"Alas! my purse is not as full as once it was. A fool and his money are soon parted, they say. I should have to marry a girl with money, and a girl and her money are equally soon married—by someone else."
Neville came up behind. "How ye do chatter, Maud. We'd better get along to that coach. Who's coming? King, ye had better come along." He jerked his head over his shoulder. "Hey, Horrington, ye can tell your wife she can have what water she wants and I'll be by to see you carry it." Marching four abreast, they passed out of the office.
Surprise is not a beautiful place. The hills holding it are the greenest in that country, and lean up and down in gentle curves. But the bottom of the basin has grown shabby with much use. Patches of sand cover it, in company with clumps of spinifex put out of repair by disillusioned goats. The tents and humpies of the camp rise up on this in seedy and unordered rank, and low-born fowls doze at the doorways. In the middle of the congregation stands one building somewhat more gracious. A glittering roof protects it, and there is paint upon the walls. Above the doorway runs the legend—Surprise Valley Hotel.
On Saturday afternoon they keep holiday at Surprise. It is then the butcher kills for the second time in the week, and Mrs. Bloxham, Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Niven meet at his lean-to for Sunday's dinner and a half-hour gossip. They find talk until the coach arrives. About the same time, Bloxham, Johnson and Niven put an eye to their premises, pulling together a hole in the wall here, a slit in the roof there. They, in due course, turn steps to the hotel for the coming of the coach. At four o'clock, about that place, you find all the best people of Surprise.
The party from the office took the direction of the hotel. Old Neville with a great play of his stick held the lead. He kept the talk his way. Said he: "I can't make out what this fellow is coming for. Bringing his wife, too. She'd as well been left behind. He wrote something about coming for a holiday, being in poor health or something. It beats me what he thinks to find here. He'll be leavin' by the first coach, I reckon. I shan't mind. I've too much on hand to be trotting round with beef tea. Maud will have to see to them."
"Selwyn is the name, isn't it?" Power said.
The old man nodded his head. "Huh, huh! There was an assayer of that name here once three or four year back. There was no houses then; didn't scarce run a tent, and he and me and a couple of other fellows was camped where the stable is. He had some damned silver thing something like a flute, and one night a feller out of pity asked him to play it. It was the horriblest row ever you heard. The chap that asked him made some excuse and went so far away he nearly got bushed. He went on playing till near midnight, I reckon. When we were all asleep the damned row woke us up again. I sits up and lets fly in a great rage: 'For God's sake, man,' I said, 'a fair thing is a fair thing. We've listened to you half the damned night already. D'ye think,' says I—and then I see all of a sudden it was the dingoes howling. He, he! Huh, huh, huh!"
"Father, you put a bit to that story every time."
"And it's not everyone knows how to do that, my girl."
"Hullo, here's a new place," Power said. "You've grown it since last week."