“ This,” said Fry, in a most ungracious way, pointing to me as if I was a cur-dog, “is a chap I came up the road with. I don’t know anything about him,” he added, in an audible whisper. “ Have you no friends on Bendigo ? ” asked Brocklebank kindly. “ None that I can find to-night,” I re plied, blushing like a school-girl, “but I hope to find them in a day or two.” Some whispered conversation took place between Fry and Brocklebank after this. “I must take the poor boy in,” I heard the latter say. “Well, don’t hold me responsible,” growl :d the former ; “ I knew nothing of him.”

I don’t think Fry had any special animosity against, me, it was merely his natural crustiness ; but I felt so angry with him that I could have rushed upon him and assaulted him on the spot. My wrath, however, was dissipated by Brocklebank saying in a pleasant voice— “ Come in, Mr. Parker, don’t be afraid; I can give you a shake-down, and as soon as I get a pot of tea ready you shall have sardines and soft bread, which I daresay will be a treat after the rough fare of the road.”

I slept that night like a dozen humming tops. Only those who have lain for several successive nights under the cold sky of a Victorian September, and have woke up drenched, perhaps, with rain, can appreciate the delight of a roof over head, alhiet only a roof of canvas. Next morning, after breakfast, Fry rose, and addressing his fellow-townsman in his usual curt, morose style, said— * I’m off to Eagle Hawk” (this was a gully some two miles distant) “ to look after my mates. See you again to morrow. You’d best find your mates too,” he added, bestowing a parting glance on me.
