"Did you receive my message last night, Bob?" demanded Smythe.
"Well," drawled Bob, "I couldn't say whether it was las' night or this mornin'—but I got your message right enough."
"And why didn't you turn-up?"
"Why did n't I turn-up," repeated Bob thoughtfully. "P'r'aps you'll be so good as to inform me if my work's cleanin' out reservoys or mindin' paddicks?"
"But you should be loyal to your employ," replied Smythe severely.
"Meanin' I shouldn't turn dog?" conjectured Bob. "No more I don't. I ain't turnin' dog on anybody when I stick to my own work, an' keep off of goin' partners with opium an' leprosy. Same time, mind you, I'd be turnin' dog on the station if I took advantage o' your message, to go round warnin' the chaps that was workin' on the paddick. Way I was situated, the clean thing was to stand out. An' that's what I done."
Meanwhile, Stevenson had lingered to feel his pockets, sort his papers, examine his horse's legs, and so forth, while his draft spread out over the grass.
"You were right, and I was wrong," he remarked, aside to me.
"Bob is trustworthy—ruthlessly so."
"Only in respect of conscience, which is mere moral punctilio, and may co-exist with any degree of ignorance or error," I replied. "I would n't chance sixpence on his moral sense—nor on yours, either."
"Thank-you, both for the lesson and the compliment. Don't forget to call round at my camp, any time you're crossing Koolybooka. Goodbye."