about
old times and what damned fools we'd been throwing away our money over
shanty bars shouting for loafers and cadgers. "Isn't this ever so-much
better, Joe!" said Jack, as we lay on our blankets smoking one moonlight
night. "There's nothing in boozing, Joe, you can take it from me. Just
you sling it for a year and then look back; you won't want to touch it
again. You've been straight for a couple of months. Sling it for good,
Joe, before it gets a hold on you, like it did on me."

It was the morning after cut-out at Beenaway Shed, and we were glad.
We were tired of the rush and roar and rattle and heat and grease and
blasphemy of the big, hot, iron machine shed in that dusty patch in the
barren scrubs. Swags were rolled up, saddle-bags packed, horses had been
rounded up and driven in, the shearers' cook and his mate had had
their fight, and about a hundred men--shearers, rouseabouts, and
wool-washers--were waiting round the little iron office to get their
cheques.

We were about half through when one bushman said to another: "Stop your
damned swearin', Jim. Here's Peter M'Laughlan!" Peter walked up and
the men made way for him and he went into the office. There was always
considerably less swearing for a few feet round about where Peter
M'Laughlan happened to be working in a shearing-shed. It seemed to be an
understood thing with the men. He took no advantages, never volunteered
to preach at a shed where he was working, and only spoke on union
subjects when the men asked him to. He was "rep." (Shearers' Union
representative) at this shed, but squatters and station managers
respected him as much as the men did.

He seemed much greyer now, but still stood square and straight. And his
eyes still looked one through.

When Peter came out and the crowd had cleared away he took Jack aside
and spoke to him in a low voice for a few minutes. I heard Jack say,
"Oh, that's all right, Peter! You have my word for it," and he got on
his horse. I heard Peter say the one word, "Remember!" "Oh, that's all
right," said Jack, and he shook hands with Peter, shouted, "Come on,
Joe!" and started off with the packhorse after him.

"I wish I were going down with you, Joe," said Peter to me, "but I can't
get away till to-morrow. I've got that sick rouseabout on my hands, and
I'll have to see him fixed up somehow and started off to the hospital"
(the nearest was a hundred miles away). "And, by the way, I've taken
up a collection for h