"Come on, Claud—here's the coach," yelled Bill from the veranda. They embraced once more, then stepped out of doors.
"Good-bye, boys—God bless you!" said old Graham with a husky throat.
"Good-bye—Good-bye!" said his wife, with tears in her eyes, while Sybil had only strength to wave her arm to the fast disappearing figure of Claud as he drove with his friends to the railway station twenty miles beyond.
"You're queer lookin', Claud," said Sandy, as they went down the road.
"Shut up!" interjected Bill, who, like all Bushmen, had a true respect for the sentiment inspired by the dangers of war. However, the sadness of parting was soon forgotten. They were, also, cheered to see, coming over the plains, little groups of cookies, shearers and others, bent on their own errand.
"Sakes alive! where's all you mad fellows goin'?" inquired the wizened old stationmaster.
"Berlin," said Bill.
"Ach sure, stationmaster, we're goin' to kiss the little darlints in the Sultan's harem."
"Well, hurry up, boys; the train's ready."
With a wild whoop fifty of them dashed for tickets, some "tucker," and a bottle or two of Scotch. Into the train they jumped, and in a jiffy were rolling over the line to Sydney. Song and story helped to cheer the long and somewhat tiring journey. During a sort of lull in the proceedings Claud looked up and said: "Here, Bill, can't you recite us some of that impromptu sort of doggerel that you get into the Sydney weeklies now and then."