and a kindly cynic--a
"joker" or "hard case" as the bushmen say.

Peter was about fifty and the other three were young men.

There was another man in camp who didn't count and was supposed to be
dead. Old Danny Quinn, champion "beer-chewer" of the district, was on
his way out, after a spree, to one of Rouse's stations, where, for
the sake of past services--long past--and because of old times, he was
supposed to be working. He had spent his last penny a week before and
had clung to his last-hope hotel until the landlord had taken him in
one hand and his swag in the other and lifted them clear of the veranda.
Danny had blundered on, this far, somehow; he was the last in the world
who could have told how, and had managed to light a fire; then he lay
with his head on his swag and enjoyed nips of whisky in judicious doses
and at reasonable intervals, and later on a tot of mutton-broth, which
he made in one of the billies.

It was after tea. Peter sat on a log by the fire with Joe and Jack
Mitchell on one side and Jack Barnes on the other. Jack Mitchell sat
on the grass with his back to the log, his knees drawn up, and his arms
abroad on them: his most comfortable position and one which seemed
to favour the flow of his philosophy. They talked of bush things or
reflected, sometimes all three together, sometimes by turns.

From the surveyors' camp:

I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn--

The breeze from the west strengthened and the voice was blown away.

"That chap seems a bit sentimental but he's got a good voice," said
Mitchell. Then presently he remarked, round his pipe:

"I wonder if old Danny remembers?" And presently Peter said quietly, as
if the thought had just occurred to him:

"By the way, Mitchell, I forgot to ask after your old folk. I knew your
father, you know."

"Oh, they're all right, Peter, thank you."

"Heard from them lately?" asked Peter, presently, in a lazy tone.

Mitchell straightened himself up. "N--no. To tell the truth, Peter, I
haven't written for--I don't know how long."

Peter smoked reflectively.

"I remember your father well, Jack," he said. "He was a big-hearted
man."

Old Danny was heard remonstrating loudly with spirits from a warmer
clime than Australia, and Peter stepped over to soothe him.

"I thought I'd get it, directly after I opened my mouth," said Mitchell.
"I suppose it w