I pictured its inevitable destination, and
impatiently asked myself why sentimentality should carry money of mine
into public-house tills. So I passed on. Finally, after walking a
hundred yards, I retraced my steps and slid half a crown under the
man's grimy hand, where it lay limply on the grass.

XXI

The work that gave me most satisfaction at this time was writing of a
kind which I could not induce my chief to favour for his own purposes.
He said it was not sufficiently 'legitimate journalism' for the
_Chronicle_. (The 'eighties were still young.) And only at long
intervals was I able to persuade him to accept one or two examples,
though I insisted it was the best work I had ever attempted for the
paper; as, indeed, it very likely was.

'But this is practically a story,' or 'This is really fiction,' or
'This is a sketch of a personal character, not a newspaper feature,'
he would say. And then, one day, in handing me back one of my rejected
offspring, he said: 'Look here, Freydon, see if you can condense this
a shade, and then send it to the editor of the _Observer_. I've
written him saying I should tell you this.'

I followed this kindly advice, and, a month later, enjoyed the
profound satisfaction of reading my little contribution in the famous
Australian weekly journal. The fact would have no interest for any one
else, of course, but I have always remembered this little sketch of a
type of Australian bushman, because it was the first signed
contribution from my pen to appear in any journal of standing; the
first of a series which appeared perhaps once in a month during the
rest of my time in Sydney.

People I met in Mr. Rawlence's studio occasionally mentioned these
sketches, and I took great pleasure in them. Incidentally, they added
to my hoard at the bank. Mr. Smith, my room-mate at North Shore, had
hitherto regarded my newspaper work strictly from a business
standpoint; judging it solely by the salary it brought. Suddenly now I
found I had touched an unsuspected vein of his character. He was
surprisingly pleased about these signed _Observer_ sketches. This was
authorship, he said; and he spoke to every one, with most kindly
pride, of his young friend's work.

My account at the savings bank touched the desired two hundred pounds
mark, when I had been just three years and nine months in Sydney. I
decided to add to it until I had completed my fourth year; and,
meantime, made inquiries about the passage