and turn out larrikins as likely as not.

But, for all that, I really think that Jim, when he was three years old,
was the most wonderful little chap, in every way, that I ever saw.

For the first hour or so, along the road, he was telling me all about
his adventures at his auntie's.

'But they spoilt me too much, dad,' he said, as solemn as a native bear.
'An' besides, a boy ought to stick to his parrans!'

I was taking out a cattle-pup for a drover I knew, and the pup took up a
good deal of Jim's time.

Sometimes he'd jolt me, the way he talked; and other times I'd have
to turn away my head and cough, or shout at the horses, to keep from
laughing outright. And once, when I was taken that way, he said--

'What are you jerking your shoulders and coughing, and grunting, and
going on that way for, dad? Why don't you tell me something?'

'Tell you what, Jim?'

'Tell me some talk.'

So I told him all the talk I could think of. And I had to brighten up,
I can tell you, and not draw too much on my imagination--for Jim was a
terror at cross-examination when the fit took him; and he didn't think
twice about telling you when he thought you were talking nonsense. Once
he said--

'I'm glad you took me home with you, dad. You'll get to know Jim.'

'What!' I said.

'You'll get to know Jim.'

'But don't I know you already?'

'No, you don't. You never has time to know Jim at home.'

And, looking back, I saw that it was cruel true. I had known in my heart
all along that this was the truth; but it came to me like a blow from
Jim. You see, it had been a hard struggle for the last year or so; and
when I was home for a day or two I was generally too busy, or too tired
and worried, or full of schemes for the future, to take much notice of
Jim. Mary used to speak to me about it sometimes. 'You never take notice
of the child,' she'd say. 'You could surely find a few minutes of an
evening. What's the use of always worrying and brooding? Your brain will
go with a snap some day, and, if you get over it, it will teach you a
lesson. You'll be an old man, and Jim a young one, before you realise
that you had a child once. Then it will be too late.'

This sort of talk from Mary always bored me and made me impatient with
her, because I knew it all too well. I never worried for myself--only
for Mary and the children. And often, as the days went by, I said to
myself, 'I'll take more notice of Jim and give Mary more of my time,
just