in Tarrong. Mr. and Mrs. Connellan had only just "taken the pub.",
and what with trying to keep Connellan sober and refusing drinks to
tramps, loafers, and black-fellows, Mrs. Connellan was pretty well worn
out. As for making the hotel pay, that idea had been given up long
ago. It was against Mrs. Connellan's instincts of hospitality to charge
anyone for a meal or a bed, and when any great rush of bar trade took
place it generally turned out to be "Connellan's shout," so the hotel
was not exactly a goldmine. In fact, Mrs. Connellan had decided that
the less business she did, the more money she would make; and she rather
preferred that people should not stop at her hotel. This girl looked as
if she would give trouble; might even expect clean beds and clean sheets
when there were none within the hotel, and might object to fleas, of
which there were plenty. So the landlady pulled herself together, and
decided to speed the parting guest as speedily as possible.

"Mr. Gordon couldn't git in," she said. "The cricks (creeks) is all up.
The coach is going down to Kiley's Crossing to-day. You had better go
with that."

"How soon does the coach start?"

"In an hour or two. As soon as Pat Donohoe, the mailman, has got a horse
shod. Come in and have a wash, and fix yourself up till breakfast is
ready Where's your bag?"

"My luggage is at the railway-station."

"I'll send Dan over for it. Dan, Dan, Dan!"

"'Ello," said Dan's voice, from the passage, where, with the wild-eyed
servant-girl, he had been taking stock of the new arrival.

"Go over to the station and git this lady's bag. Is there much to
carry?"

"There are only four portmanteaux and three bags, and two boxes and a
hat-box, and a roll of rugs; and please be careful of the hat-box."

"You'd better git the barrer, Dan."

"Better git the bloomin' bullock-dray," growled Dan, quite keen to see
this aggregation of luggage; and foreseeing something to talk about
for the next three months. "She must ha' come up to start a store, I
reckon," said Dan; and off he went to struggle with boxes for the next
half-hour or so.

Over Mary Grant's experiences at the Tarrong Hotel we will not linger.
The dirty water, peopled by wriggling animalculae, that she poured out
of the bedroom jug; the damp, cloudy, unhealthy-smelling towel on which
she dried her face; the broken window through which she could hear
herself being discussed by loafers in the yard; all these things are
matt