"Where does he come from?" Power asked. "You said he was a solicitor, didn't you?"
The old man snapped down the glass of the hurricane lamp.
"I heard tell he was a solicitor somewhere and got kicked out. As soon as he touches money he can't go straight. He would sell his mother up. Huh, huh! He's a gentleman to walk shy of while you've a few pounds to spare. Go to him for a goat, and he'll sell you one of mine. He has done business over half the fowls on the lease, though he never owned a feather. He, he! I can't help respecting his abilities. He's got a finger in most copper shows within fifty miles. The silly coves get him to draw up their agreements, and he takes care that his name comes in somewhere or other." Neville chuckled himself to the end of his tale, then said, "You had better be away, Power. I'm going to bed when I get back." He went through the door.
"Take care!" Maud called out.
"Er?"
"Take care."
A growl was her thanks. In course of time the old man had scrambled down the steps and across the creek.
"So much for our friend, John King," said Power.
At Surprise Valley the rule is early to bed. First chop the wood and milk the goats. Then soothe or slap the baby to sleep. After tea, a seat in the doorway and a smoke. After a smoke, an exchange of maledictions on the weather. The lamps in the tents begin to go out by nine o'clock. The frustrated moths and flying ants betake themselves elsewhere, and the mosquito sings a solo requiem in the dark. On cool nights and nights of breezes, the people of Surprise put out lights at even an earlier hour, for sleep is likely to prove kinder mistress. To-night already three parts of Surprise were sleeping. To be true, Mr. Wells was thinking of a last pipe; and Mr. Horrington, whisky bottle at elbow, was cogitating a nightcap. Also, a light burned yet in the latest rigged tent. Mr. Pericles Smith—travelling schoolmaster, arrived here on his rounds—after chopping the firewood, hunting the goats away, putting the kettle off the boil, and performing sundry other exercises, was snatching a few moments with the help of a candle at his monumental work on the aboriginal languages of Australia. Nowhere else lights pierced the walls. The moon fell over high land and low land, upon house and tent, and steeped in romance the dreary prospects of the day. The Man in the Moon looked down on a fairy city.
. . . . . . .