‘That is not so easy as you think, sir,’ he said. ‘Though there’s very few people in this country would bother about trying. When a fellow’s been rambling about the bush, working and living with the men, for years and years, it is not so easy to turn him into a gentleman again. Worst of all when he’s come short of education, and has half-forgotten how to behave himself before ladies. Ladies! I swear, when I saw your daughters, looking like rosebuds in the old verandah, I felt like a blackfellow.’
‘That a feeling of—of rusticity—would be one of the consequences of a roving life, I can understand; but you are young—a mere boy yet. Believe one who has seen something of the world, that the awkwardness you refer to would soon disappear were you once more among your equals.’
‘Too late—too late!’ said the man gloomily. ‘Gyp Warleigh must remain in the state he has brought himself to. I know him better than you do, worse luck! There’s another reason why I’m afraid to trust myself in a decent house.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Effingham. ‘Then what is that? You surely have not——’
‘Taken to the bush? Not yet; but it’s best to be straight. I learned the trick of turning up my little finger too early and too well; and though I’m right enough for months when I’m far in the bush, or have had a spell of work, I’m helpless when the drinking fit comes on me. I must have it, if I was to die twenty times over. And the worst of it is, I can feel it coming creeping on me for weeks beforehand; I can no more fight it off than a man who’s half-way down a range can stop himself. But it’s no use talking—I must be off. How well the old place looks! It’s a grand season, certainly.’
‘You have had adventures here in the old days,’ said Effingham, willing to lead him into conversation. ‘Had you a fight with bush-rangers in the dining-room ever?’
‘Then the bullet-marks are there yet?’ said the stranger carelessly. ‘Well, there was wild work at Warbrok when that was done, but bushrangers had no say in it. It was the old governor who blazed away there. He was always a two-bottle man, was the governor, and after poor mother died he scarcely ever went to bed sober. Randal and Clem were terrible wild chaps, or they might have kept matters together. I was the youngest, and let do pretty much as I liked. I never learned anything except to read and write badly. Always in the men’s huts, I picked up all the villainy going before I was fourteen. But about those bullet-marks in the wall.’
‘I feel deeply interested, believe me; and if you would permit me to repair the neglect you have experienced, something may yet be done.’
‘You don’t know men of my sort, Captain, or you wouldn’t talk in that way. Not that I haven’t a feeling towards you that I’ve never had since poor mother died, and told me to be a good boy, as she stroked my hair for the last time. But how could I? What chance is there for a lad in the bush, living as we did in those days? I remember Randal’s coming home from Bathurst races—he’d go any distance to a race meeting. He was like a madman. It was then that the row came about with the governor, when they nearly shot one another.’
‘Nearly shot one another! Good heavens! How could that happen?’