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Dave Regan was pretty wild about being had, an’ we copped all the gals for darncin’; he couldn’t get one that night, an’ when he wasn’t proddin’ out his tooth with a red-hot wire some one was chaffin’ him about Mrs Hardwick. So at last he got disgusted an’ left; but before he went he got a wet three-bushel flour-bag an’ climbed up very quietly onter the roof by the battens an’ log weights an’ riders, an’ laid the wet bag very carefully acrost the top of the chimbly flue.

An’ we was a mortal hour tryin’ to find out what was the matter with that infernal chimbly, and tackin’ bits o’ tin an’ baggin’ acrost the top of the fire-place under the mantelshelf to try an’ stop it from smokin’, an’ all the while the gals set there with the water runnin’ out of their eyes. We took the green back log out an’ fetched in a dry one, but that chimbly smoked worse than ever, an’ we had to put the fire out altogether, an’ the gals set there shiverin’ till the rain held up a bit an’ the sky cleared, an’ then someone goes out an’ looks up an’ sings out, “Why, there’s somethin’ acrost the top of the blazin’ chimbly!” an’ someone else climbs up an’ fetches down the bag. But the darnce was spoilt, an’ the gals was so disgusted that they went off with their fellers while the weather held up. They reckoned some of us bullickies did it for a lark.

An’ arter that Dave’d come ridin’ past, an’ sing out to know if we knew of a good cure for a smokin’ chimbly, an’ them sorter things. But he always got away before we could pull him off of his horse. Three of us chased him on horseback one day, but we didn’t ketch him.

So we made up our minds to git back on Dave some way or other, an’ it come about this way.

About six months arter the smoked-out darnce, four or five of us same fellers was campin’ on th’ Pipeclay agen, an’ it was a dry season. It was dryer an’ hotter than it was cold ‘n’ wet the larst time. Dave was still hangin’ round Mrs Hardwick’s an’ doin’ odd jobs for her. Well, one very hot day we seen Dave ridin’ past into Mudgee, an’ we knowed he’d have a spree in town that night, an’ call at Mrs Hardwick’s for sympathy comin’ out next day; an’ arter he’d been gone an hour or two, Tom Tarrant comes drivin’ past on his mail-coach, an’ drops some letters an’ papers an’ a bag o’ groceries at our camp.

Tom was a hard case. I remember wonst I was drivin’ along a lonely bit o’ track, an’ it was a grand mornin’, an’ I felt great, an’ I got singin’ an’ practisin’ a recitation that I allers meant to give at a bush darnce some night. (I never sung or spouted poetry unless I was sure I was miles away from anyone.) An’ I got worked up, an’ was wavin’ me arms about an’ throwin’ it off of me chest, when Tom’s coach comes up behind, round a bend in the road, an’ took me by surprise. An’ Tom looked at me very hard an’ he says, “What are yer shoutin’ an’ swearin’ an’ darncin’ an’ goin’ on at the bullicks like that for, Jimmy? They seem to be workin’ all right.” It took me back, I can tell yer. The coach was full of grinnin’ passengers, an’ the worst of it was that I didn’t know how long Tom had been drivin’ slow behind me an’ takin’ me out of windin’. There’s nothin’ upsets a cove as can’t sing so much as to be caught singin’ or spoutin’ poetry when he thinks he’s privit’.