“No, I gave mine to a little nipper who used to sing on the stage at the El Dorado in Cairo.”
“Did you now! She must have a fine stack of baadges now, that ’un. You’re about the fifteenth lad that I know has given his baadges to ’er. Aw, thanks”—taking back his cigarette. “I see you’re from Austra-alia. What State did you live in?”
“Vic,” is the reply.
“I wonder if you knew my brother? He went to Victoria a couple of years ago. Got a job on the ra-ailways, he did, and wanted me to come out too. I’ll go when this is over; but ’ee’s married now, ’e is, and got a couple of pet lambs that ’e said was given to ’im by a chap named Drover; ’is name is Dobbs.”
“Never met him, matey, but he is all right, you bet. A Pommy[5] can’t go wrong out there if he isn’t too lazy to work.”
“Ah, yes, he tells me they called ’im Pommy, but that they was good lads. I could not understand them slinging off at ’im and ’im thinking they were treatin’ ’im like as ’e was one of themselves.”
“Oh, well, yer see, mate, we don’t call the like of ’im ‘Pommies’ because we dislike ’em, but just as a matter of description. Of course, sometimes one of ’em gets ’is back up and calls us sons of convicts in return for us chuckin’ off at ’im, and then he’s told lots of things—sometimes true and very often untrue; but Australia’s all right, mate. You need not be ashamed to be called a ‘Pommy’ out there.”
“Blime, there’s old ‘Beachy’[6] at it again,” breaks in another. “’Ee’s a fair cow, ’e is. Made me spill two buckets er water this mornin’, and our flamin’ cook told me I was too lazy to go down for it. I’ll give ’im ‘Beachy’ after this job is over if ’e don’t look out. Hallo, Johnny, Beachy catch-em mule, eh?”
“Beachy no good—mule good,” replies the tall spare Indian, with a smile, as he tries to bring his pair of mules under the shelter of the stack. “Mule very good,” he says, as he squats in front of his pair.
“’Ow long yer been ’ere, choom?” asks Kitch of Kangaroo.