Smith sadly. "Well, I'll
give you another show. I'll stage the business for you."

He made Smith doff his coat and get into his worst pair of trousers--and
they were bad enough; they were hopelessly "gone" beyond the extreme
limit of bush decency. He made Smith put on a rag of a felt hat and a
pair of "'lastic-sides" which had fallen off a tramp and lain baking and
rotting by turns on a rubbish heap; they had to be tied on Smith with
bits of rag and string. He drew dark shadows round Smith's eyes, and
burning spots on his cheek-bones with some greasepaints he used when
they travelled as "The Great Steelman and Smith Combination Star
Dramatic Co." He damped Smith's hair to make it dark and lank, and his
face more corpse-like by comparison--in short, he made him up to look
like a man who had long passed the very last stage of consumption, and
had been artificially kept alive in the interests of science.

"Now you're ready," said Steelman to Smith. "You left your whare the day
before yesterday and started to walk to the hospital at Palmerston. An
old mate picked you up dying on the road, brought you round, and carried
you on his back most of the way here. You firmly believe that Providence
had something to do with the sending of that old mate along at that time
and place above all others. Your mate also was hard up; he was going to
a job--the first show for work he'd had in nine months--but he gave it
up to see you through; he'd give up his life rather than desert a mate
in trouble. You only want a couple of shillings or a bit of tucker to
help you on to Palmerston. You know you've got to die, and you only want
to live long enough to get word to your poor old mother, and die on a
bed.

"Remember, they're Scotch up at that house. You understand the Scotch
barrack pretty well by now--if you don't it ain't my fault. You were
born in Aberdeen, but came out too young to remember much about the
town. Your father's dead. You ran away to sea and came out in the
_Bobbie Burns_ to Sydney. Your poor old mother's in Aberdeen now--Bruce
or Wallace Wynd will do. Your mother might be dead now--poor old
soul!--any way, you'll never see her again. You wish you'd never run
away from home. You wish you'd been a better son to your poor old
mother; you wish you'd written to her and answered her last letter. You
only want to live long enough to write home and ask for forgiveness and
a blessing before you die. If you had a drop of spirits of