At the station some of the Sydney unionists wore waiting to see Ned off. As they loaded him with friendly counsel and encouraged him with fraternal promises of assistance and compared the threats made in Sydney during the maritime strike with the expected action of the Government in Queensland, a newspaper boy came up to them, crowded at the carriage door.
"Hello, sonny! Whose rose is that?" asked one of the group, for the little lad carried a rose, red and blowing.
"It's Mr. Hawkinses rose," answered the boy.
"For me!" exclaimed Ned, holding out his hand. "Who is it from?"
"I'm not to say," answered the urchin, slipping away.
The other men laughed. "There must be a young lady interested in you, Hawkins," said one jocularly; "our Sydney girls always have good eyes for the right sort of a man." "I wondered why you stayed over last night, Hawkins," remarked another. "Trust a Queenslander to make himself at home everywhere," contributed a third. Ned did not answer. He did not hear them. He knew who sent it.
Then the guard's whistle blew; another moment and the train started, slowly at first, gradually faster, amid a pattering of good-byes.
"Give him a cheer, lads!" cried one of his friends. "Hip-hip-hurrah!"
"And one for his red rose!" shouted another. "Hip-hip-hurrah!"
"And another for the Queensland bush men! Hip-hip-hurrah!"