"There's widows aplenty," hints Pinckney.
"Bless 'em all!" says Larry. "I'd not load one of them with a wild, impecunious Irishman like myself."
"Then what?" says Pinckney. "Also where, and whither?"
"Bulgaroo," says Larry, wavin' vague into space.
"Is that a form of self-destruction?" asks Pinckney.
"Almost," says Larry. "It's the nearest town to Sir Horace Vaughn's No. 6 sheep ranch. Quaint little spot, Bulgaroo; chiefly corrugated iron villas and kangaroo scrub, two hundred-odd miles back from Sidney. I'm due there at the end of next month."
"My regards to the Bulgaroovians," says I.
"Is this just a whim of yours, or a crazy plan?" says Pinckney.
"Both," says Larry. "No. 6 is where I went to do penance when the Earl and I had our grand smashup. Eighteen months I put in before he settled an allowance on me. They'll give me another foreman's job. I'll stay three years this time, saving pay and remittance drafts, and at the end I'll have hoarded enough to buy an interest, or a ranch of my own. That's the theory. Actually, I shall probably take an amazing thirst into Bulgaroo about once a month, buy vile champagne at the Queen's Arms, and otherwise disport myself like a true sheepherder. The finis will not sound pretty."
Pinckney stares at him puzzled for a minute, and then turns to me. "Shorty," says he, "you're a Celt. What do you make of him?"