n the cool night air. After that he'll
have his smoke, and sit there thinkin' about me, perhaps, and old days,
and what not, till all hours--till his wife comes and fetches him in.
And here I lie--my God! why didn't they knock me on the head when I was
born, like a lamb in a dry season, or a blind puppy--blind enough, God
knows! They do so in some countries, if the books say true, and what a
hell of misery that must save some people from!

Well, it's done now, and there's no get away. I may as well make the
best of it. A sergeant of police was shot in our last scrimmage, and
they must fit some one over that. It's only natural. He was rash, or
Starlight would never have dropped him that day. Not if he'd been sober
either. We'd been drinking all night at that Willow Tree shanty. Bad
grog, too! When a man's half drunk he's fit for any devilment that
comes before him. Drink! How do you think a chap that's taken to the
bush--regularly turned out, I mean, with a price on his head, and a
fire burning in his heart night and day--can stand his life if he don't
drink? When he thinks of what he might have been, and what he is! Why,
nearly every man he meets is paid to run him down, or trap him some way
like a stray dog that's taken to sheep-killin'. He knows a score of men,
and women too, that are only looking out for a chance to sell his blood
on the quiet and pouch the money. Do you think that makes a chap mad
and miserable, and tired of his life, or not? And if a drop of grog
will take him right out of his wretched self for a bit why shouldn't he
drink? People don't know what they are talking about. Why, he is that
miserable that he wonders why he don't hang himself, and save the
Government all the trouble; and if a few nobblers make him feel as if
he might have some good chances yet, and that it doesn't so much matter
after all, why shouldn't he drink?

He does drink, of course; every miserable man, and a good many women as
have something to fear or repent of, drink. The worst of it is that
too much of it brings on the 'horrors', and then the devil, instead of
giving you a jog now and then, sends one of his imps to grin in your
face and pull your heartstrings all day and all night long. By George,
I'm getting clever--too clever, altogether, I think. If I could forget
for one moment, in the middle of all the nonsense, that I was to die
on Thursday three weeks! die on Thursday three weeks! die on Thursday!
That's the way the ti