sses a bit
different, the same as boozers has their d.t.'s different; but, takin'
it by the lump, it's pretty much all the same. The difference is
accordin' to their natures when they're sane. All men are--"

"But about young Mrs Brassington," I interrupted.

"Young Mrs Brassington? Rosy Webb she was, daughter of Webb the
squatter. Rosy was the brightest, best, good-heartedest, an' most
ladylike little girl in the district, an' the heriditry business come on
her in Sydney, about a week after she was married to young Brassington.
She was only twenty. Here--" He passed the flask round.

"And what happened?" I asked.

"What happened?" he repeated. Then he pulled himself together, as if
conscious that he had shown signs of whisky. "Everything was done, but
it was no use. She died in a year in a 'sylum."

"How do you know that?"

"How do I know that?" he repeated in a tone of contempt. "How do I
know that? Well, I'll tell you how. _My old wife_ was in service
at Brassington's station at the time--the oldest servant--an' young
Brassington wired to her from Sydney to come and help him in his
trouble. Old Mrs Brassington was bedridden, an' they kep' it from her."

"And about young Brassington?"

"About young Brassington? He took a swag an' wandered through the bush.
We've had him at our place several times all these years, but he always
wandered off again. My old woman tried everything with him, but it was
all no use. Years ago she used to get him to talk of things as they was,
in hopes of bringin' his mind back, but he was always worse after. She
does all she can for him even now, but he's mighty independent. The last
five or six years he's been taken with the idea of buildin' that cursed
house. He'll stay there till he gets short of money, an' then he'll go
out back, shearin', stock-ridin', drovin', cookin', fencin'--anything
till he gets a few pounds. Then he'll settle down and build away at
that bloody house. He's knocked about so much that he's a regular old
bushman. While he's an old bushman he's all right an' amusin' an' good
company;--but when he's Brassington he's mad--Don't you ever let on to
my old woman that I told you. I allers let my tongue run a bit when I
get out of that hole we're living in. We've kept the secret all these
years, but what does it matter now?--I ask you."

"It doesn't matter much," I said.

"Nothing matters much, it seems to me, nothing matters a damn. The Big
Brassingtons come dow