In search of fortune: A tale of the old land and the new

by Gordon Stables

Book II.

CHAPTER I.
"SPOKEN LIKE HIS FATHER'S SON."

"Cheer, boys, cheer, no more of idle sorrow,
Courage, true hearts shall bear us on our way;
Hope flies before, and points the bright to-morrow,
Let us forget the dangers of to-day."

That dear old song! How many a time and oft it has helped to raise the drooping spirits of emigrants sailing away from these loved islands, never again to return!

The melody itself too is such a manly one. Inez dear, bring my fiddle. Not a bit of bravado in that ringing air, bold and all though it is. Yet every line tells of British ardour and determination—ardour that no thoughts of home or love can cool, determination that no danger can daunt.

"Cheer, boys, cheer." The last rays of the setting sun were lighting up the Cornish cliffs, on which so few in that good ship would ever again set eyes, when those around the forecastle-head took up the song.

"Cheer, boys, cheer." Listen! Those on the quarterdeck join in the chorus, sinking in song all difference of class and rank. And they join, too, in that rattling "Three times three" that bids farewell to England.

Then the crimson clouds high up in the west change to purple and brown, the sea grows grey, and the distant shore becomes slaty blue. Soon the stars peep out, and the passengers cease to tramp about, and find their way below to the cosily-lighted saloon.

Archie is sitting on a sofa quite apart from all the others. The song is still ringing in his head, and, if the whole truth must be told, he feels just a trifle down-hearted. He cannot quite account for this, though he tries to, and his thoughts are upon the whole somewhat rambling. They would no doubt be quite connected if it were not for the distracting novelty of all his present surroundings, which are as utterly different from anything he has hitherto become acquainted with as if he had suddenly been transported to another planet.

No, he cannot account for being dull. Perhaps the motion of the ship has something to do with it, though this is not a very romantic way of putting it. Archie has plenty of moral courage; and as the ship encountered head winds, and made a long and most difficult passage down through the Irish Sea, he braced himself to get over his morsel of mal de mer, and has succeeded.

He is quite cross with himself for permitting his mind to be tinged with melancholy. That song ought to have set him up.

"Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune?"

Oh, Archie is not weeping; catch him doing anything so girlish and peevish! He would not cry in his cabin where he could do so without being seen, and it is not likely he would permit moisture to appear in his eyes in the saloon here. Yet his home never did seem to him so delightful, so cosy, so happy, as the thoughts of it do now. Why had he not loved it even more than he did when it was yet all around him? The dear little green parlour, his gentle lady mother that used to knit so quietly by the fire in the winter's evenings, listening with pleasure to his father's daring schemes and hopeful plans. His bonnie sister, Elsie, so proud of him—Archie; Rupert, with his pale, classical face and gentle smile; matter-of-fact Walton; jolly old Uncle Ramsay. They all rose up before his mind's eye as they had been; nay but as they might be even at that very moment. And the room in the tower, the evenings spent there in summer when daylight was fading over the hills and woods, and the rooks flying wearily home to their nests in the swaying elm trees; or in winter when the fire burned brightly on the hearth, and weird old Kate sat in her high-hacked chair, telling her strange old-world stories, with Branson, wide-eyed, fiddle in hand, on a seat near her, and Bounder—poor Bounder—on the bear's skin. Then the big kitchen, or servants' hall—the servants that all loved "master Archie" so dearly, and laughed and enjoyed every prank he used to play.

Dear old Burley! should he ever see it again? A week has not passed since he left it, and yet it seems and feels a lifetime.

He was young a week ago; now he is old, very old—nearly a man. Nearly? Well, nearly in years; in thoughts, and feelings, and circumstances even—quite a man. But then he should not feel down-hearted for this simple reason; he had left home under such bright auspices. Many boys run away to sea. The difference between their lot and his is indeed a wide one. Yes, that must be very sad. No home-life to look back upon, no friends to think of or love, no pleasant present, no hopeful future.

Then Archie, instead of letting his thoughts dwell any longer on the past, began at once to bridge over for himself the long period of time that must elapse ere he should return to Burley Old Farm. Of course there would be changes. He dared say Walton would be away; but Elsie and Rupert would still be there, and his father and mother, looking perhaps a little older, but still as happy. And the burned farm-steading would be restored, or if it were not, it soon should be after he came back; for he would be rich, rolling in wealth in fact, if half the stories he had heard of Australia were true, even allowing that all the streets were not paved with gold, and all the houses not roofed with sparkling silver.

So engrossed was he with these pleasant thoughts, that he had not observed the advent of a passenger who had entered the saloon, and sat quietly down on a camp-stool near him. A man of about forty, dressed in a rough pilot suit of clothes, with a rosy weather-beaten but pleasant face, and a few grey hairs in his short black beard.

He was looking at Archie intently when their eyes met, and the boy felt somewhat abashed. The passenger, however, did not remove his glance instantly; he spoke instead.

"You've never been to sea before, have you?"

"No, sir; never been off the land till a week ago."

"Going to seek your fortune?"

"Yes; I'm going to make my fortune."

"Bravo! I hope you will."

"What's to hinder me?"

"Nothing; oh, nothing much! Everybody doesn't though. But you seem to have a bit of go in you."

"Are you going to make yours?" said Archie.

The stranger laughed.

"No," he replied. "Unluckily, perhaps, mine was made for me. I've been out before too, and I'm going again to see things."

"You're going in quest of adventure?"

"I suppose that is really it. That is how the story books put it, anyhow. But I don't expect to meet with adventures like Sinbad the Sailor, you know; and I don't think I would like to have a little old man of the sea with his little old legs round my neck."

"Australia is a very wonderful place, isn't it?"

"Yes; wonderfully wonderful. Everything is upside-down there, you know. To begin with, the people walk with their heads downwards. Some of the trees are as tall as the moon, and at certain seasons of the year the bark comes tumbling off them like rolls of shoeleather. Others are shaped like bottles, others again have heads of waving grass, and others have ferns for tops. There are trees, too, that drop all their leaves to give the flowers a chance; and these are so brilliantly red, and so numerous, that the forest where they grow looks all on fire. Well, many of the animals walk or jump on two legs, instead of running on four. Does that interest you?"

"Yes. Tell me something more about birds."

"Well, ducks are everywhere in Australia, and many kinds are as big as geese. They seem to thrive. And ages ago, it is said by the natives, the moles in Australia got tired of living in the dark, and held a meeting above-ground, and determined to live a different mode of life. So they grew longer claws, and short, broad, flat tails, and bills like ducks, and took to the water, and have been happy ever since.

"Well, there are black swans in abundance; and though it is two or three years since I was out last, I cannot forget a beautiful bird, something betwixt a pheasant and peacock, and the cock's tail is his especial delight. It is something really to be proud of, and at a distance looks like a beautiful lyre, strings and all. The cockatoos swarm around the trees, and scream and laugh at the lyre-bird giving himself airs, but I daresay this is all envy. The hen bird is not a beauty, but her chief delight is to watch the antics and attitudes of her lord and master as he struts about making love and fun to her time about, at one moment singing a kind of low, sweet song, at another mocking every sound that is heard in the forest, every noise made by man or bird or beast. No wonder the female lyre-bird thinks her lord the cleverest and most beautiful creature in the world!

"Then there is a daft-looking kingfisher, all head and bill, and wondering eyes, who laughs like a jackass, and makes you laugh to hear him laugh. So loud does he laugh at times that his voice drowns every other sound in the forest.

"There is a bird eight feet high, partly cassowary partly ostrich, that when attacked kicks like a horse or more like a cow, because it kicks sideways. But if I were to sit here till our good ship reached the Cape, I could not tell you about half the curious, beautiful, and ridiculous creatures and things you will find in Australia if you move much about. I do think that that country beats all creation for the gorgeousness of its wild birds and wild flowers; and if things do seem a bit higgledy-piggledy at first, you soon settle down to it, and soon tire wondering at anything.

"But," continued the stranger, "with all their peculiarities, the birds and beasts are satisfied with their get-up, and pleased with their surroundings, although all day long in the forests the cockatoos, and parrots, and piping crows, and lyre-birds do little else but joke and chaff one another because they all look so comical.

"Yes, lad, Australia you will find is a country of contrarieties, and the only wonder to me is that the rivers don't all run up-hill instead of running down; and mind, they are sometimes broader at their sources than they are at their ends."

"There is plenty of gold there?" asked Archie.

"Oh, yes, any amount; but——"

"But what, sir?"

"The real difficulty—in fact, the only difficulty—is the finding of it."

"But that, I suppose, can be got over."

"Come along with me up on deck, and we'll talk matters over. It is hot and stuffy down here; besides, they are going to lay the cloth."

Arrived at the quarter-deck, the stranger took hold of Archie's arm, as if he had known him all his life.

"Now," he said, "my name is Vesey, generally called Captain Vesey, because I never did anything that I know of to merit the title. I've been in an army or two in different parts of the globe as a free lance, you know."

"How nice!"

"Oh, delightful!" said Captain Vesey, though from the tone of his voice Archie was doubtful as to his meaning. "Well," he added, "I own a yacht, now waiting for me, I believe, at the Cape of Good Hope, if she isn't sunk, or burned, or something. And your tally?"

"My what, sir?"

"Your tally, your name, and the rest of it?"

"Archie Broadbent, son of Squire Broadbent, of Burley Old Farm, Northumberland."

"What! you a son of Charlie Broadbent? Yankee Charlie, as we used to call him at the club. Well, well, well, wonders will never cease; and it only shows how small the world is, after all."

"And you used to know my father, sir?"

"My dear boy, I promised myself the pleasure of calling on him at Burley. I've only been home for two months, however; and I heard—well, boy, I needn't mince matters—I heard your father had been unfortunate, and had left his place, and gone nobody could tell me whither."

"No," said Archie, laughing, "it isn't quite so bad as all that; and it is bound to come right in the end."

"You are talking very hopefully, lad. I could trace a resemblance in your face to someone I knew the very moment I sat down. And there is something like the same cheerful ring in your voice there used to be in his. You really are a chip of the old block."

"So they say." And Archie laughed again, pleased by this time.

"But, you know, lad, you are very young to be going away to seek your fortune."

"I'll get over that, sir."

"I hope so. Of course, you won't go pottering after gold!"

"I don't know. If I thought I would find lots, I would go like a shot."

"Well, take my advice, and don't. There, I do not want to discourage you; but you better turn your mind to farming—to squatting."

"That wouldn't be very genteel, would it?"

"Genteel! Why, lad, if you're going to go in for genteelity, you'd best have stayed at home."

"Well, but I have an excellent education. I can write like copper-plate. I am a fair hand at figures, and well up in Latin and Greek; and——"

"Ha! ha! ha!" Captain Vesey laughed aloud. "Latin and Greek, eh? You must keep that to yourself, boy."

"And," continued Archie boldly, "I have a whole lot of capital introductions. I'm sure to get into a good office in Sydney; and in a few years——"

Archie stopped short, because by the light that streamed from the skylight he could see that Captain Vesey was looking at him half-wonderingly, but evidently amused.

"Go on," said the captain.

"Not a word more," said Archie doggedly.

"Finish your sentence, lad."

"I shan't. There!"

"Well, I'll do it for you. You'll get into a delightful office, with mahogany writing-desks and stained glass windows, Turkey carpet and an easy-chair. Your employer will take you out in his buggy every Sunday to dine with him; and after a few years, as you say, he'll make you a co-partner; and you'll end by marrying his daughter, and live happy ever after."

