'

I couldn't think of anything against this. It made me uneasy. But I
remembered *I* used to have a childish dread of growing up to be a man.

'Jim,' I said, to break the silence, 'do you hear what the she-oaks
say?'

'No, I don't. Is they talking?'

'Yes,' I said, without thinking.

'What is they saying?' he asked.

I took the bucket and went down to the creek for some water for tea. I
thought Jim would follow with a little tin billy he had, but he didn't:
when I got back to the fire he was again on the 'possum rug, comforting
the pup. I fried some bacon and eggs that I'd brought out with me. Jim
sang out from the waggon--

'Don't cook too much, dad--I mightn't be hungry.'

I got the tin plates and pint-pots and things out on a clean new
flour-bag, in honour of Jim, and dished up. He was leaning back on the
rug looking at the pup in a listless sort of way. I reckoned he was
tired out, and pulled the gin-case up close to him for a table and put
his plate on it. But he only tried a mouthful or two, and then he said--

'I ain't hungry, dad! You'll have to eat it all.'

It made me uneasy--I never liked to see a child of mine turn from his
food. They had given him some tinned salmon in Gulgong, and I was afraid
that that was upsetting him. I was always against tinned muck.

'Sick, Jim?' I asked.

'No, dad, I ain't sick; I don't know what's the matter with me.'

'Have some tea, sonny?'

'Yes, dad.'

I gave him some tea, with some milk in it that I'd brought in a bottle
from his aunt's for him. He took a sip or two and then put the pint-pot
on the gin-case.

'Jim's tired, dad,' he said.

I made him lie down while I fixed up a camp for the night. It had turned
a bit chilly, so I let the big tarpaulin down all round--it was made to
cover a high load, the flour in the waggon didn't come above the rail,
so the tarpaulin came down well on to the ground. I fixed Jim up a
comfortable bed under the tail-end of the waggon: when I went to lift
him in he was lying back, looking up at the stars in a half-dreamy,
half-fascinated way that I didn't like. Whenever Jim was extra
old-fashioned, or affectionate, there was danger.

'How do you feel now, sonny?'

It seemed a minute before he heard me and turned from the stars.

'Jim's better, dad.' Then he said something like, 'The stars are looking
at me.' I thought he was half asleep. I took off his jacket and boots,
and carried him in under the waggon and made him co