing hung out on the line: 'And the colour of the clothes! Does that
woman wash her clothes at all? or only soak 'em and hang 'em out?'--that
was Gulgong.)

'Well, why didn't you come to Sydney, as I wanted you to?' I asked Mary.

'You know very well, Joe,' said Mary quietly.

(I knew very well, but the knowledge only maddened me. I had had an idea
of getting a billet in one of the big wool-stores--I was a fair wool
expert--but Mary was afraid of the drink. I could keep well away from it
so long as I worked hard in the Bush. I had gone to Sydney twice since
I met Mary, once before we were married, and she forgave me when I came
back; and once afterwards. I got a billet there then, and was going to
send for her in a month. After eight weeks she raised the money somehow
and came to Sydney and brought me home. I got pretty low down that
time.)

'But, Mary,' I said, 'it would have been different this time. You would
have been with me. I can take a glass now or leave it alone.'

'As long as you take a glass there is danger,' she said.

'Well, what did you want to advise me to come out here for, if you can't
stand it? Why didn't you stay where you were?' I asked.

'Well,' she said, 'why weren't you more decided?'

I'd sat down, but I jumped to my feet then.

'Good God!' I shouted, 'this is more than any man can stand. I'll chuck
it all up! I'm damned well sick and tired of the whole thing.'

'So am I, Joe,' said Mary wearily.

We quarrelled badly then--that first hour in our new home. I know now
whose fault it was.

I got my hat and went out and started to walk down the creek. I didn't
feel bitter against Mary--I had spoken too cruelly to her to feel that
way. Looking back, I could see plainly that if I had taken her advice
all through, instead of now and again, things would have been all right
with me. I had come away and left her crying in the hut, and James
telling her, in a brotherly way, that it was all