ong, had built a home for it, and had got it into trouble. He
had then sent to Brisbane for assistance, and the astronomer of
the Government had referred him to the postmaster at Rahway,
"Prognosticator" of the meteorological column in The Courier, who
would be instructed to give Mr. Osgood every help, especially as the
occultation of Venus was near. Men do not send letters by post in a new
country when personal communication is possible, and John Osgood was
asked by his father to go to Rahway. When John wished for the name
of this rare official, the astronomer's letter was handed over with a
sarcastic request that the name might be deciphered; but the son was not
more of an antiquary than his father, and he had to leave without it. He
rode to the coast, and there took a passing steamer to Rahway. From the
sea Rahway looked a tropical paradise. The bright green palisades of
mangrove on the right crowded down to the water's edge; on the left was
the luxuriance of a tropical jungle; in the centre was an are of opal
shore fringed with cocoa-palms, and beyond the sea a handful of white
dwellings. Behind was a sweeping monotony of verdure stretching back
into the great valley of the Popri, and over all the heavy languor of
the South.

But the beauty was a delusion. When John Osgood's small boat swept up
the sands on the white crest of a league-long roller, how different
was the scene! He saw a group of dilapidated huts, a tavern called The
Angel's Rest, a blackfellow's hut, and the bareness of three Government
offices, all built on piles, that the white ants should not humble them
suddenly to the dust; a fever-making mangrove swamp, black at the base
as the filthiest moat, and tenanted by reptiles; feeble palms, and a
sickly breath creeping from the jungle to mingle with the heavy scent of
the last consignment of augar from the Popri valley. It brought him to
a melancholy standstill, disturbed at last by Gongi touching him on
the arm and pointing towards the post-office. His language to Gongi was
strong; he called the place by names that were not polite; and even on
the threshold of the official domain said that the Devil would have his
last big muster there. But from that instant his glibness declined. The
squatters are the aristocracy of Australia, and rural postmasters are
not always considered eligible for a dinner-party at Government House;
but when Louis Bachelor came forward to meet his visitor the young
fellow's fing