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When Big Billabong cut out, and we got back to Bourke with our dusty swags and dirty cheques, I spoke to Tom Hall:

“Look here, Tom,” I said. “That long fool, the Giraffe, has been breaking his heart for a little girl in Bendigo ever since he’s been out back, and she’s been breaking her heart for him, and the ass didn’t know it till he got a letter from her just before Big Billabong started. He’s going to-morrow morning.”

That evening Tom stole the Giraffe’s hat. “I s’pose it’ll turn up in the mornin’,” said the Giraffe. “I don’t mind a lark,” he added, “but it does seem a bit red hot for the chaps to collar a cove’s hat and a feller goin’ away for good, p’r’aps, in the mornin’.”

Mitchell started the thing going with a quid.

“It’s worth it,” he said, “to get rid of him. We’ll have some peace now. There won’t be so many accidents or women in trouble when the Giraffe and his blessed hat are gone. Any way, he’s an eyesore in the town, and he’s getting on my nerves for one. . . . Come on, you sinners! Chuck ’em in; we’re only taking quids and half-quids.”

About daylight next morning Tom Hall slipped into the Giraffe’s room at the Carriers’ Arms. The Giraffe was sleeping peacefully. Tom put the hat on a chair by his side. The collection had been a record one, and, besides the packet of money in the crown of the hat, there was a silver-mounted pipe with case–the best that could be bought in Bourke, a gold brooch, and several trifles–besides an ugly valentine of a long man in his shirt walking the room with a twin on each arm.

Tom was about to shake the Giraffe by the shoulder, when he noticed a great foot, with about half a yard of big-boned ankle and shank, sticking out at the bottom of the bed. The temptation was too great. Tom took up the hair-brush, and, with the back of it, he gave a smart rap on the point of an in-growing toe-nail, and slithered.

We heard the Giraffe swearing good-naturedly for a while, and then there was a pregnant silence. He was staring at the hat we supposed.

We were all up at the station to see him off. It was rather a long wait. The Giraffe edged me up to the other end of the platform.

He seemed overcome.

“There’s–there’s some terrible good-hearted fellers in this world,” he said. “You mustn’t forgit ’em, Harry, when you make a big name writin’. I’m–well, I’m blessed if I don’t feel as if I was jist goin’ to blubber!”

I was glad he didn’t. The Giraffe blubberin’ would have been a spectacle. I steered him back to his friends.

“Ain’t you going to kiss me, Bob?” said the Great Western’s big, handsome barmaid, as the bell rang.

“Well, I don’t mind kissin’ you, Alice,” he said, wiping his mouth. “But I’m goin’ to be married, yer know.” And he kissed her fair on the mouth.

“There’s nothin’ like gettin’ into practice,” he said, grinning round.

We thought he was improving wonderfully; but at the last moment something troubled him.

“Look here, you chaps,” he said, hesitatingly, with his hand in his pocket, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with all this stuff. There’s that there poor washerwoman that scalded her legs liftin’ the boiler of clothes off the fire—“

We shoved him into the carriage. He hung–about half of him–out the window, wildly waving his hat, till the train disappeared in the scrub.

And, as I sit here writing by lamplight at midday, in the midst of a great city of shallow social sham, of hopeless, squalid poverty, of ignorant selfishness, cultured or brutish, and of noble and heroic endeavour frowned down or callously neglected, I am almost aware of a burst of sunshine in the room, and a long form leaning over my chair, and: