man stare at Max O'Rell all through a humorous lecture
called "A nicht wi' Sandy."

Ross's right hand resting on the desk was very eloquent: horny, scarred
and knotted at every joint, with broken, twisted nails, and nearly
closed, as though fitted to the handle of an axe or a spade. Ross was
an educated man (he had a regular library of books at home), and perhaps
that's why he suffered so much.

Peter preached as if he were speaking quietly to one person only, but
every word was plain and every sentence went straight to someone. I
believe he looked every soul in the eyes before he had done. Once he
said something and caught my eye, and I felt a sudden lump in my throat.
There was a boy there, a pale, thin, sensitive boy who was eating his
heart out because of things he didn't understand. He was ambitious and
longed for something different from this life; he'd written a story or
two and some rhymes for the local paper; his companions considered him
a "bit ratty" and the grown-up people thought him a "bit wrong in his
head," idiotic, or at least "queer." And during his sermon Peter spoke
of "unsatisfied longings," of the hope of something better, and said
that one had to suffer much and for long years before he could preach or
write; and then he looked at that boy. I knew the boy very well; he has
risen in the world since then.

Peter spoke of the life we lived, of the things we knew, and used names
and terms that we used. "I don't know whether it was a blanky sermon or
a blanky lecture," said long swanky Jim Bullock afterwards, "but it was
straight and hit some of us hard. It hit me once or twice, I can tell
yer." Peter spoke of our lives: "And there is beauty--even in this life
and in this place," he said. "Nothing is wasted--nothing is without
reason. There is beauty even in this place----"

I noticed something like a hint of a hard smile on Ross's face; he moved
the hand on the desk and tightened it.

"Yes," said Peter, as if in answer to Ross's expression and the movement
of his hand, "there is beauty in this life here. After a good season,
and when the bush is tall and dry, when the bush-fires threaten a man's
crop of ripened wheat, there are tired men who run and ride from miles
round to help that man, and who fight the fire all night to save his
wheat--and some of them may have been wrangling with him for years. And
in the morning, when the wheat is saved and the danger is past, when the
fire is beaten out or