"You're laughing at me, sir. I'll go down below."

"Yes, I'm laughing at you, because you're only a greenhorn; and it is as well that I should squeeze a little of the lime-juice out of you as anyone else. No, don't go below. Mind, I was your father's friend."

"Yes," pouted poor Archie; "but you don't appear to be mine. You are throwing cold water over my hopes; you are smashing my idols."

"A very pretty speech, Archie Broadbent. But mind you this—a hut on solid ground is better far than a castle in the air. And it is better that I should storm and capsize your cloud-castle, than that an absolute stranger did so."

"Well, I suppose you are right. Forgive me for being cross."

"Spoken like his father's son," said Captain Vesey, grasping and shaking the hand that Archie extended to him. "Now we know each other. Ding! ding! ding! there goes the dinner-bell. Sit next to me."

CHAPTER II
"KEEP ON YOUR CAP. I WAS ONCE A POOR MAN MYSELF."

The voyage out was a long, even tedious one; but as it has but little bearing on the story I forbear to describe it at length.

The ship had a passenger for Madeira, parcels for Ascension and St. Helena, and she lay in at the Cape for a whole week.

Here Captain Vesey left the vessel, bidding Archie a kind farewell, after dining with him at the Fountain, and roaming with him all over the charming Botanical Gardens.

"I've an idea we'll meet again," he said as he bade him adieu. "If God spares me, I'll be sure to visit Sydney in a year or two, and I hope to find you doing well. You'll know if my little yacht, the Barracouta, comes in, and I know you'll come off and see me. I hope to find you with as good a coat on your back as you have now."

Then the Dugong sailed away again; but the time now seemed longer to Archie than ever, for in Captain Vesey he really had lost a good friend—a friend who was all the more valuable because he spoke the plain, unvarnished truth; and if in doing so one or two of the young man's cherished idols were brought tumbling down to the ground, it was all the better for the young man. It showed those idols had feet of clay, else a little cold water thrown over them would hardly have had such an effect. I am sorry to say, however, that no sooner had the captain left the ship, than Archie set about carefully collecting the pieces of those said idols and patching them up again.

"After all," he thought to himself, "this Captain Vesey, jolly fellow as he is, never had to struggle with fortune as I shall do; and I don't think he has the same pluck in him that my father has, and that people say I have. We'll see, anyhow. Other fellows have been fortunate in a few years, why shouldn't I? 'In a few years?' Yes, these are the very words Captain Vesey laughed at me for. 'In a few years?' To be sure. And why not? What is the good of a fortune to a fellow after he gets old, and all worn down with gout and rheumatism? 'Cheer, boys, cheer;' I'm going in to win."

How slow the ship sailed now, apparently; and when it did blow it usually blew the wrong way, and she would have to stand off and on, or go tack and half-tack against it, like a man with one long leg and one short. But she was becalmed more than once, and this did seem dreadful. It put Archie in mind of a man going to sleep in the middle of his work, which is not at all the correct thing to do.

Well, there is nothing like a sailing ship after all for teaching one the virtue of patience; and at last Archie settled down to his sea life. He was becoming quite a sailor—as hard as the wheel-spokes, as brown as the binnacle. He was quite a favourite with the captain and officers, and with all hands fore and aft. Indeed he was very often in the forecastle or galley of an evening listening to the men's yarns or songs, and sometimes singing a verse or two himself.

He was just beginning to think the Dugong was Vanderdecken's ship, and that she never would make port at all, when one day at dinner he noticed that the captain was unusually cheerful.

"In four or five days more, please God," said he, "we'll be safe in Sydney."

Archie almost wished he had not known this, for these four or five days were the longest of any he had yet passed. He had commenced to worship his patched-up idols again, and felt happier now, and more full of hope and certainty of fortune than he had done during the whole voyage.

Sometimes they sighted land. Once or twice birds flew on board—such bright, pretty birds too they looked. And birds also went wheeling and whirring about the ship—gulls, the like of which he had never seen before. They were more elegant in shape and purer in colour than ours, and their voices were clear and ringing.

Dick Whittington construed words out of the sound of the chiming bells. Therefore it is not at all wonderful that Archie was pleased to believe that some of these beautiful birds were screaming him a welcome to the land of gold.

Just at or near the end of the voyage half a gale of wind blew the ship considerably out of her course. Then the breeze went round to fair again, the sea went down, and the birds came back; and one afternoon a shout was heard from the foretop that made Archie's heart jump for very joy.

"Land ho!"

That same evening, as the sun was setting behind the Blue Mountains, leaving a gorgeous splendour of cloud-scenery that may be equalled, but is never surpassed in any country, the Dugong sailed slowly into Sydney harbour, and cast anchor.

At last! Yes, at last. Here were the golden gates of the El Dorado that were to lead the ambitious boy to fortune, and all the pleasures fortune is capable of bestowing.

Archie had fancied that Sydney would prove to be a very beautiful place; but not in his wildest imaginings had he conjured up a scene of such surpassing loveliness as that which now lay before him, and around him as well.

On the town itself his eye naturally first rested. There it lay, miles upon miles of houses, towers, and steeples, spread out along the coast, and rising inland. The mountains and hills beyond, their rugged grandeur softened and subdued in the purple haze of the day's dying glory; the sky above, with its shades of orange, saffron, crimson, opal, and grey; and the rocks, to right and left in the nearer distance, with their dreamy clouds of foliage, from which peeped many a lordly mansion, many a fairy-like palace. He hardly noticed the forests of masts; he was done with ships, done with masts, for a time at least; but his inmost heart responded to the distant hum of city life, that came gently stealing over the waters, mingling with the chime of evening bells, and the music of the happy sea-gulls.

Would he, could he, get on shore to-night? "No," the first officer replied, "not before another day."

So he stood on deck, or walked about, never thinking of food—what, is food or drink to a youth who lives on hope?—till the gloaming shades gave place to night, till the southern stars shone over the hills and harbour, and strings upon strings of lamps and lights were hung everywhere across the city above and below.

* * * * * *

Now the fairy scene is changed. Archie is on shore. It is the forenoon of another day, and the sun is warm though not uncomfortably hot. There is so much that is bracing and invigorating in the very air, that he longs to be doing something at once. Longs to commence laying the foundation-stone of that temple of fortune which—let Captain Vesey say what he likes—he, Archie Broadbent, is bent upon building.

He has dressed himself in his very English best. His clothes are new and creaseless, his gloves are spotless, his black silk hat immaculate, the cambric handkerchief that peeps coyly from his breast-pocket is whiter than the snow, his boots fit like gloves, and shine as softly black as his hat itself, and his cane even must be the envy of every young man he meets.

Strange to say, however, no one appears to take a very great deal of notice of him, though, as he glances towards the shop-windows, he can see as if in a mirror that one or two passengers have looked back and smiled. But it couldn't surely have been at him? Impossible!

The people, however, are apparently all very active and very busy, though cool, with a self-possession that he cannot help envying, and which he tries to imitate without any marked degree of success.

There is an air of luxury and refinement about many of the buildings that quite impresses the young man, but he cannot help noticing that there is also a sort of business air about the streets which he hardly expected to find, and which reminds him forcibly of Glasgow and Manchester. He almost wishes it had been otherwise.

He marches on boldly enough.

Archie feels as if on a prospecting tour—prospecting for gold. Of course he is going to make his fortune, but how is he going to begin? That is the awkward part of the business. If he could once get in the thin end of the wedge he would quickly drive it home.

"There is nothing like ambition
If we steer a steady course."

Of course there isn't. But staring into a china-shop window will do him little good. I do not believe he saw anything in that window however. Only, on turning away from it, his foot goes splash into a pool of dirty water on the pavement, or rather on what ought to be a pavement. That boot is ruined for the day, and this reminds him that Sydney streets are not paved with gold, but with very unromantic matter-of-fact mud. Happy thought! he will dine.

The waiters are very polite, but not obsequious, and he makes a hearty meal, and feels more at home.

Shall he tip this waiter fellow? Is it the correct thing to tip waiters? Will the waiter think him green if he does, or green if he doesn't?

These questions, trifling though they may appear, really annoyed Archie; but he erred on the right side, and did tip the waiter—well too. And the waiter brightened up, and asked him if he would like to see a playbill.

Then this reminded Archie that he might as well call on some of the people to whom he had introductions. So he pulled out a small bundle of letters, and he asked the waiter where this, that, and t'other street was; and the waiter brought a map, and gave him so many hints, that when he found himself on the street again he did not feel half so foreign. He had something to do now, something in view. Besides he had dined.

"Yes, he'd better drive," he said to himself, "it would look better." He lifted a finger, and a hansom rattled along, and drew up by the kerb. He had not expected to find cabs in Sydney. His card-case was handy, and his first letter also.

He might have taken a 'bus or tram. There were plenty passing, and very like Glasgow 'buses they were too; from the John with the ribbons to the cad at the rear. But a hansom certainly looked more aristocratic. Aristocratic? Yes. But were there any aristocrats in Sydney? Was there any real blue blood in the place? He had not answered those questions to his satisfaction, when the hansom stopped so suddenly that he fell forward.

"Wait," he said to the driver haughtily.

"Certainly, sir."

Archie did not observe, however, the grimace the Jehu made to another cabman, as he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, else he would hardly have been pleased.

There was quite a business air about the office into which the young man ushered himself, but no one took much notice of him. If he had had an older face under that brand-new hat, they might have been more struck with his appearance.

"Ahem! Aw!——" Archie began.

"One minute, sir," said the clerk nearest him. "Fives in forty thousand? Fives in forty are eight—eight thousand."

The clerk advanced pen in mouth.

"Do you come from Jenkins's about those bills?"

"No, I come from England; and I've a letter of introduction to your master." Archie brought the last word out with a bang.

"Mr. Berry isn't in. Will you leave a message?"

"No, thank you."

"As you please."

Archie was going off, when the clerk called after him, "Here is Mr. Berry himself, sir."

A tall, brown-faced, elderly gentleman, with very white hair and pleasant smile. He took Archie into the office, bade him be seated, and slowly read the letter; then he approached the young man and shook hands. The hand felt like a dead fish's tail in Archie's, and somehow the smile had vanished.

"I'm really glad to see your father's son," he said. "Sorry though to hear that he has had a run of bad luck. Very bad luck it must be, too," he added, "to let you come out here."

"Indeed, sir; but I mean to make my for——that is, I want to make my living."

"Ay, young man, living's more like it; and I wish I could help you. There's a wave of depression over this side of our little island at present, and I don't know that any office in town has a genteel situation to offer you."

Archie's soul-heat sank a degree or two.

"You think, sir, that——"

"I think that you would have done better at home. It would be cruel of me not to tell you the truth. Now I'll give you an example. We advertised for a clerk just a week since——"

"I wish I'd been here."

"My young friend, you wouldn't have had the ghost of a chance. We had five-and-thirty to pick and choose from, and we took the likeliest. I'm really sorry. If anything should turn up, where shall I communicate?"

Where should he communicate? And this was his father's best friend, from whom the too sanguine father expected Archie would have an invitation to dinner at once, and a general introduction to Sydney society.

"Oh, it is no great matter about communicating, Mr. Berry; aw!—no matter at all! I can afford to wait a bit and look round me. I—aw!—good morning, sir."

