ll, I must be goin'; thank yer fur yer trouble, mum."

"No trouble, my boy--mind the step."

"It _is_ gone. I'll bring a piece of board round some night and mend it
for you, if you like; I'm learnin' the carpenterin'; I kin nearly make
a door. Tell yer what, I'll send the old woman round to-night to fix up
Arvie and lend yer a hand."

"No, thank you. I suppose your mother's got work and trouble enough;
I'll manage."

"I'll send her round, anyway; she's a bit rough, but she's got a soft
gizzard; an' there's nothin' she enjoys better than fixin' up a body.
Good-bye, mum."

"Good-bye, my child."

He paused at the door, and said:

"I'm sorry, mum. Swelp me God! I'm sorry. S'long, an' thank yer."

An awe-stricken child stood on the step, staring at Bill with great
brimming eyes. He patted it on the head and said "Keep yer pecker up,
young 'un!"

IN A WET SEASON

It was raining--"general rain."

The train left Bourke, and then there began the long, long agony of
scrub and wire fence, with here and there a natural clearing, which
seemed even more dismal than the funereal "timber" itself. The only
thing which might seem in keeping with one of these soddened flats would
be the ghost of a funeral--a city funeral with plain hearse and string
of cabs--going very slowly across from the scrub on one side to the
scrub on the other. Sky like a wet, grey blanket; plains like dead seas,
save for the tufts of coarse grass sticking up out of the water; scrub
indescribably dismal--everything damp, dark, and unspeakably dreary.

Somewhere along here we saw a swagman's camp--a square of calico
stretched across a horizontal stick, some rags steaming on another stick
in front of a fire, and two billies to the leeward of the blaze. We knew
by instinct that there was a piece of beef in the larger one. Small,
hopeless-looking man standing with his back to the fire, with his
hands behind him, watching the train; also, a damp, sorry-looking dingo
warming itself and shivering by the fire. The rain had held up for a
while. We saw two or three similar camps further on, forming a temporary
suburb of Byrock.

The population was on the platform in old overcoats and damp, soft felt
hats; one trooper in a waterproof. The population looked cheerfully and
patiently dismal. The local push had evidently turned up to see off some
fair enslavers from the city, who had been up-country for the cheque
season, now over. They got into anothe