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‘Why! what on earth did they let the man hang for?’ asked Mary.

‘To give him a good bellyful of it: they thought it would cure him of tryin’ to hang himself again.’

‘Well, that’s the coolest thing I ever heard of,’ said Mary.

‘That’s jist what the magistrate said, Mrs Wilson,’ said Mrs Spicer.

‘One morning,’ said Mrs Spicer, ‘Spicer had gone off on his horse somewhere, and I was alone with the children, when a man came to the door and said–

‘”For God’s sake, woman, give me a drink!”

‘Lord only knows where he came from! He was dressed like a new chum–his clothes was good, but he looked as if he’d been sleepin’ in them in the Bush for a month. He was very shaky. I had some coffee that mornin’, so I gave him some in a pint pot; he drank it, and then he stood on his head till he tumbled over, and then he stood up on his feet and said, “Thenk yer, mum.”

‘I was so surprised that I didn’t know what to say, so I jist said, “Would you like some more coffee?”

‘”Yes, thenk yer,” he said–“about two quarts.”

‘I nearly filled the pint pot, and he drank it and stood on his head as long as he could, and when he got right end up he said, “Thenk yer, mum–it’s a fine day,” and then he walked off. He had two saddle-straps in his hands.’

‘Why, what did he stand on his head for?’ asked Mary.

‘To wash it up and down, I suppose, to get twice as much taste of the coffee. He had no hat. I sent Tommy across to Wall’s to tell them that there was a man wanderin’ about the Bush in the horrors of drink, and to get some one to ride for the police. But they was too late, for he hanged himself that night.’

‘O Lord!’ cried Mary.

‘Yes, right close to here, jist down the creek where the track to Wall’s branches off. Tommy found him while he was out after the cows. Hangin’ to the branch of a tree with the two saddle-straps.’

Mary stared at her, speechless.

‘Tommy came home yellin’ with fright. I sent him over to Wall’s at once. After breakfast, the minute my eyes was off them, the children slipped away and went down there. They came back screamin’ at the tops of their voices. I did give it to them. I reckon they won’t want ter see a dead body again in a hurry. Every time I’d mention it they’d huddle together, or ketch hold of me skirts and howl.

‘”Yer’ll go agen when I tell yer not to,” I’d say.

‘”Oh no, mother,” they’d howl.

‘”Yer wanted ter see a man hangin’,” I said.

‘”Oh, don’t, mother! Don’t talk about it.”

‘”Yer wouldn’t be satisfied till yer see it,” I’d say; “yer had to see it or burst. Yer satisfied now, ain’t yer?”

‘”Oh, don’t, mother!”

‘”Yer run all the way there, I s’pose?”

‘”Don’t, mother!”

‘”But yer run faster back, didn’t yer?”

‘”Oh, don’t, mother.”

‘But,’ said Mrs Spicer, in conclusion, ‘I’d been down to see it myself before they was up.’

‘And ain’t you afraid to live alone here, after all these horrible things?’ asked Mary.

‘Well, no; I don’t mind. I seem to have got past carin’ for anythink now. I felt it a little when Tommy went away–the first time I felt anythink for years. But I’m over that now.’

‘Haven’t you got any friends in the district, Mrs Spicer?’

‘Oh yes. There’s me married sister near Cobborah, and a married brother near Dubbo; he’s got a station. They wanted to take me an’ the children between them, or take some of the younger children. But I couldn’t bring my mind to break up the home. I want to keep the children together as much as possible. There’s enough of them gone, God knows. But it’s a comfort to know that there’s some one to see to them if anythink happens to me.’