Away stalked the young Northumbrian, like a prince of the blood.

"A chip of the old block," muttered Mr. Berry, as he resumed his desk work. "Poor lad, he'll have to come down a peg though."

The cabby sprang towards the young nob.

"Where next, sir?"

"Grindlay's."

Archie was not more successful here, nor anywhere else.

But at the end of a week, during which time he had tried as hard as any young man had ever tried before in Sydney or any other city to find some genteel employment, he made a wise resolve; viz., to go into lodgings.

He found that living in a hotel, though very cheerful, made a terrible hole in his purse; so he brought himself "down a peg" by the simple process of "going up" nearer the sky.

Here is the explanation of this paradox. It was Archie's custom to spend his forenoons looking for something to do, and his evenings walking in the suburbs.

Poor, lonely lad, that never a soul in the city cared for, any more than if he had been a stray cat, he found it wearisome, heart-breaking work wandering about the narrow, twisting streets and getting civilly snubbed. He felt more of a gentleman when dining. Afterwards his tiredness quite left him, and hope swelled his heart once more. So out he would go and away—somewhere, anywhere; it did not matter so long as he could see woods, and water, and houses. Oh, such lovely suburban villas, with cool verandahs, round which flowering creepers twined, and lawns shaded by dark green waving banana trees, beneath which he could ofttimes hear the voices of merry children, or the tinkle of the light guitar. He would give reins to his fancy then, and imagine things—such sweet things!

Yes, he would own one of the biggest and most delightful of these mansions; he should keep fleet horses, a beautiful carriage, a boat—he must have a boat, or should it be a gondola? Yes, that would be nicer and newer. In this boat, when the moonlight silvered the water, he would glide over the bay, returning early to his happy home. His bonnie sister should be there, his brother Rupert—the student—his mother, and his hero, that honest, bluff, old father of his. What a dear, delightful dream! No wonder he did not care to return to the realities of his city life till long after the sun had set over the hills, and the stars were twinkling down brighter and lovelier far than those lights he had so admired the night his ship arrived.

He was returning slowly one evening and was close to the city, but in a rather lonely place, when he noticed something dark under the shade of a tree, and heard a girl's voice say:

"Dearie me! as missus says; but ain't I jolly tired just!"

"Who is that?" said Archie.

"On'y me, sir; on'y Sarah. Don't be afear'd. I ain't a larrikin. Help this 'ere box on my back like a good chummie."

"It's too heavy for your slight shoulders," quoth gallant Archie. "I don't mind carrying it a bit."

"What, a gent like you! Why, sir, you're greener than they make 'em round here!"

"I'm from England."

"Ho, ho! Well, that accounts for the milk. So 'm I from Hengland. This way, chummie."

They hadn't far to go.

"My missus lives two story up, top of a ware'us, and I've been to the station for that 'ere box. She do take it out o' me for all the wage. She do."

Archie carried the box up the steep stairs, and Sarah's mistress herself opened the door and held a candle. A thin, weary-looking body, with whom Sarah seemed to be on the best and most friendly terms.

"Brought my young man," said Sarah. "Ain't he a smartie? But, heigho! so green! You never!"

"Come in a minute, sir, and rest you. Never mind this silly girl."

Archie did go in a minute; five, ten, ay fifteen, and by that time he had not only heard all this ex-policeman's wife's story, but taken a semi-attic belonging to her.

And he felt downright independent and happy when next day he took possession.

For now he would have time to really look round, and it was a relief to his mind that he would not be spending much money.

Archie could write home cheerfully now. He was sure that something would soon turn up, something he could accept, and which would not be derogatory to the son of a Northumbrian squire. More than one influential member of commercial society had promised "to communicate with him at the very earliest moment."

But, alas! weeks flew by, and weeks went into months, and no more signs of the something were apparent than he had seen on the second day of his arrival.

Archie was undoubtedly "a game un," as Sarah called him; but his heart began to feel very heavy indeed.

Living as cheaply as he could, his money would go done at last. What then? Write home for more? He shuddered to think of such a thing. If his first friend, Captain Vesey, had only turned up now, he would have gone and asked to be taken as a hand before the mast. But Captain Vesey did not.

A young man cannot be long in Sydney without getting into a set. Archie did, and who could blame him. They were not a rich set, nor a very fast set; but they had a morsel of a club-room of their own. They formed friendships, took strolls together, went occasionally to the play, and often had little "adventures" about town, the narratives of which, when retailed in the club, found ready listeners, and of course were stretched to the fullest extent of importance.

They really were not bad fellows, and would have done Archie a good turn if they could. But they could not. They laughed a deal at first at his English notions and ideas; but gradually Archie got over his greenness, and began to settle down to colonial life, and would have liked Sydney very much indeed if he had only had something to do.

The ex-policeman's wife was very kind to her lodger. So was Sarah; though she took too many freedoms of speech with him, which tended to lower his English squirearchical dignity very much. But, to do her justice, Sarah did not mean any harm.

Only once did Archie venture to ask about the ex-policeman. "What did he do?"

"Oh, he drinks!" said Sarah, as quietly as if drinking were a trade of some kind. Archie asked no more.

Rummaging in a box one day, Archie found his last letter of introduction. It had been given him by Uncle Ramsay.

"You'll find him a rough and right sort of a stick," his uncle had said. "He was my steward, now he is a wealthy man, and can knock down his cheque for many thousands."

Archie dressed in his best and walked right away that afternoon to find the address.

It was one of the very villas he had often passed, in a beautiful place close by the water-side.

What would be his reception here?

This question was soon put at rest.

He rang the bell, and was ushered into a luxuriously-furnished room; a room that displayed more richness than taste.

A very beautiful girl—some thirteen years of age perhaps—got up from a grand piano, and stood before him.

Archie was somewhat taken aback, but bowed as composedly as he could.

"Surely," he thought, "she cannot be the daughter of the rough and right sort of a stick who had been steward to his uncle. He had never seen so sweet a face, such dreamy blue eyes, or such wealth of hair before.

"Did you want to see papa? Sit down. I'll go and find him."

"Will you take this letter to him?" said Archie.

And the girl left, letter in hand.

Ten minutes after the "rough stick" entered whistling "Sally come up."

"Hullo! hullo!" he cried, "so here we are."

There he was without doubt—a big, red, jolly face, like a full moon orient, a loose merino jacket, no waistcoat or necktie, but a cricketer's cap on the very back of his bushy head. He struck Archie a friendly slap on the back.

"Keep on yer cap," he shouted, "I was once a poor man myself."

Archie was too surprised and indignant to speak.

"Well, well, well," said Mr. Winslow, "they do tell me wonders won't never cease. What a whirligig of a world it is. One day I'm cleanin' a gent's boots. Gent is a capting of a ship. Next day gent's nephew comes to me to beg for a job. Say, young man, what'll ye drink?"

"I didn't come to drink, Mr. Winslow, neither did I come to beg."

"Whew—ew—ew," whistled the quondam steward, "here's pride; here's a touch o' the old country. Why, young un, I might have made you my under-gardener."

The girl at this moment entered the room. She had heard the last sentence.

"Papa!" she remonstrated. Then she glided out by the casement window.

Burning blushes suffused Archie's cheeks as he hurried over the lawn soon after; angry tears were in his eyes. His hand was on the gate-latch when he felt a light touch on his arm. It was the girl.

"Don't be angry with poor papa," she said, almost beseechingly.

"No, no," Archie cried, hardly knowing what he did say. "What is your name?"

"Etheldene."

"What a beautiful name! I—I will never forget it. Good-bye."

He ran home with the image of the child in his mind—on his brain.

Sarah—plain Sarah—met him at the top of the stairs. He brushed past her.

"La! but ye does look glum," said Sarah.

Archie locked his door. He did not want to see even Sarah—homely Sarah—that night.

CHAPTER III.
"SOMETHING IN SOAP."

It was a still, sultry night in November. Archie's balcony window was wide open, and if there had been a breath of air anywhere he would have had the benefit of it. That was one advantage of having a room high up above the town, and there were several others. For instance, it was quieter, more retired, and his companions did not often take him by storm, because they objected to climb so many stairs. Dingy, small, and dismal some might have called it, but Archie always felt at home up in his semi-attic. It even reminded him of his room in the dear old tower at Burley. Then his morsel of balcony, why that was worth all the money he paid for the room itself; and as for the view from this charming, though non-aristocratic elevation, it was simply unsurpassed, unsurpassable—looking far away over a rich and fertile country to the grand old hills beyond—a landscape that, like the sea, was still the same, but ever changing; sometimes smiling and green, sometimes bathed in tints of purple and blue, sometimes grey as a sky o'ercast with rain clouds. Yes, he loved it, and he would take a chair out here on a moonlight evening and sit and think and dream.

But on this particular night sleep, usually so kind to the young man, absolutely refused to visit his pillow. He tried to woo the goddess on his right side, on his left, on his back; it was all in vain. Finally, he sat bolt upright in his little truckle bed in silent defiance.

"I don't care," he said aloud, "whether I sleep or not. What does it matter? I've nothing to do to-morrow. Heigho!"

Nothing to do to-morrow! How sad! And he so young too. Were all his dreams of future fortune to fade and pass away like this—nothing to do? Why he envied the very boys who drove the mill wagons that went lazily rolling past his place every day. They seemed happy, and so contented; while he—why his very life—had come to be all one continued fever.

"Nothing to do yet, sir?" It was the ordinary salutation of his hard-working mite of a landlady when he came home to his meal in the afternoon. "I knows by the weary way ye walks upstairs, sir, you aren't successful yet, sir."

"Nothink to do yet, sir?" They were the usual words that the slavey used when she dragged upstairs of an evening with his tea-things.

"Nothink to do," she would say, as she deposited the tray on the table, and sank sans ceremonie into the easy-chair. "Nothink to do. What a 'appy life to lead! Now 'ere's me a draggin' up and down stairs, and a carryin' of coals and a sweepin', and a dustin' and a hanswering of the door, till, what wi' the 'eat and the dust and the fleas, my poor little life's well-nigh worrited out o' me. Heigho! hif I was honly back again in merrie England, catch me ever goin' to any Australia any more. But you looks a borned gent, sir. Nothink to do! My eye and Betty Martin, ye oughter to be 'appy, if you ain't."

Archie got up to-night, enrobed himself in his dressing-gown, and went and sat on his balcony. This soothed him. The stars were very bright, and seemed very near. He did not care for other companionship than these and his own all-too-busy thoughts. There was hardly a sound to be heard, except now and then the hum of a distant railway train increasing to a harsh roar as it crossed the bridge, then becoming subdued again and muffled as it entered woods, or went rolling over a soft and open country.

Nothing to do! But he must and would do something. Why should he starve in a city of plenty? He had arms and hands, if he hadn't a head. Indeed, he had begun of late to believe that his head, which he used to think so much of, was the least important part of his body. He caught himself feeling his forearm and his biceps. Why this latter had got smaller and beautifully less of late. He had to shut his fist hard to make it perceptible to touch. This was worse and worse, he thought. He would not be able to lift a fifty-six if he wanted to before long, or have strength enough left to wield a stable broom if he should be obliged to go as gardener to Winslow.

"What next, I wonder?" he said to himself. "First I lose my brains, if ever I had any, and now I have lost my biceps; the worst loss last."

