POOR DEVIL
"Ah! old man. That's it; that's just it! What did I do it for? Hanged if I know; because I was a born fool I suppose. Did I care for her? Is it me? Not I, faith—at least—no. You see it was this way, Harry. Ah, but the year's too long—an—you're nearest the billy old man, slue yourself round and lift it Off. So—"
It was Christmas Eve. Not the long chill-nighted eve of jolly old England, but hot—blazig hot, and up on the reefs at Solferino, away to the north of the Clarence river, New South Wales.
We were up there amongst the first of the rush. Gold! But the times were bad now, the wages low.
Jack and I were mates. He'd been at sea; so had I. Met at the store and mated over Laird's rum—warranted. Egad, it wanted some passport down a fellow's throat, for the drays hadn't been up for over a month; and I swear there wasn't a sign of old Jamaica three weeks before, at the long weather-board shanty that did duty for everything in the shape of civilization on the reefs. Jack wasn't half a bad sort, frank, free—and twenty-three. We mated.
It seems years ago. The first time I saw him, was with a swag over his shoulder, an unmistakable serge shirt on his back, a thatch of his head that a "Conway" boy would have revelled in, jerked jauntily back with the peak at "full cock;" a six-shooter stuck in his belt, and altogether looking about as jolly and new-chumish as any fellow who had yet come up to the rush.
Work was over for the day, and there were eight thousand of us—of all nations and all colours—lounging about the camp. The store was in our centre—
