"Joe Brown, you are a brick. I'll drink your health," said Wyck, producing the flask. Then he sat down and read the paragraph again, scarcely believing his eyes. Fortunately he was alone in the compartment; otherwise, fellow-passengers might have thought him mad. He paced the car, whistled, and sang, and called out over and over again:
"By Jove, I'm dead! Hurrah! Hurrah!" Then he sat down again and thought it all out. At last he rose and unscrewing the cap of his flask, cried:
"Fred Philamore, I drink your health. Villiers Wyckliffe is dead, and Fred Philamore, a young English gentleman, out for colonial experience, arrives in Sydney. What a good job I shaved. No one will recognize me now; at least they won't when I've done. I always had a fancy for red hair, and mine will dye beautifully. I'll make the acquaintance of Mr. Morris and his amiable friend, Winter, and if I don't have some fun, it's a caution. I'll make it warm for you, Reg Morris, before I'm done. I'll teach dirty colonials to hunt an English gentleman. Fortunately I know friends of the different Governors. Fred Philamore will have no difficulty in getting into Society: an Englishman is a welcome change to the colonials—at least they always say so. Hurrah, Wyck! Good old Wyck, you're dead, and good old Fred Philamore stands in your shoes."
With a lighter heart than he had known for many a day, Wyck stepped out of the train at Sydney.
CHAPTER XXV.
BLUE GUMS.
"Why wasn't I born a boy, Hil? I never felt so comfortable before in my life as when I wore trousers, and now we have to return to these abominable petticoats."
"You don't regret your sex half so much as I do, for I have been regretting it ever since I was a child," answered Hil, giving her skirts a vicious twitch.
"Shall we go to Teasdale's this afternoon?"