He lit his candle, and took up the newspaper. "I'll pocket my pride, and take a porter's situation," he murmured. "Let us see now. Hullo! what is this? 'APPRENTICE WANTED—the drug trade—splendid opening to a pushing youngster.' Well, I am a pushing youngster. 'Premium required.' I don't care, I have a bit of money left, and I'll pay it like a man if there is enough. Why the drug trade is grand. Sydney drug-stores beat Glasgow's all to pieces. Druggists and drysalters have their carriages and mansions, their town and country houses. Hurrah! I'll be something yet!"

He blew out the candle, and jumped into bed. The gentle goddess required no further wooing. She took him in her lap, and he went off at once like a baby.

Rap—rap—rap—rap!

"Hullo! Yes; coming, Sarah; coming."

It was broad daylight; and when he admitted Sarah at last, with the breakfast-tray, she told him she had been up and down fifty times, trying to make him hear. Sarah was given to a little exaggeration at times.

"It was all very well for a gent like he," she said, "but there was her a-slavin' and a-toilin', and all the rest of it."

"Well, well, my dear," he cut in, "I'm awfully sorry, I assure you."

Sarah stopped right in the centre of the room, still holding the tray, and looked at him.

"What!" she cried. "Ye ain't a-going to marry me then, young man! What are ye my-dearing me for?"

"No, Sarah," replied Archie, laughing; "I'm not going to marry you; but I've hopes of a good situation, and——"

"Is that all?" Sarah dumped down the tray, and tripped away singing.

Archie's interview with the advertiser was of a most satisfactory character. He did not like the street, it was too new and out of the way; but then it would be a beginning.

He did not like his would-be employer, but he dared say he would improve on acquaintance. There was plenty in the shop, though the place was dingy and dirty, and the windows small. The spiders evidently had fine times of it here, and did not object to the smell of drugs. He was received by Mr. Glorie himself in a little back sanctum off the little back shop.

The premium for apprenticing Archie was rather more than the young man could give; but this being explained to the proprietor of these beautiful premises, and owner of all the spiders, he graciously condescended to take half. Archie's salary—a wretched pittance—was to commence at once after articles were signed; and Mr. Glorie promised to give him a perfect insight into the drug business, and make a man of him, and "something else besides," he added, nodding to Archie in a mysterious manner.

The possessor of the strange name was a queer-looking man; there did not appear much glory about him. He was very tall, very lanky, and thin, his shoulders sloping downwards like a well-pointed pencil, while his face was solemn and elongated, like your own, reader, if you look at it in a spoon held lengthways.

The articles were signed, and Archie walked home on feathers apparently. He went upstairs singing. His landlady ran to the door.

"Work at last?"

Archie nodded and smiled.

When Sarah came in with the dinner things she danced across the room, bobbing her queer, old-fashioned face and crying—

"Lawk-a-daisy, diddle-um-doo,
Missus says you've got work to do!"

"Yes, Sarah, at long last, and I'm so happy."

"'Appy, indeed!" sang Sarah. "Why, ye won't be the gent no longer!"

Archie certainly had got work to do. For a time his employer kept him in the shop. There was only one other lad, and he went home with the physic, and what with studying hard to make himself au fait in prescribing and selling seidlitz powders and gum drops, Archie was pretty busy.

So months flew by. Then his long-faced employer took him into the back premises, and proceeded to initiate him into the mysteries of the something else that was to make a man of him.

"There's a fortune in it," said Mr. Glorie, pointing to a bubbling grease-pot. "Yes, young sir, a vast fortune."

"What is the speciality?" Archie ventured to enquire.

"The speciality, young sir?" replied Mr. Glorie, his face relaxing into something as near a smile as it would permit of. "The speciality, sir, is SOAP. A transparent soap. A soap, young sir, that is destined to revolutionise the world of commerce, and bring my star to the ascendant after struggling for two long decades with the dark clouds of adversity."

So this was the mystery. Archie was henceforward, so it appeared, to live in an atmosphere of scented soap; his hope must centre in bubbles. He was to assist this Mr. Glorie's star to rise to the zenith, while his own fortune might sink to nadir. And he had paid his premium. It was swallowed up and simmering in that ugly old grease-pot, and except for the miserable salary he received from Mr. Glorie he might starve.

Poor Archie! He certainly did not share his employer's enthusiasm, and on this particular evening he did not walk home on feathers, and when he sat down to supper his face must have appeared to Sarah quite as long and lugubrious as Mr. Glorie's; for she raised her hands and said:

"Lawk-a-doodle, sir! What's the matter? Have ye killed anybody?"

"Not yet," answered Archie; "but I almost feel I could."

He stuck to his work, however, like a man; but that work became more and more allied to soap, and the front shop hardly knew him any more.

He had informed the fellows at the club-room that he was employed at last; that he was apprenticed to the drug trade. But the soap somehow leaked out, and more than once, when he was introduced to some new-comer, he was styled—

"Mr. Broadbent," and "something in soap."

This used to make him bite his lips in anger.

He would not have cared half so much had he not joined this very club, with a little flourish of trumpets, as young Broadbent, son of Squire Broadbent, of Burley Old Castle, England.

And now he was "something in soap."

He wrote home to his sister in the bitterness of his soul, telling her that all his visions of greatness had ended in bubbles of rainbow hue, and that he was "something in soap." He felt sorry for having done so as soon as the letter was posted.

He met old Winslow one day in the street, and this gentleman grasped Archie's small aristocratic hand in his great brown bear's paw, and congratulated him on having got on his feet at last.

"Yes," said Archie with a sneer and a laugh, "I'm 'something in soap.'"

"And soap's a good thing I can tell you. Soap's not to be despised. There's a fortune in soap. I had an uncle in soap. Stick to it, my lad, and it'll stick to you."

But when a new apprentice came to the shop one day, and was installed in the front-door drug department, while he himself was relegated to the slums at the back, his cup of misery seemed full, and he proceeded forthwith to tell this Mr. Glorie what he thought of him. Mr. Glorie's face got longer and longer and longer, and he finally brought his clenched fist down with such a bang on the counter, that every bottle and glass in the place rang like bells.

"I'll have the law on you," he shouted.

"I don't care; I've done with you. I'm sick of you and your soap."

He really did not mean to do it; but just at that moment his foot kicked against a huge earthenware jar full of oil, and shivered it in pieces.

"You've broke your indenture! You—you——"

"I've broken your jar, anyhow," cried Archie.

He picked up his hat, and rushing out, ran recklessly off to his club.

He was "something in soap" no more.

He was beggared, but he was free, unless indeed Mr. Glorie should put him in gaol.

CHAPTER IV.
THE KING MAY COME IN THE CADGER'S WAY.

Mr. Glorie did not put his runaway apprentice in gaol. He simply advertised for another—with a premium.

Poor Archie! His condition in life was certainly not to be envied now. He had but very few pounds between him and actual want.

He was rich in one thing alone—pride. He would sooner starve than write home for a penny. No, he could die in a gutter, but he could not bear to think they should know of it at Burley Old Farm.

Long ago, in the bonnie woods around Burley, he used to wonder to find dead birds in dark crannies of the rocks. He could understand it now. They had crawled into the crannies to die, out of sight and alone.

His club friends tried to rally him. They tried to cheer him up in more ways than one. Be it whispered, they tried to make him seek solace in gambling and in the wine-cup.

I do not think that I have held up my hero as a paragon. On the contrary, I have but represented him as he was—a bold, determined lad, with many and many a fault; but now I am glad to say this one thing in his favour: he was not such a fool as to try to drown his wits in wine, nor to seek to make money questionably by betting and by cards.

After Archie's letter home, in which he told Elsie that he was "something in soap," he had written another, and a more cheerful one. It was one which cost him a good deal of trouble to write; for he really could not get over the notion that he was telling white lies when he spoke of "his prospects in life, and his hopes being on the ascendant;" and as he dropped it into the receiver, he felt mean, demoralized; and he came slowly along George Street, trying to make himself believe that any letter was better than no letter, and that he would hardly have been justified in telling the whole truth.

Well, at Burley Old Farm things had rather improved, simply for this reason: Squire Broadbent had gone in heavily for retrenchment.

He had proved the truth of his own statement: "It does not take much in this world to make a man happy." The Squire was happy when he saw his wife and children happy. The former was always quietly cheerful, and the latter did all they could to keep up each other's hearts. They spent much of their spare time in the beautiful and romantic tower-room, and in walking about the woods, the grounds, and farm; for Rupert was well now, and was his father's right hand, not in the rough-and-tumble dashing way that Archie would have been, but in a thoughtful, considering way.

Mr. Walton had gone away, but Branson and old Kate were still to the fore. The Squire could not have spared these.

I think that Rupert's religion was a very pretty thing. He had lost none of his simple faith, his abiding trust in God's goodness, though he had regained his health. His devotions were quite as sincere, his thankfulness for mercies received greater even than before, and he had the most unbounded faith in the efficacy of prayer.

So his sister and he lived in hope, and the Squire used to build castles in the green parlour of an evening, and of course the absent Archie was one of the kings of these castles.

After a certain number of years of retrenchment, Burley was going to rise from its ashes hike the fabled phoenix—machinery and all. The Squire was even yet determined to show these old-fashioned farmer folks of Northumbria "a thing or two."

That was his ambition; and we must not blame him; for a man without ambition of some kind is a very humble sort of a clod—a clod of very poor clay.

But to return to Sydney.

Archie had received several rough invitations to go and visit Mr. Winslow. He had accepted two of these, and, singular to say, Etheldene's father was absent each time. Now, I refuse to be misunderstood. Archie did not "manage" to call when the ex-miner was out; but Archie was not displeased. He had taken a very great fancy for the child, and did not hesitate to tell her that from the first day he had met her he had loved her like his sister Elsie.

Of course Etheldene wanted to know all about Elsie, and hours were spent in telling her about this one darling sister of his, and about Rupert and all the grand old life at Burley.

"I should laugh," cried Archie, "if some day when you grew up, you should find yourself in England, and fall in love with Rupert, and marry him."

The child smiled, but looked wonderfully sad and beautiful the next moment. She had a way like this with her. For if Etheldene had been taken to represent any month of our English year, it would have been April—sunshine, flowers, and showers.

But one evening Archie happened to be later out in the suburbs than he ought to have been. The day had been hot, and the night was delightfully cool and pleasant. He was returning home when a tall, rough-looking, bearded man stopped him, and asked "for a light, old chum." Archie had a match, which he handed him, and as the light fell on the man's face, it revealed a very handsome one indeed, and one that somehow seemed not unfamiliar to him.

Archie went on. There was the noise of singing farther down the street, a merry band of youths who had been to a race meeting that day, and were up to mischief.

The tall man hid under the shadow of a wall.

"They're larrikins," he said to himself, and "he's a greenhorn." He spat in his fist, and kept his eye on the advancing figures.

Archie met them. They were arm-in-arm, five in all, and instead of making way for him, rushed him, and down he went, his head catching the kerb with frightful force. They at once proceeded to rifle him. But perhaps "larrikins" had never gone to ground so quickly and so unexpectedly before. It was the bearded man who was "having his fling" among them, and he ended by grabbing one in each hand till a policeman came up.

"Down went Archie, his head catching the kerb with frightful
force. They at once proceeded to rifle him. But larrikins had never
gone to ground so quickly before. It was the bearded man who ended
by grabbing one in each hand till a policeman came up."

