tea an' sugar," not forgetting "a handful of flour if yer can spare it."

"Sorry," said the cook, "but I can only let you have about a pint. We're
very short ourselves."

"Oh, that's all right!" said Swampy, as he put the stuff into his spare
bags. "Thank you! Good day!"

"Good day," said the cook. The cook went on with his work and Swampy
departed, catching up the bag of flour from behind the tree as he passed
it, and keeping the clump of timber well between him and the surveyors'
camp, lest the cook should glance round, and, noticing the increased
bulk of his load, get some new ideas concerning mental aberration.

Nearly every bushman has at least one superstition, or notion, that
lasts his time--as nearly every bushman has at least one dictionary word
which lasts him all his life. Brummy had a gloomy notion--Lord knows how
he got it!--that he should 'a' gone on the boards if his people hadn't
been so ignorant. He reckoned that he had the face and cut of an
actor, could mimic any man's voice, and had wonderful control over his
features. They came to a notoriously "hungry" station, where there was
a Scottish manager and storekeeper. Brummy went up to "government house"
in his own proper person, had a talk with the storekeeper, spoke of a
sick mate, and got some flour and meat. They camped down the creek, and
next morning Brummy started to shave himself.

"Whatever are you a-doin' of, Brummy?" gasped Swampy in great
astonishment.

"Wait and see," growled Brummy, with awful impressiveness, as if he were
going to cut Swampy's throat after he'd finished shaving. He shaved
off his beard and whiskers, put on a hat and coat belonging to Swampy,
changed his voice, dropped his shoulders, and went limping up to the
station on a game leg. He saw the cook and got some "brownie," a bit of
cooked meat and a packet of baking powder. Then he saw the storekeeper
and approached the tobacco question. Sandy looked at him and listened
with some slight show of interest, then he said:

"Oh that's all right now! But ye needn't ha' troublt shavin' yer
beard--the cold weather's comin' on! An' yer mate's duds don't suit
ye--they 're too sma'; an' yer game leg doesn't fit ye either--it takes
a lot o' practice. Ha' ye got ony tea an' sugar?"

Brummy must have touched something responsive in that old Scot
somewhere, but his lack of emotion upset Brummy somewhat, or else an old
deep-rooted superstition had been severely shaken. Anyway he