“How’s that?”
“Why, he sold out to me ten years ago.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll find him somewhere about town?”
“I don’t think you will. He left Australia when he sold out. He’s—he’s dead now.”
“Dead! Old Ben Hake?”
“Yes. You knew him, then?”
The stranger seemed to have lost a great deal of his assurance. He turned his side to the counter, hooked his elbow on it, and gazed out through the door along Sunset Track.
“You can give me half a pound of nailrod,” he said, in a quiet tone—“I s’pose young Hake is in town?”
“No; the whole family went away. I think there’s one of the sons in business in Sydney now.”
“I s’pose the M’Lachlans are here yet?”