abin ... "and I hid till
the mate went out again."

"And what then?"

"I picked up a lot of silverware the captain had for show occasions ...
that I found, rummaging about."

"And him there sleeping?"

"Why not?"

"I found four revolvers that belonged to the mates and captain. I put
them all in one bundle and chucked them into a rowboat over the ship's
side. And now we must go back to your boat--"

"To my boat?" I asked, amazed.

"Yes" (I had told him how nearly I had missed our ship-money).

"To your boat, and ransack the cabin till we locate that coin."

"That's too risky."

"Hell, take a chance, can't you?"

That's what Hoppner was always saying as long as we travelled together:
"Hell, take a chance."

But when I began telling him with convulsive laughter, of the revenge I
had taken on the mate ... and also how I had thrown all the keys
overboard, Hoppner, instead of joining in with my laughter, struck at
me, not at all playfully, "What kind of damn jackass have I joined up
with, anyhow," he exclaimed. "Now it won't be any use going back, you've
thrown the keys away and we'd make too great a racket, breaking open
things...."

He insisted, however, on going back to his own boat, sliding down to the
rowboat, and rowing away with the loot he had cast into it. We had no
sooner reached the prow of the _Lord Summerville_ than we observed
people bestirring themselves on board her more than was natural.

"Come on, _now_ we'll beat it. They're after me."

Hoppner had also brought a blanket. We went "humping bluey" as swagmen,
as the tramp is called in Australia.

The existence of the swagman is the happiest vagrant's life in the
world. He is usually regarded as a bona fide seeker for work, and food
is readily given him for the asking. Unlike the American hobo, he is
given his food raw, and is expected to cook it himself. So he carries
what he calls a "tucker bag" to hold his provisions; also, almost more
important--his "billy can" or tea-pot....

Hoppner and I acquired the tea-habit as badly as the rest of the
Australian swagmen. Every mile or so the swagman seems to stop, build a
fire, and brew his draught of tea, which he makes strong enough to take
the place of the firiest swig of whiskey. I've seen an old swagman boil
his tea for an actual half-hour, till the resultant concoction was as
thick and black as New Orleans molasses. With such continual draughts of
tea, only the crystalline air, and the he