Archie remembered nothing more then.

When he became sensible he was in bed with a bandaged head, and feeling as weak all over as a kitten. Sarah was in the room with the landlady.

"Hush, my dear," said the latter; "you've been very ill for more than a week. You're not to get up, nor even to speak."

Archie certainly did not feel inclined to do either. He just closed his eyes and dozed off again, and his soul flew right away back to Burley.

"Oh, yes; he's out of danger!" It was the doctor's voice. "He'll do first-rate with careful nursing."

"He won't want for that, sir. Sarah here has been like a little mother to him."

Archie dozed for days. Only, whenever he was sensible, he could notice that Sarah was far better dressed, and far older-looking and nicer-looking than ever she had been. And now and then the big-bearded man came and sat by his bed, looking sometimes at him, some times at Sarah.

One day Archie was able to sit up; he felt quite well almost, though of course he was not really so.

"I have you to thank for helping me that night," he said.

"Ay, ay, Master Archie; but don't you know me?"

"No—no. I don't think so."

The big-bearded man took out a little case from his pocket, and pulled therefrom a pair of horn-bound spectacles.

"Why!" cried Archie, "you're not——"

"I am, really."

"Oh, Bob Cooper, I'm pleased to see you! Tell me all your story."

"Not yet, chummie; it is too long, or rather you're too weak. Why, you're crying!"

"It's tears of joy!"

"Well, well; I would join you, lad, but tears ain't in my line. But somebody else will want to see you to-morrow."

"Who?"

"Just wait and see."

Archie did wait. Indeed he had to; for the doctor left express orders that he was not to be disturbed.

The evening sun was streaming over the hills when Sarah entered next day and gave a look towards the bed.

"I'm awake, Sarah."

"It's Bob," said Sarah, "and t'other little gent. They be both a-comin' upstairs athout their boots."

Archie was just wondering what right Sarah had to call Bob Cooper by his Christian name, when Bob himself came quietly in.

"Ah!" he said, as he approached the bed, "you're beginning to look your old self already. Now who is this, think you?"

Archie extended a feeble white hand.

"Why, Whitechapel!" he exclaimed joyfully. "Wonders will never cease!"

"Well, Johnnie, and how are ye? I told ye, ye know, that 'the king might come in the cadger's way.'"

"Not much king about me now, Harry; but sit down. Why I've come through such a lot since I saw you, that I begin to feel quite aged. Well, it is just like old times seeing you. But you're not a bit altered. No beard, or moustache, or anything, and just as cheeky-looking as when you gave me that thrashing in the wood at Burley. But you don't talk so Cockneyfied."

"No, Johnnie; ye see I've roughed it a bit, and learned better English in the bush and scrub. But I say, Johnnie, I wouldn't mind being back for a day or two at Burley. I think I could ride your buck-jumping 'Eider-Duck' now. Ah, I won't forget that first ride, though; I've got to rub myself yet whenever I think of it."

"But how on earth did you get here at all, the pair of you?"

"Well," said Harry, "that ain't my story 'alf so much as it is Bob's. I reckon he better tell it."

"Oh, but I haven't the gift of the gab like you, Harry! I'm a slow coach. I am a duffer at a story."

"Stop telling both," cried Archie. "I don't want any story about the matter. Just a little conversational yarn; you can help each other out, and what I don't understand, why I'll ask, that's all."

"But wait a bit," he continued. "Touch that bell, Harry. Pull hard; it doesn't ring else. My diggins are not much account. Here comes Sarah, singing. Bless her old soul! I'd been dead many a day if it hadn't been for Sarah."

"Look here, Sarah."

"I'm looking nowheres else, Mister Broadbent; but mind you this, if there's too much talking, I'm to show both these gents downstairs. Them's the doctor's orders, and they've got to be obeyed. Now, what's your will, sir?"

"Tea, Sarah."

"That's right. One or two words at a time and all goes easy. Tea you shall have in the twinkling of a bedpost. Tea and etceteras."

Sarah was as good as her word. In ten minutes she had laid a little table and spread it with good things; a big teapot, cups and saucers, and a steaming urn.

Then off she went singing again.

Archie wondered what made her so happy, and meant to ask her when his guests were gone.

"Now, young Squire," said Harry, "I'll be the lady; and if your tea isn't to your taste, why just holler."

"But don't call me Squire, Harry; I left that title at home. We're all equal here. No kings and no cadgers.

"Well, Bob, when last I saw you in old England, there was a sorrowful face above your shoulders, and I'll never forget the way you turned round and asked me to look after your mother's cat."

"Ah, poor mother! I wish I'd been better to her when I had her. However, I reckon we'll meet some day up-bye yonder."

"Yes, Bob, and you jumped the fence and disappeared in the wood! Where did you go?"

CHAPTER V.
BOB'S STORY: WILD LIFE AT THE DIGGINGS.

"Well, it all came about like this, Archie: 'England,' I said to myself, says I, 'ain't no place for a poor man.' Your gentry people, most o' them anyhow, are just like dogs in the manger. The dog couldn't eat the straw, but he wouldn't let the poor hungry cow have a bite. Your landed proprietors are just the same; they got their land as the dog got his manger. They took it, and though they can't live on it all, they won't let anybody else do it."

"You're rather hard on the gentry, Bob."

"Well, maybe, Archie; but they ain't many o' them like Squire Broadbent. Never mind, there didn't seem to be room for me in England, and I couldn't help noticing that all the best people, and the freest, and kindest, were men like your Uncle Ramsay, who had been away abroad, and had gotten all their dirty little meannesses squeezed out of them. So when I left you, after cutting that bit o' stick, I made tracks for London. I hadn't much money, so I tramped all the way to York, and then took train. When I got to London, why I felt worse off than ever. Not a soul to speak to; not a face I knew; even the bobbies looking sour when I asked them a civil question; and starvation staring me in the face."

"Starvation, Bob?"

"Ay, Archie, and money in my pocket. Plenty o' shilling dinners; but, lo! what was one, London shilling dinner to the like o' me? Why, I could have bolted three! Then I thought of Harry here, and made tracks for Whitechapel. I found the youngster—I'd known him at Burley—and he was glad to see me again. His granny was dead, or somebody; anyhow, he was all alone in the world. But he made me welcome—downright happy and welcome. I'll tell you what it is, Archie lad, Harry is a little gentleman, Cockney here or Cockney there; and deep down below that white, thin face o' his, which three years and over of Australian sunshine hasn't made much browner, Harry carries a heart, look, see! that wouldn't disgrace an English Squire."

"Bravo, Bob! I like to hear you speak in that way about our friend."

"Well, that night I said to Harry, 'Isn't it hard, Harry,' I says, 'that in this free and enlightened land a man is put into gaol if he snares a rabbit?'

"'Free and enlightened fiddlestick!' that was Harry's words. 'I tell ye what it is, Bob,' says he, 'this country is played out. But I knows where there are lots o' rabbits for the catching.'

"'Where's that?' I says.

"'Australia O!' says Harry.

"'Harry,' says I, 'let us pool up, and set sail for the land of rabbits—for Australia O!'

"'Right you are,' says Harry; and we pooled up on the spot; and from that day we haven't had more'n one purse between the two of us, have we, Harry?"

"Only one," said Harry; "and one's enough between such old, old chums."

"He may well say old, old chums, Archie; he may well put the two olds to it; for it isn't so much the time we've been together, it's what we've come through together; and shoulder to shoulder has always been our motto. We've shared our bed, we've shared our blanket, our damper and our water also, when there wasn't much between the two of us.

"We got helped out by the emigration folks, and we've paid them since, and a bit of interest thrown in for luck like; but when we stood together in Port Jackson for the first time, the contents of our purse wouldn't have kept us living long, I can assure you."

"'Cities aren't for the like of us, Harry,'" says I.

"'Not now,'" says Harry.

"So we joined a gang going west. There was a rush away to some place where somebody had found gold, and Harry and I thought we might do as well as any o' them.

"Ay, Archie, that was a rush. 'Tinklers, tailors, sodjers, sailors.' I declare we thought ourselves the best o' the whole gang, and I think so still.

"We were lucky enough to meet an old digger, and he told us just exactly what to take and what to leave. One thing we did take was steamboat and train, as far as they would go, and this helped us to leave the mob a bit in the rear.

"Well, we got high up country at long last——"

"Hold!" cried Harry. "He's missing the best of it. Is that fair, Johnnie?"

"No, it isn't fair."

"Why, Johnnie, we hadn't got fifty miles beyond civilization when, what with the heat and the rough food and bad water, Johnnie, my London legs and my London heart failed me, and down I must lie. We were near a bit of a cockatoo farmer's shanty."

"Does it pay to breed cockatoos?" said Archie innocently.

"Don't be the death o' me, Johnnie. A cockatoo farmer is just a crofter. Well, in there Bob helped me, and I could go no farther. How long was I ill, Bob?"

"The best part o' two months, Harry."

"Ay, Johnnie, and all that time Bob there helped the farmer—dug for him, trenched and fenced, and all for my sake, and to keep the life in my Cockney skin."

"Well, Harry," said Bob, "you proved your worth after we got up. You hardened down fine after that fever."

Harry turned towards Archie.

"You mustn't believe all Bob says, Johnnie, when he speaks about me. Bob is a good-natured, silly sort of a chap; and though he has a beard now, he ain't got more 'n 'alf the lime-juice squeezed out of him yet."

"Never mind, Bob," said Archie, "even limes and lemons should not be squeezed dry. You and I are country lads, and we would rather retain a shade of greenness than otherwise; but go on, Bob."

"Well, now," continued Bob, "I don't know that Harry's fever didn't do us both good in the long run; for when we started at last for the interior, we met a good lot of the rush coming back. There was no fear of losing the tracks. That was one good thing that came o' Harry's fever. Another was, that it kind o' tightened his constitution. La! he could come through anything after that—get wet to the skin and dry again; lie out under a tree or under the dews o' heaven, and never complain of stiffness; and eat corn beef and damper as much as you'd like to put before him; and he never seemed to tire. As for me, you know, Archie, I'm an old bush bird. I was brought up in the woods and wilds; and, faith, I'm never so much at home as I am in the forests. Not but what we found the march inland wearisome enough. Worst of it was, we had no horses, and we had to do a lot of what you might call good honest begging; but if the squatters did give us food going up, we were willing to work for it."

"If they'd let us, Bob."

"Which they didn't. Hospitality and religion go hand in hand with the squatter. When I and Harry here set out on that terribly long march, I confess to both of ye now I didn't feel at all certain as to how anything at all would turn out. I was just as bad as the young bear when its mother put it down and told it to walk. The bear said, 'All right, mother; but how is it done?' And as the mother only answered by a grunt, the young bear had to do the best it could; and so did we.

"'How is it going to end?' I often said to Harry.

"'We can't lose anything, Bob,' Harry would say, laughing, 'except our lives, and they ain't worth much to anybody but ourselves; so I'm thinkin' we're safe.'"

Here Bob paused a moment to stir his tea, and look thoughtfully into the cup, as if there might be some kind of inspiration to be had from that.

He laughed lightly as he proceeded:

"I'm a bad hand at a yarn; better wi' the gun and the 'girn,' Harry. But I'm laughing now because I remember what droll notions I had about what the Bush, as they call it, would be like when we got there."

"But, Johnnie," Harry put in, "the curious thing is, that we never did get there, according to the settlers."

