ront of him. Such eyes
men get from many years of staring over great stretches of sunlit plain
where no colour relieves the blinding glare--nothing but dull grey
clumps of saltbush and the dull green Mitchell grass.

His whole bearing spoke of infinite determination and self-reliance--the
square chin, the steadfast eyes, telling their tale as plainly as print.
In India he might have passed for an officer of native cavalry in
mufti; but when he spoke he used the curious nasal drawl of the far-out
bushman, the slow deliberate speech that comes to men who are used to
passing months with the same companions in the unhurried Australian
bush. Occasionally he lapsed into reveries, out of which he would come
with a start and break in on other people's conversation, talking them
down with a serene indifference to their feelings.

"Come out to old man Grant, have you?" he drawled to Carew, when the
ceremonies of introduction were over. "Well, I can do something better
for you than that. I want a mate for my next trip, and a rough lonely
hot trip it'll be. But don't you make any mistake. The roughest and
hottest I can show you will be child's play to having anything to do
with Grant. You come with me."

"Hadn't I better see Mr. Grant first?"

"No, he won't care. The old man doesn't take much notice of new
chums--he gets them out by the bushel. He might meet a man at dinner in
England and the man might say, "Grant, you've got some stations. I've
got a young fellow that's no use at home--or anywhere else for that
matter--can't you oblige me, and take him and keep him out of mischief
for a while?" And if the old man had had about a bottle of champagne,
he'd say, "Yes, I'll take him--for a premium," or if he'd had two
bottles, he'd say, "Send along your new chum--I'll make a man of him or
break his neck." And perhaps in the next steamer out the fellow comes,
and Grant just passes him on to me. Never looks at him, as likely as
not. Don't you bother your head about Grant--you come with me."

As he drawled out his last sentence, a move was made to dinner; so
the Englishman was spared the pain of making any comments on his own
unimportance in Mr. Grant's eyes, and they trooped into the dining-room
in silence.

CHAPTER II. A DINNER FOR FIVE.

A club dining-room in Australia is much like one in any other part of
the world. Even at the Antipodes--though the seasons are reversed, and
the foxes have wings--we still shun the c