"It'll never rain no more," said the man who lay on the bed. "I'm going home to my ma, and I'll live where there's water, and make love to the 'alf-a-crown a week slavey, and be a toff in a back street. What did I come out 'ere for? It's better to be a sneak, and be jugged in London, than be 'ere. If they did anythin' 'alf so bad to long timers as make 'em come to such a place as this 'ere, they'd 'ave a bally h'agitation in Hengland, and a meetin' in the Park."
"Dry up, you Cockney baker, you," said Smith, more good-humouredly than he had yet spoken. "It's never home you'll get. You and I will fill a sand-pit here, and I'll dig yours. We'll scrape it out with a broken bottle and a kerosene tin, and we'll write your name on the hide of your dead dog, and plant him with you to keep you faithful company."
But the Cockney took it all in good part, and only pretended to weep at his mate's brutal suggestions.
"Boo-hoo, boo-hoo!" said he, "that I should ever be mates with a man whose name is Smith when mine is Mandeville."
"And that you stole with your passage money," said Hicks, who had not spoken yet. But now he angered Mandeville, who suggested forcibly in the very choicest Australian, that if he didn't dry up he would soon put the kibosh on him.
But Hicks laughed. As he was six feet four in height and five stone the heavier man, he could afford to let the Cockney say what he pleased. And Mandeville said it till Smith interfered.
"Now then, leave each other alone. It's not you that's quarrelling. It's the sun, moon, and stars, the wind and sand and weather you've a fight with. Get out and claw the sand, man. Hurrah, hurrah! Go it, dear boys, against the devil, who is the patron saint of Pilbarra."
He lighted his pipe and smoked, and there was silence for a space in that sweet heaven.