"Yes. The cook, and ther's a washerwoman round at the back."
"Wotter they take?"
Being told, he'd presently go round to the back with a couple of glasses. But he was never known to stay and do any fooling round there. He'd arrange, though, to have an extra pair of moleskins, shirt, neckerchief, handkerchief and pair of socks washed against the end of his spree, and pay well for them. Not that he couldn't or wouldn't wash for himself, but he thought it his duty "to pay the wimmin for doin' what they was made for doin', an' pay 'em well."
Then, after another shout or two all round, he'd look up the stranger.
The stranger's only qualifications need be that he should be fairly decent, a stranger, and hard-up or sick.
"I'm the Strangers' Friend," said Jimmy, severely. "The fellers as knows can battle around for their bloomin' selves, but I'll look after the stranger."
If the stranger was ragged, Jimmy would shout him a new shirt, pair of trousers, and maybe a pair of boots, at the store; and he'd shout him drinks, but see that he didn't take too much. He'd arrange for the stranger's bed and tucker, and find out the stranger's name and where he came from and the places he'd been in, and he'd yarn with the stranger about those places, no matter where they were. And he'd talk to the stranger about the back-country, and its old times, and its future, or its chances—and the stranger's chances, too. And if the stranger got confidential or maudlin on the verandah after sunset, he'd comfort or check the
