Toowoomba being the junction of the Western Line and the chief town on the Darling Downs, the station was a larger one than ordinary. As the express steamed in all was life and bustle, for the down-train had arrived at the same time on the opposite side. Wyck having only a rug to look after, and knowing the run of the place, jumped out directly the train stopped and, calling a cab, drove to the Royal Hotel. Arriving there, he looked at the rack, and saw two telegrams addressed to himself, which he opened eagerly.
"By Jove, they're here!" he said to himself, and to the barman he cried, "Brandy!"
"You'll take the same room, sir," said the barman, handing him the drink, and wondering at his hurried manner.
"Say, George, if anyone calls for me I am not in," said he, laying half-a-crown in close proximity to George's hand.
"I'm fly, governor," said that worthy, pocketing the half-crown.
Wyck hurried upstairs to his room. Locking the door he sat down on the bed to think matters over. His limbs were trembling with nervous apprehension. Every step that passed his door made him start, and several times he had recourse to his flask to calm himself. The liquor had the desired effect, and lighting a cigar, he smoked on in silence. The smoke grew less, the cigar went out, but still he was gazing into space. A step passing his door woke him from his reverie. He took another long pull at his brandy-flask and shaking himself together walked to the looking-glass, and addressed his own image thus:
"Now, Wyck, my boy, you'll have to get out of this, and there is only one way of doing it, and that is to disguise yourself. Your moustache must come off first," and he gave that handsome appendage an affectionate farewell twist. "We must part, so here goes," and opening his dressing-case he set to work, and five minutes later was a clean-shaven man. Then he began to make elaborate preparations for his character in the bush by ripping his trousers and blackening them here and there. After a considerable amount of destruction had been done he considered his disguise satisfactory, and prepared for bed. To guard against over-sleeping himself he tied a string to the boots outside his door, and fixed the other end round his wrist. Then, taking a final sip from his flask, he jumped into bed and was soon fast asleep. He seemed scarcely to have dropped off before he was dreaming that Morris had him by the wrist and was sitting on his chest.
"Mercy!" he gurgled, at the same time rising in bed and wrenching his arm free, a process which brought forth the expression of a loud oath from outside the door.
"What's your game?" called out the owner of the voice, and Wyck woke fully and remembered. Springing out of bed he called the boots into his room.
"What's your game, young fellow?" repeated that worthy.