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.