"No?"

"No; because they would always say to us, 'You're going Bush way, aren't ye, boys?' And we would answer, 'Why, ain't we there now?' And they would laugh."

"That's true," said Bob. "The country never seemed to be Bush enough for anybody. Soon's they settled down in a place the Bush'd be farther west."

"Then the Bush, when one is going west," said Archie, "must be like to-morrow, always one day ahead."

"That's it; and always keeping one day ahead. But it was Bush enough for us almost anywhere. And though I feel ashamed like to own it now, there was more than once that I wished I hadn't gone there at all. But I had taken the jump, you see, and there was no going back. Well, I used to think at first that the heat would kill us, but it didn't. Then I made sure the want of water would. That didn't either, because, one way or another, we always came across some. But I'll tell you what nearly killed us, and that was the lonesomeness of those forests. Talk of trees! La! Archie, you'd think of Jack and the beanstalk if you saw some we saw. And why didn't the birds sing sometimes? But no, only the constant bicker, bicker of something in the grass. There were sounds though that did alarm us. We know now that they were made by birds and harmless beasts, but we were all in the dark then.

"Often and often, when we were just dropping, and thought it would be a comfort to lie down and die, we would come out of a forest all at once, and feel in a kind of heaven because we saw smoke, or maybe heard the bleating o' sheep. Heaven? Indeed, Archie, it seemed to be; for we had many a kindly welcome from the roughest-looking chaps you could possibly imagine. And the luxury of bathing our poor feet, with the certainty of a pair of dry, clean socks in the mornin', made us as happy as a couple of kings. A lump of salt junk, a dab of damper, and a bed in a corner made us feel so jolly we could hardly go to sleep for laughing.

"But the poor beggars we met, how they did carry on to be sure about their bad luck, and about being sold, and this, that, and t'other. Ay, and they didn't all go back. We saw dead bodies under trees that nobody had stopped to bury; and it was sad enough to notice that a good many of these were women, and such pinched and ragged corpses! It isn't nice to think back about it.

"Had anybody found gold in this rush? Yes, a few got good working claims, but most of the others stopped till they couldn't stop any longer, and had to get away east again, crawling, and cursing their fate and folly.

"But I'll tell you, Archie, what ruined most o' them. Just drink. It is funny that drink will find its way farther into the bush at times than bread will.

"Well, coming in at the tail o' the day, like, as Harry and I did, we could spot how matters stood at a glance, and we determined to keep clear of bush hotels. Ah! they call them all hotels. Well, I'm a rough un, Archie, but the scenes I've witnessed in some of those drinking houffs has turned my stomach. Maudlin, drunken miners, singing, and blethering, and boasting; fighting and rioting worse than poachers, Archie, and among them—heaven help us!—poor women folks that would melt your heart to look on.

"'Can we settle down here a bit?' I said to Harry, when we got to the diggings.

"'We'll try our little best, old chum,' was Harry's reply.

"And we did try. It was hard even to live at first. The food, such as it was in the new stores, was at famine price, and there was not much to be got from the rivers and woods. But after a few months things mended; our station grew into a kind o' working town. We had even a graveyard, and all the worst of us got weeded out, and found a place there.

"Harry and I got a claim after no end of prospecting that we weren't up to. We bought our claim, and bought it cheap; and the chap we got it from died in a week. Drink? Ay, Archie, drink. I'll never forget, and Harry I don't think will, the last time we saw him. We had left him in a neighbour's hut down the gully dying to all appearance, too weak hardly to speak. We bade him 'good-bye' for the last time as we thought, and were just sitting and talking like in our slab-hut before turning in, and late it must have been, when the door opened, and in came Glutz, that was his name. La! what a sight! His face looked like the face of a skeleton with some parchment drawn tight over it, his hollow eyes glittered like wildfire, his lips were dry and drawn, his voice husky.

"He pointed at us with his shining fingers, and uttered a low cry like some beast in pain; then, in a horrid whisper, he got out these words:

"'Give me drink, drink, I'm burning.'

"I've seen many a sight, but never such a one as that, Archie. We carried him back. Yes, we did let him have a mouthful. What mattered it. Next day he was in a shallow grave. I suppose the dingoes had him. They had most of those that died.

"Well, by-and-by things got better with Harry and me; our claim began to yield, we got dust and nuggets. We said nothing to anybody. We built a better sort of shanty, and laid out a morsel of garden, we fished and hunted, and soon learned to live better than we'd done before, and as we were making a bit of money we were as happy as sandboys.

"No, we didn't keep away from the hotel—they soon got one up—it wouldn't have done not to be free and easy. But we knew exactly what to do when we did go there. We could spin our bits o' yarns, and smoke our pipes, without losing our heads. Sometimes shindies got up though, and revolvers were used freely enough, but as a rule it was pretty quiet."

"Only once, when that Little fellow told you to 'bail up.'"

"What was that, Harry?" asked Archie.

"Nothing much," said Bob shyly.

"He caught him short round the waist, Johnnie, and smashed everything on the counter with him, then flung him straight and clear through the doorway. When he had finished he quietly asked what was to pay, and Bob was a favourite after that. I reckon no one ever thought of challenging him again."

"Where did you keep your gold?"

"We hid it in the earth in the tent. There was a black fellow came to look after us every day. We kept him well in his place, for we never could trust him; and it was a good thing we did, as I'm going to tell you.

"We had been, maybe, a year and a half in the gully, and had got together a gay bit o' swag, when our claim gave out all at once as 't were—some shift o' the ground or lode. Had we had machinery we might have made a round fortune, but there was no use crying about it. We quietly determined to make tracks. We had sent some away to Brisbane already—that we knew was safe, but we had a good bit more to take about us. However, we wouldn't have to walk all the way back, for though the place was half-deserted, there were horses to be had, and farther along we'd manage to get drags.

"Two of the worst hats about the place were a man called Vance, and a kind of broken-down surgeon of the name of Williams. They lived by their wits, and the wonder is they hadn't been hanged long ago.

"It was about three nights before we started, and we were coming home up the gully. The moon was shining as bright as ever I'd seen it. The dew was falling too, and we weren't sorry when we got inside. Our tame dingo came to meet us. He had been a pup that we found in the bush and brought up by hand, and a more faithful fellow never lived. We lit our fat-lamp and sat down to talk, and a good hour, or maybe more, went by. Then we lay down, for there was lots to be done in the morning.

"There was a little hole in the hut at one end where Wango, as we called the wild dog, could crawl through; and just as we were dozing off I heard a slight noise, and opened my eyes enough to see poor Wango creeping out. We felt sure he wouldn't go far, and would rush in and alarm us if there were the slightest danger. So in a minute more I was sleeping as soundly as only a miner can sleep, Archie. How long I may have slept, or how late or early it was, I couldn't say, but I awoke all at once with a start. There was a man in the hut. Next minute a shot was fired. I fell back, and don't remember any more. Harry there will tell you the rest."

"It was the shot that wakened me, Archie, but I felt stupid. I groped round for my revolver, and couldn't find it. Then, Johnnie, I just let them have it Tom Sayers's fashion—like I did you in the wood, if you remember."

"There were two of them?"

"Aye, Vance and the doctor. I could see their faces by the light of their firing. They didn't aim well the first time, Johnnie, so I settled them. I threw the doctor over my head. His nut must have come against something hard, because it stilled him. I got the door opened and had my other man out. Ha! ha! It strikes me, Johnnie, that I must have wanted some exercise, for I never punished a bloke before as I punished that Vance. He had no more strength in him than a bandicoot by the time I was quite done with him, and looked as limp all over and just as lively as 'alf a pound of London tripe.

"I just went to the bluff-top after that, and coo-eed for help, and three or four right good friends were with us in as many minutes, Johnnie.

"We thought Bob was dead, but he soon spoke up and told us he wasn't, and didn't mean to die.

"Our chums would have lynched the ruffians that night. The black fellow was foremost among those that wanted to. But I didn't like that, no more did Bob. They were put in a tent, tied hand and foot, and our black fellow made sentry over them. Next day they were all gone. Then we knew it was a put-up job. Poor old Wango was found with his throat cut. The black fellow had enticed him out and taken him off, then the others had gone for us."

"But our swag was safe," said Bob, "though I lay ill for months after. And now it was Harry's turn to nurse; and I can tell you, Archie, that my dear old dead-and-gone mother couldn't have been kinder to me than he was. A whole party of us took the road back east, and many is the pleasant evening we spent around our camp-fire.

"A whole party of us took the road back east, and many is the pleasant
evening we spent around our camp fire."

"We got safe to Brisbane, and we got safe here; but somehow we're a kind o' sick of mining."

"Ever hear more of your assailants?" asked Archie.

"What, the chaps who tried to bail us up? Yes. We did hear they'd taken to bushranging, and are likely to come to grief at that."

"Well, Bob Cooper, I think you've told your story pretty tidily, with Harry's assistance; and I don't wonder now that you've only got one purse between you."

"Ah!" said Bob, "it would take weeks to tell you one half of our adventures. We may tell you some more when we're all together in the Bush doing a bit of farming."

"All together?"

"To be sure! D'ye reckon we'll leave you here, now we've found you? We'll have one purse between three."

"Indeed, Bob, we will not. If I go to the Bush—and now I've half a mind to—I'll work like a New Hollander."

"Bravo! You're a chip o' the old block. Well, we can arrange that. We'll hire you. Will that do, my proud young son of a proud old sire?"

"Yes; you can hire me."

"Well, we'll pay so much for your hands, and so much for your head and brains."

Archie laughed.

"And," continued Bob, "I'm sure that Sarah will do the very best for the three of us."

"Sarah! Why, what do you mean, Bob?"

"Only this, lad: Sarah has promised to become my little wife."

The girl had just entered.

"Haven't you, Sarah?"

"Hain't I what?"

"Promised to marry me."

"Well, Mister Archie Broadbent, now I comes to think on't, I believes I 'ave. You know, mister, you wouldn't never 'ave married me."

"No, Sarah."

"Well, and I'm perfectly sick o' toilin' up and down these stairs. That's 'ow it is, sir."

"Well, Sarah," said Archie, "bring us some more nice tea, and I'll forgive you for this once, but you mustn't do it any more."

It was late ere Bob and Harry went away. Archie lay back at once, and when, a few minutes after, the ex-policeman's wife came in to see how he was, she found him sound and fast.

Archie was back again at Burley Old Farm, that is why he smiled in his dreams.

"So I'm going to be a hired man in the bush," he said to himself next morning. "That's a turn in the kaleidoscope of fortune."

However, as the reader will see, it did not quite come to this with Archie Broadbent.

CHAPTER VI.
MINER'S MARRIAGE.

It was the cool season in Sydney. In other words, it was winter just commencing; so, what with balmy air and beauty everywhere around, no wonder Archie soon got well. He had the kindest treatment too, and he had youth and hope.

He could now write home to his parents and Elsie a long, cheerful letter without any twinge of conscience. He was going to begin work soon in downright earnest, and get straight away from city life, and all its allurements; he wondered, he said, it had not occurred to him to do this before, only it was not too late to mend even yet. He hated city life now quite as much as he had previously loved it, and been enamoured of it.

It never rains but it pours, and on the very day after he posted his packet to Burley he received a registered letter from his uncle. It contained a bill of exchange for fifty pounds. Archie blushed scarlet when he saw it.

