"No, I ain't," said Mrs. Gimpson, answering for herself. "Why didn't you write when you got to Sydney?"
"Didn't know where to write to," replied Mr. Boxer, staring. "I didn't know where Mary had gone to."
"You might ha' wrote here," said Mrs. Gimpson.
"Didn't think of it at the time," said Mr. Boxer. "One thing is, I was very busy at Sydney, looking for a ship. However, I'm 'ere now."
"I always felt you'd turn up some day," said Mrs. Gimpson. "I felt certain of it in my own mind. Mary made sure you was dead, but I said 'no, I knew better.'"
There was something in Mrs. Gimpson's manner of saying this that impressed her listeners unfavourably. The impression was deepened when, after a short, dry laugh a propos of nothing, she sniffed again—three times.
"Well, you turned out to be right," said Mr. Boxer, shortly.
"I gin'rally am," was the reply; "there's very few people can take me in."
She sniffed again.
"Were the natives kind to you?" inquired Mrs. Boxer, hastily, as she turned to her husband.