inued to make money by mysterious means. Anyway,
she was "Mother Mac" to the bush, but, in the bank in the "town," and
in the stores where she dealt, she was _Mrs_ Mac, and there was always a
promptly propped chair for her. She was, indeed, the missus of no other
than old Mac, the teamster of hypnotic fame, and late opposition to
Harry Chatswood. Hence, perhaps, part of Harry's hesitation to pull up,
farther back, and his generosity to Old Jack.

Mrs or Mother Mac sold refreshments, from a rough bush dinner at
eighteenpence a head to passengers, to a fly-blown bottle of ginger-ale
or lemonade, hot in hot weather from a sunny fly-specked window. In
between there was cold corned beef, bread and butter, and tea, and (best
of all if they only knew it) a good bush billy of coffee on the coals
before the fire on cold wet nights. And outside of it all, there was
cold tea, which, when confidence was established, or they knew one of
the party, she served hushedly in cups without saucers; for which she
sometimes apologized, and which she took into her murderous bedroom
to fill, and replenish, in its darkest and most felonious corner from
homicidal-looking pots, by candle-light. You'd think you were in a cheap
place, where you shouldn't be, in the city.

Harry and his passengers got down and stretched their legs, and while
Old Jack was guardedly answering a hurriedly whispered inquiry of the
traveller, Harry took the opportunity to nudge Mrs Mac, and whisper in
her ear:

"Look out, Mrs Mac!--Exciseman!"

"The devil he is!" whispered she.

"Ye-e-es!" whispered Harry.

"All right, Harry!" she whispered. "Never a word! I'll take care of him,
bless his soul."

After a warm at the wide wood fire, a gulp of coffee and a bite or two
at the bread and meat, the traveller, now thoroughly thawed, stretched
himself and said:

"Ah, well, Mrs Mac, haven't you got anything else to offer us?"

"And what more would you be wanting?" she snapped. "Isn't the bread and
meat good enough for you?"

"But--but--you know--" he suggested lamely.

"Know?--I know!--What do _I_ know?" A pause, then, with startling
suddenness, "Phwat d'y' mean?"

"No offence, Mrs Mac--no offence; but haven't you got something in the
way of--of a drink to offer us?"

"Dhrink! Isn't the coffee good enough for ye? I paid two and six a pound
for ut, and the milk new from the cow this very evenin'--an' th' water
rain-water."

"But--but--you know what I mean, Mrs M