Now had this letter and its contents been from his father, knowing all he did of the straits at home, he would have sent the money back. But his uncle evidently knew whom he had to deal with; for he assured Archie in his letter that it was a loan, not a gift. He might want it he said, and he really would be obliging him by accepting it. He—Uncle Ramsay—knew what the world was, and so on and so forth, and the letter ended by requesting Archie to say nothing about it to his parents at present.

"Dear old boy," said Archie half aloud, and tears of gratitude sprang to his eyes. "How thoughtful and kind! Well, it'll be a loan, and I'll pray every night that God may spare him till I get home to shake his honest brown paw, and thrust the fifty pounds back into it. No, it would be really unkind to refuse it."

He went straight away—walking on feathers—to Bob's hotel. He found him and Harry sitting out on the balcony drinking sherbet. He took a seat beside them.

"I'm in clover, boys," he cried exultingly, as he handed the cash to Bob to look at.

"So you are," said Bob, reading the figures. "Well, this is what my old mother would call a God-send. I always said your Uncle Ramsay was as good as they make 'em."

"It looks a lot of money to me at present," said Archie. "I'll have all that to begin life with; for I have still a few pounds left to pay my landlady, and to buy a blanket or two."

"Well, as to what you'll buy, Archie," said Bob Cooper, "if you don't mind leaving that to us, we will manage all, cheaper and better than you could; for we're old on the job."

"Oh! I will with pleasure, only——"

"I know all about that. You'll settle up. Well, we're all going to be settlers. Eh? See the joke?"

"Bob doesn't often say funny things," said Harry; "so it must be a fine thing to be going to get married."

"Ay, lad, and I'm going to do it properly. Worst of it is, Archie, I don't know anybody to invite. Oh, we must have a dinner! Bother breakfasts, and hang honeymoons. No, no; a run round Sydney will suit Sarah better than a year o' honeymooning nonsense. Then we'll all go off in the boat to Brisbane. That'll be a honeymoon and a half in itself. Hurrah! Won't we all be so happy! I feel sure Sarah's a jewel."

"How long did you know her, Bob, before you asked her the momentous question?"

"Asked her what?"

"To marry you."

"Oh, only a week! La! that's long enough. I could see she was true blue, and as soft as rain. Bless her heart! I say, Archie, who'll we ask?"

"Well, I know a few good fellows——"

"Right. Let us have them. What's their names?"

Out came Bob's notebook, and down went a dozen names.

"That'll be ample," said Archie.

"Well," Bob acquiesced with a sigh, "I suppose it must. Now we're going to be spliced by special license, Sarah and I. None of your doing things by half. And Harry there is going to order the cabs and carriages, and favours and music, and the parson, and everything firstchop."

The idea of "ordering the parson" struck Archie as somewhat incongruous; but Bob had his own way of saying things, and it was evident he would have his own way in doing things too for once.

"And," continued Bob, "the ex-policeman's wife and I are going to buy the bonnie things to-morrow. And as for the 'bobby' himself, we'll have to send him away for the day. He is too fond of one thing, and would spoil the splore."

Next day sure enough Bob did start off with the "bobby's" wife to buy the bonnie things. A tall, handsome fellow Bob looked too; and the tailor having dona his best, he was altogether a dandy. He would persist in giving his mother, as he called her, his arm on the street, and the appearance of the pair of them caused a good many people to look after them and smile.

However, the "bonnie things" were bought, and it was well he had someone to look after him, else he would have spent money uselessly as well as freely. Only, as Bob said, "It was but one day in his life, why shouldn't he make the best of it?"

He insisted on making his mother a present of a nice little gold watch. No, he wouldn't let her have a silver one, and it should be "set with blue stones." He would have that one, and no other.

"Too expensive? No, indeed!" he cried. "Make out the bill, master, and I'll knock down my cheque. Hurrah! one doesn't get married every morning, and it isn't everybody who gets a girl like Sarah when he does get spliced! So there!"

Archie had told Bob and Harry of his first dinner at the hotel, and how kind and considerate in every way the waiter had been, and how he had often gone back there to have a talk.

"It is there then, and nowhere else," said Bob, "we'll have our wedding dinner."

Archie would not gainsay this; and nothing would satisfy the lucky miner but chartering a whole flat for a week.

"That's the way we'll do it," he said; "and now look here, as long as the week lasts, any of your friends can drop into breakfast, dinner, or supper. We are going to do the thing proper, if we sell our best jackets to help to pay the bill. What say, old chummie?"

"Certainly," said Harry; "and if ever I'm fool enough to get married, I'll do the same kind o' thing."

A happy thought occurred to Archie the day before the marriage.

"How much loose cash have you, Bob?"

"I dunno," said Bob, diving his hands into both his capacious pockets—each were big enough to hold a rabbit—and making a wonderful rattling.

"I reckon I've enough for to-morrow. It seems deep enough."

"Well, my friend, hand over."

"What!" cried Bob, "you want me to bail up?"

"Bail up!"

"You're a downright bushranger, Archie. However, I suppose I must obey."

Then he emptied his pockets into a pile on the table—gold, silver, copper, all in the same heap. Archie counted and made a note of all, put part away in a box, locked it, gave Bob back a few coins, mostly silver, and stowed the rest in his purse.

"Now," said Archie, "be a good old boy, Bob; and if you want any more money, just ask nicely, and perhaps you'll have it."

There was a rattling thunder-storm that night, which died away at last far beyond the hills, and next morning broke bright, and cool, and clear.

A more lovely marriage morning surely never yet was seen.

And in due time the carriages rolled up to the church door, horses and men bedecked in favours, and right merry was the peal that rang forth from St. James's.

Sarah did not make by any means an uninteresting bride. She had not over-dressed, so that showed she possessed good taste.

As for the stalwart Northumbrian, big-bearded Bob, he really was splendid. He was all a man, I can assure you, and bore himself as such in spite of the fact that his black broadcloth coat was rather wrinkly in places, and that his white kid gloves had burst at the sides.

There was a glorious glitter of love and pride in his dark blue eyes as he towered beside Sarah at the altar, and he made the responses in tones that rang through all the church.

After the ceremony and vestry business Bob gave a sigh of relief, and squeezed Sarah's hand till she blushed.

The carriage was waiting, and a pretty bit of a mob too. And before Bob jumped in he said, "Now, Harry, for the bag."

As he spoke he gave a look of triumph towards Archie, as much as to say, "See how I have sold you."

Harry handed him a bag of silver coins.

"Stand by, you boys, for a scramble," shouted Bob in a voice that almost brought down the church.

"Coo—ee!"

And out flew handful after handful, here, there, and everywhere, till the sack was empty.

When the carriages got clear away at last, there was a ringing cheer went up from the crowd that really did everybody's heart good to hear.

Of course the bridegroom stood up and waved his hat back, and when at last he subsided:

"Och!" he sighed, "that is the correct way to get married. I've got all their good wishes, and they're worth their weight in gold, let alone silver."

The carriages all headed away for the heights of North Shore, and on to the top of the bay, from whence such a glorious panorama was spread out before them as one seldom witnesses. The city itself was a sight; but there were the hills, and rocks, and woods, and the grand coast line, and last, though not least, the blue sea itself.

The breakfast was al fresco. It really was a luncheon, and it would have done credit to the wedding of a Highland laird or lord, let alone a miner and quondam poacher. But Australia is a queer place. Bob's money at all events had been honestly come by, and everybody hailed him king of the day. He knew he was king, and simply did as he pleased. Here is one example of his abounding liberality. Before starting back for town that day he turned to Archie, as a prince might turn:

"Archie, chummie," he said.

"You see those boys?"

"Yes."

"Well, they all look cheeky."

"Very much so, Bob."

"And I dearly love a cheeky boy. Scatter a handful of coins among them, and see that there be one or two yellow ones in the lot."

"What nonsense!" cried Archie; "what extravagant folly, Bob!"

"All right," said Bob quietly. "I've no money, but——" He pulled out his splendid gold hunter.

"What are you going to do?"

"Why, let them scramble for the watch."

"No, no, Bob; I'll throw the coins."

"You have to," said Bob, sitting down, laughing.

The dinner, and the dance afterwards, were completely successful. There was no over-crowding, and no stuckupness, as Bob called it. Everybody did what he pleased, and all were as happy and jolly as the night was long.

Bob did not go away on any particular honeymoon. He told Sarah they would have their honeymoon out when they went to the Bush.

Meanwhile, day after day, for a week, the miner bridegroom kept open house for Archie's friends; and every morning some delightful trip was arranged, which, faithfully carried out, brought everyone hungry and happy back to dinner.

There is more beauty of scenery to be seen around Sydney in winter than would take volumes to describe by pen, and acres of canvas to depict; and, after all, both author and artist would have to admit that they had not done justice to their subject.

Now that he had really found friends—humble though they might be considered in England—life to Archie, which before his accident was very grey and hopeless, became bright and clear again. He had a present, and he believed he had a future. He saw new beauties everywhere around him, even in the city; and the people themselves, who in his lonely days seemed to him so grasping, grim, and heartless, began to look pleasant in his eyes. This only proves that we have happiness within our reach if we only let it come to us, and it never will while we sit and sulk, or walk around and growl.

Bob, with his young wife and Archie and Harry, made many a pilgrimage all round the city, and up and through the sternly rugged and grand scenery among the Blue Mountains. Nor was it all wild and stern, for valleys were visited, whose beauty far excelled anything else Archie had ever seen on earth, or could have dreamt of even. Sky, wood, hill, water, and wild flowers all combined to form scenes of loveliness that were entrancing at this sweet season of the year.

Twenty times a day at least Archie was heard saying to himself, "Oh, how I wish sister and Rupert were here!"

Then there were delightful afternoons spent in rowing about the bay.

I really think Bob was taking the proper way to enjoy himself after all. He had made up his mind to spend a certain sum of money on seeing all that was worth seeing, and he set himself to do so in a thoroughly business way. Well, if a person has got to do nothing, the best plan is to do it pleasantly.

So he would hire one of the biggest, broadest-beamed boats he could find, with two men to row. They would land here and there in the course of the afternoon, and towards sunset get well out into the centre of the bay. This was the time for enjoyment. The lovely chain of houses, the woods, and mansions half hid in a cloudland of soft greens and hazy blues; the far-off hills, the red setting sun, the painted sky, and the water itself casting reflections of all above.

Then slowly homewards, the chains of lights springing up here, there, and everywhere as the gloaming began to deepen into night.

If seeing and enjoying such scenes as these with a contented mind, a good appetite, and the certainty of an excellent dinner on their return, did not constitute genuine happiness, then I do not know from personal experience what that feeling is.

But the time flew by. Preparations had to be made to leave this fascinating city, and one day Archie proposed that Bob and he should visit Winslow in his suburban villa.

CHAPTER VII.
MR. WINSLOW IN A DIFFERENT LIGHT.

"You'll find him a rough stick," said Archie.

"What, rougher than me or Harry?" said Bob.

"Well, as you've put the question I'll answer you pat. I don't consider either you or Harry particularly rough. If you're rough you're right, Bob, and it is really wonderful what a difference mixing with the world has done for both of you; and if you knew a little more of the rudiments of English grammar, you would pass at a pinch."

"Thank ye," said Bob.

