"Ay, that poor wreck would n't fetch much in the yard," remarked Moriarty, referring to Tam's mate. "When a fellow comes to his state, he ought to be turned out for the summer in a swamp paddock, with the leeches on his legs; then you ought to sell him to Cobb and Co., to get the last kick out of him. Or else poll-axe the beggar."
"Very good system, Moriarty. Apply it to yourself also. You're not dead yet."
"But I'll never come to that state of affairs."
"Assuredly you will, sonny—just for the remark you've made. But I 'd like to see that fellow again. Go on to the barracks; I'll be after you in two minutes."
Confused identity seemed to be in the air. Had I seen that weary looking figure, and that weather-worn face, before? I could n't determine; and I can't determine now—but the question has nothing to do with this record. At all events, impelled partly by a desire to have another look at the man, and partly, perhaps, by a morbid longing to flaunt myself before Tam, I grandly dipped my lofty belltopper under the doorway of the hut, and, without removing it, helped myself to a pannikin of tea from the bucket by the hearth, and sat down opposite the silent swagman. Farther along the table, Tam was already breast-deep in the stream of conversation. In answer to some question, he was replying that he had been only twelve months in the colonies.
"And what part of the Land o' Cakes are you from?" I asked, wantonly, but civilly.
"A'm frae Dumfriessheer—frae a spote they ca' Ecchelfechan," he replied complacently. "Bit, de'il tak't, wha' gar'd ye jalouse A was a Scoatsman?"
"What the (sheol) was the name o' that (adj.) place you come from?" asked the station bullock driver, with interest.
"Ecchelfechan."
"Nobody 's got any business to come from a place with sich a (adj.) name"