es shine brighter still.

"Now, Jimmy, one last drink for the good of the house," says the keeper,
"and then it's time you were off." The stockman has a third gulp from
the pannikin, and with it all his scruples and good resolutions vanish
for ever.

"Look here," he says somewhat huskily, taking his cheque out of his
pouch. "You take this, mate. Whoever comes along this road, ask 'em what
they'll have, and tell them it's my shout. Let me know when the money's
done."

So Jimmy abandons the idea of ever getting to town, and for three weeks
or a month he lies about the shanty in a state of extreme drunkenness,
and reduces every wayfarer upon the road to the same condition. At last
one fine morning the keeper comes to him. "The coin's done, Jimmy," he
says; "it's about time you made some more." So Jimmy has a good wash to
sober him, straps his blanket and his billy to his back, and rides off
through the bush to the sheeprun, where he has another year of sobriety,
terminating in another month of intoxication.

All this, though typical of the happy-go-lucky manners of the
inhabitants, has no direct bearing upon Jackman's Gulch, so we must
return to that Arcadian settlement. Additions to the population there
were not numerous, and such as came about the time of which I speak were
even rougher and fiercer than the original inhabitants. In particular,
there came a brace of ruffians named Phillips and Maule, who rode into
camp one day, and started a claim upon the other side of the stream.
They outgulched the Gulch in the virulence and fluency of their
blasphemy, in the truculence of their speech and manner, and in their
reckless disregard of all social laws. They claimed to have come from
Bendigo, and there were some amongst us who wished that the redoubted
Conky Jim was on the track once more, as long as he would close it to
such visitors as these. After their arrival the nightly proceedings at
the Britannia bar and at the gambling hell behind it became more riotous
than ever. Violent quarrels, frequently ending in bloodshed, were of
constant occurrence. The more peaceable frequenters of the bar began
to talk seriously of lynching the two strangers who were the principal
promoters of disorder. Things were in this unsatisfactory condition
when our evangelist, Elias B. Hopkins, came limping into the camp,
travel-stained and footsore, with his spade strapped across his back,
and his Bible in the pocket of his moleskin jacket.