"You've got a bit of the bur-r-r of Northumbria in your brogue, but I do believe people like it, and Harry isn't half the Cockney he used to be. But, Bob, this man—I wish I could say gentleman—Winslow never was, and never could be, anything but a shell-back. He puts me in mind of the warty old lobsters one sees crawling in and out among the rocks away down at the point yonder.

"But, oh!" added Archie, "what a little angel the daughter is! Of course she is only a baby. And what a lovely name—Etheldene! Isn't it sweet, Bob?"

"I don't know about the sweetness; there is a good mouthful of it, anyhow."

"Off you go, Bob, and dress. Have you darned those holes in your gloves?"

"No; bought a new pair."

"Just like your extravagance. Be off!"

Bob Cooper took extra pains with his dressing to-day, and when he appeared at last before his little wife Sarah, she turned him round and round and round three times, partly for luck, and partly to look at him with genuine pride up and down.

"My eye," she said at last, "you does look stunning! Not a pin in sight, nor a string sticking out anywheres. You're going to see a young lady, I suppose; but Sarah ain't jealous of her little man. She likes to see him admired."

"Yes," said Bob, laughing; "you've hit the nail straight on the head; I am going to see a young lady. She is fourteen year old, I think. But bless your little bobbing bit o' a heart, lass, it isn't for her I'm dressed. No; I'm going with t' young Squire. He may be all the same as us out here, and lets me call him Archie. But what are they out here, after all? Why, only a set o' whitewashed heathens. No, I must dress for the company I'm in."

"And the very young lady?——"

"Is a Miss Winslow. I think t' young Squire is kind o' gone on her, though she is only a baby. Well, good-bye, lass."

"Good-bye, little man."

Etheldene ran with smiles and outstretched arms to meet Archie, but drew back when she noticed the immense bearded stranger.

"It's only Bob," said Archie. "Is your father in?"

"Yes, and we're all going to have tea out here under the trees."

The "all" was not a very large number; only Etheldene's governess and father, herself, and a girl playmate.

Poor Etheldene's mother had died in the Bush when she was little more than a baby. The rough life had hardly suited her. And this child had been such a little bushranger from her earliest days that her present appearance, her extreme beauty and gentleness, made another of those wonderful puzzles for which Australia is notorious.

Probably Etheldene knew more about the blacks, with their strange customs and manners, their curious rites and superstitions, and more about the home life of wallabies, kangaroos, dingoes, birds, insects, and every thing that grew wild, than many a professed naturalist; but she had her own names, or names given by blacks, to the trees and to the wild flowers.

While Etheldene, somewhat timidly it must be confessed, was leading big Bob round the gardens and lawns by the hand as if he were a kind of exaggerated schoolboy, and showing him all her pets—animate and inanimate—her ferns and flowers and birds, Winslow himself came upon the scene with the Morning Herald in his hand. He was dressed—if dressing it could be called—in the same careless manner Archie had last seen him. It must be confessed, however, that this semi-negligent style seemed to suit him. Archie wondered if ever he had worn a necktie in his life, and how he would look in a dress suit. He lounged up with careless ease, and stuck out his great spade of a hand.

Archie remembered he was Etheldene's father, and shook it.

"Well, youngster, how are you? Bobbish, eh? Ah, I see Ethie has got in tow with a new chum. Your friend? Is he now? Well, that's the sort of man I like. He's bound to do well in this country. You ain't a bad sort yourself, lad; but nothing to that, no more than a young turkey is to an emu. Well, sit down."

Mr. Winslow flung himself on the grass. It might be rather damp, but he dared not trust his weight and bulk on a lawn-chair.

"So your friend's going to the Bush, and going to take you with him, eh?"

Archie's proud soul rebelled against this way of talking, but he said nothing. It was evident that Mr. Winslow looked upon him as a boy.

"Well, I hope you'll do right both of you. What prospects have you?"

Archie told him how high his hopes were, and how exalted his notions.

"Them's your sentiments, eh? Then my advice is this: Pitch 'em all overboard—the whole jing-bang of them. Your high-flown notions sink you English greenhorns. Now, when I all but offered you a position under me——"

"Under your gardener," said Archie, smiling.

"Well, it's all the same. I didn't mean to insult your father's son. I wanted to know if you had the grit and the go in you."

"I think I've both, sir. Father—Squire Broadbent——"

"Squire Fiddlestick!"

"Sir!"

"Go on, lad, never mind me. Your father——"

"My father brought me up to work."

"Tossing hay, I suppose, raking flower-beds and such. Well, you'll find all this different in Australian Bush life; it is sink or swim there."

"Well, I'm going to swim."

"Bravo, boy!"

"And now, sir, do you mean to tell me that brains go for nothing in this land of contrariety?"

"No," cried Winslow, "no, lad. Goodness forbid I should give you that impression. If I had only the gift of the gab, and were a good writer, I'd send stuff to this paper" (here he struck the sheet that lay on the grass) "that would show men how I felt, and I'd be a member of the legislature in a year's time. But this is what I say, lad, Brains without legs and arms, and a healthy stomach, are no good here, or very little. We want the two combined; but if either are to be left out, why leave out the brains. There is many an English youth of gentle birth and good education that would make wealth and honour too in this new land of ours, if he could pocket his pride, don a workman's jacket, and put his shoulder to the wheel. That's it, d' ye see?"

"I think I do."

"That's right. Now tell me about your uncle. Dear old man! We never had a cross word all the time I sailed with him."

Archie did tell him all, everything, and even gave him his last letter to read.

By-and-by Etheldene came back, still leading her exaggerated schoolboy.

"Sit down, Mr. Cooper, on the grass. That's the style."

"Well," cried Archie, laughing, "if everybody is going to squat on the grass, so shall I."

Even Etheldene laughed at this; and when the governess came, and servants with the tea, they found a very happy family indeed.

After due introductions, Winslow continued talking to Bob.

"That's it, you see, Mr. Cooper; and I'm right glad you've come to me for advice. What I don't know about settling in Bushland isn't worth knowing, though I say it myself. There are plenty long-headed fellows that have risen to riches very quickly, but I believe, lad, the same men would have made money in their own country. They are the geniuses of finance; fellows with four eyes in their head, and that can look two ways at once. But they are the exception, and the ordinary man needn't expect such luck, because he won't get it.

"Now there's yourself, Mr. Cooper, and your friend that I haven't seen; you've made a lucky dive at the fields, and you're tired of gold-digging. I don't blame you. You want to turn farmer in earnest. On a small scale you are a capitalist. Well, mind, you're going to play a game, in which the very first movement may settle you for good or evil.

"Go to Brisbane. Don't believe the chaps here. Go straight away up, and take time a bit, and look round. Don't buy a pig in a poke. Hundreds do. There's a lot of people whose interest is to sell A1 claims, and a shoal of greenhorns with capital who want to buy. Now listen. Maybe not one of these have any experience. They see speculation in each other's eyes; and if one makes a grab, the other will try to be before him, and very likely the one that lays hold is hoisted. Let me put it in another way. Hang a hook, with a nice piece of pork on it, overboard where there are sharks. Everyone would like the pork, but everyone is shy and suspicious. Suddenly a shark, with more speculation in his eye than the others, prepares for a rush, and rather than he shall have it all the rest do just the same, and the lucky one gets hoisted. It's that way with catching capitalists. So I say again, Look before you leap. Don't run after bargains. They may be good, but—— This young fellow here has some knowledge of English farming. Well, that is good in its way, very good; and he has plenty of muscle, and is willing to work, that is better. If he were all alone, I'd tell him to go away to the Bush and shear sheep, build fences, and drive cattle for eighteen months, and keep his eyes wide open, and his ears too, and he'd get some insight into business. As it is, you're all going together, and you'll all have a look at things. You'll see what sort of stock the country is suited for—sheep, or cattle, or both; if it is exposed, or wet, or day, or forest, or all together. And you'll find out if it be healthy for men and stock, and not 'sour' for either; and also you'll consider what markets are open to you. For there'd be small use in rearing stock you couldn't sell. See?"

"Yes," said Bob; "I see a lot of difficulties in the way I hadn't thought of."

"Go warily then, and the difficulties will vanish. I think I'll go with you to Brisbane," added Winslow, after a pause. "I'm getting sick already of civilized life."

Etheldene threw her arms round her father's neck.

"Well, birdie, what is it? 'Fraid I go and leave you too long?"

"You mustn't leave me at all, father. I'm sometimes sick of civilized life. I'm going with you wherever you go."

That same evening after dinner, while Etheldene was away somewhere with her new friend—showing him, I think, how to throw the boomerang—Winslow and Archie sat out in the verandah looking at the stars while they sipped their coffee.

Winslow had been silent for a time, suddenly he spoke.

"I'm going to ask you a strange question, youngster," he said.

"Well, sir?" said Archie.

"Suppose I were in a difficulty, from what you have seen of me would you help me out if you could?"

"You needn't ask, sir," said Archie. "My uncle's friend."

"Well, a fifty-pound note would do it."

Archie had his uncle's draft still with him. He never said a word till he had handed it to Winslow, and till this eccentric individual had crumpled it up, and thrust it unceremoniously, and with only a grunt of thanks, into one of his capacious pockets.

"But," said Archie, "I would rather you would not look upon it as a loan. In fact, I am doubting the evidence of my senses. You—with all the show of wealth I see around me—to be in temporary need of a poor, paltry fifty pounds! Verily, sir, this is the land of contrarieties."

Winslow simply laughed.

"You have a lot to learn yet," he said, "my young friend; but I admire your courage, and your generous-heartedness, though not your business habits."

Archie and Bob paid many a visit to Wistaria Grove—the name of Winslow's place—during the three weeks previous to the start from Sydney.

One day, when alone with Archie, Winslow thrust an envelope into his hands.

"That's your fifty pounds," he said. "Why, count it, lad; don't stow it away like that. It ain't business."

"Why," said Archie, "here are three hundred pounds, not fifty pounds!"

"It's all yours, lad, every penny; and if you don't put it up I'll put it in the fire."

"But explain."

"Yes, nothing more easy. You mustn't be angry. No? Well, then, I knew, from all accounts, you were a chip o' the old block, and there was no use offending your silly pride by offering to lend you money to buy a morsel of claim, so I simply borrowed yours and put it out for you."

"Put it out for me?"

"Yes, that's it; and the money is honestly increased. Bless your innocence! I could double it in a week. It is making the first thousand pounds that is the difficulty in this country of contrarieties, as you call it."

When Archie told Bob the story that evening, Bob's answer was:

"Well, lad, I knew Winslow was a good-hearted fellow the very first day I saw him. Never you judge a man by his clothes, Archie."

"First impressions certainly are deceiving," said Archie; "and I'm learning something new every day of my life."

* * * * * *

"I am going round to Melbourne for a week or two, boys," said Winslow one day. "Which of you will come with me?"

"I'll stop here," said Bob, "and stick to business. You had better go, Archie."

"I would like to, if—if I could afford it."

"Now, just look here, young man, you stick that eternal English pride of yours in your pocket. I ask you to come with me as a guest, and if you refuse I'll throw you overboard. And if, during our journey, I catch you taking your pride, or your purse either, out of your pocket, I'll never speak another word to you as long as I live."

"All right," said Archie, laughing; "that settles it. Is Etheldene going too?"

"Yes, the child is going. She won't stay away from her old dad. She hasn't a mother, poor thing."

Regarding Archie's visit to Victoria, we must let him speak himself another time; for the scene of our story must now shift.