That night Smith was easier in his mind and more communicative. He was resigning himself to the inevitable.
"You're quite right, Baker," he said suddenly, as they lay by the fire, "you're quite right in thinking my name's not Smith. I took that name when I left England, seven years ago."
"Yes," said Mandeville; "and what's your real name and title?"
Smith laughed.
"My name is Archibald Hildegarde Osbaldistone Gore," he said.
"Holy Moses!" cried the Baker, "and to think I've been mates with a name like that. If it wasn't that I 'ad a name myself as looks like an 'igh 'at on a boot-black, I'd be fair ashamed. My name is William 'Enery Mandeville, that's what it is, and it's always bin a damn noosance ever since I went to school. And, Smith, what did you do to get out 'ere?"
"I got through a lot more money than I'm ever likely to pick up again," said Smith, "and I made a particular fool of myself."
The Baker pondered.
"Was you ever in the h'army, Smith?" he asked, "for there was a bloke in New Find as said 'e knew you was a cavalry man by the way you sat an 'orse."
"I was," said Smith. "And why I should tell you anything, I don't know. But just now you are all the world, old man, and I don't think it will matter any way. I was in the Dragoons, and when I left, I left most of what I cared for, except a woman who went and married the wrong chap."