with
veiled eyes.

'Sadder parting with new ones,' replied Jim, glancing towards Lucy.

'Oh yes, it is, is it not? But you will come and visit us some time at
Boobyalla. We are shipmates, and that's a sort of relationship in
Australia.'

Done thanked her, but equivocated. He could not see himself as the guest
of the great Donald Macdougal, J.P., of Boobyalla. The lady experienced a
glow of impatience. Only a hobbledehoy could prefer Lucy Woodrow's
immature charms to the ripe perfections of a woman of her years.

VI

JIM was the first off the Francis Cadman on the Monday afternoon when she
drew alongside the rough Yarra wharf just under Bateman's Hill, and when
he set his foot on Australian soil he planted one tendril of his heart
there. He let fall his bag, and looked about him. The arrival of the ship
had occasioned no interest that he could discover. Perhaps the news was
not yet common property. A dusty road along the banks of the river on his
right led to the town; there were a few scattered houses of dark stone
and primitive design on the hill before him, beside which the lawless
gum-trees flourished. The day was intensely hot; a wind that might have
breathed o'er the infernal regions whipped up clouds of dust, and spun
them into fantastic shapes, filling eyes and lungs, but no discomfort
could dull the joy he felt on coming into his kingdom. He had turned his
back to the wind to wait the passing of a sirocco of sand, when a
double-seated American waggon, drawn by two steaming horses, flashed on
him out of the storm, driving him headlong to the ground, and coming to a
standstill within a few feet. The bag had served as a buffer, and the
deeply-ploughed roadway made a soft bed, so that no bones were broken;
but Done arose with all his fighting instincts aflame, and turned upon
the driver.

'You murderous ruffian!' he cried. 'I've a mind to break--'

He stopped short, one foot upon the step, one hand grasping the ironwork
of the seat, staring at the driver, suddenly disarmed. The man on the
seat was a grizzled, malformed creature of about fifty, with a
deeply-wrinkled small face, burnt a dark tan, and almost covered with a
tangle of short, crisp, iron-gray whiskers. The suggestion of a
rough-haired terrier was so strong that Done expected the brute to bark
at him. The small eyes in the protecting shade of tufted brows, like
miniature overhanging horns, were keen and shrewd This extraordinary head
was supporte