IN NO MAN’S LAND. (An Australian Story.)

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIV, Issue II, 13 January 1900, Page 57

IN NO MAN’S LAND. (An Australian Story.)

By

A. B. PATERSON (Banjo).

Author of “ The Man From Snowy River.

CHAPTER I. IN THE CLUB. It was summer evening in Sydney. The north-east wind, coming down from New Guinea and the tropical islands over leagues and leagues of warm sea, brought on its wings a heavy depressing moisture. The air was hot and damp. In the city streets people walked listlessly about their business, and perspired and mopped themselves, and abused their much vaunted climate. It was like being in a Turkish bath, and each freshening of the breeze brought wave after wave of hot, moisture-laden air. Everyone who could manage it was away out of town, either on the heights of Moss Vale or the Blue Mountains, escaping from the Inferno of Sydney in summer. In the Cassowary Club, weary pallid waiters brought iced drinks to such of the members as were condemned for their sins to spend the summer in town. The dinner gong had sounded, and in ones and twos the members shuffled out of the smoking room and went into dinner. At last only three men were left, and as they talked together at the far end of the big empty smoking room, they looked like three small stage conspirators at the end of a very large robbers’ cavern. One of the three was a short, fat red-faced man, who looked like a combination of sea captain and merchant, and who was, in fact, the local representative of one of the big English steamship companies that trade to Australia. His connection with the mercantile marine had earned him the nickname of “The Bo’sun.” On one side of him sat Pinnock, a lean and bilious-looking solicitor; while the third man was an English globe trotter, a colourless sort of person, of whom no one ever took any particular notice, until they learnt that he was the eldest son of a big Scotch whisky manufacturer, and had £lO,OOO a year of his own. Then they suddenly discovered that he was a much smarter fellow than he looked. These three men were evidently waiting for somebody. The man who answered to the nickname of “Bo’sun” seemed to have a grievance, and was relieving his mind by speech. He rose from his seat and walked up and down between the smoking room chairs, brandishing a telegram as he talked, while the attorney and the globe trotter lay back on the lounge and admired his energy. “I call it a shame,” he said, facing round on them suddenly “I could have got up to Moss Vale for a day or two, and now old Gordon of Kuryong wires to me and asks me to meet a new chum and entertain him. Just listen to this: ‘Young Carew, friend of mine, on Carthaginia. Will you meet him and show him round, oblige me? —W. G. Gordon.’ I met the old fellow once or twice at dinner, when he was in town for the sheep sales, and on the strength of that he foists an unknown callow new chum on to me. People are always doing that kind of thing.” “Leave this friend of his alone, then,” said Pinnock “don’t have anything to do with him. I know his sort; Government House young man the first week, Coffee Palace at two shillings a night the second week, boiler on the wharf the third week, central police court the fourth week, and then exit so far as all decent people are concerned.”

The Bo’sun stuffed the telegram away in his pocket, and sat down again. “Oh, I don’t suppose he will be so bad,” he said. “I’ve asked him here to dinner to-night, so that we will see what he is like, and if he’s no good I’ll drop him. But it is the principle of the thing that I object to. Country people are always at this sort of thing, They’d ask me to meet an Alderney bull, and entertain him till they send for him. What am I to do with an unknown new chum? I’d sooner have

an Alderney bull—he’d be easier to arrange for. He’d stop where he was put, anyhow.” Here the globe trotter cut into the conversation in his unimpressive style. “I knew one Jim Carew in England,” he said, “and if this is the same man you will have no trouble taking care of him. He was a great man at his Varsity triple blue, or something of the sort. He can run and row and fight and play football, and all that kind of thing. Very quiet spoken sort of chap—rather pretends to be a simple sort of Johnny, don’t you know, but a regular demon, I believe. He got into a row at a music hall one night, and they sent the chucker out to cast him into outer darkness, and he threw the chucker-out in among a lot of valuable pot plants, smashed the pot plants, and irretrievably ruined the chucker-out; he never was any good afterwards.” “Nice sort of man,” said the Bo’sun. “I’ve seen plenty of his sort, worse luck; he’ll be found borrowing fivers after the first week. I’ll put him on to you fellows.” The globe trotter smiled a sickly smile. “What’s old Gordon like—the man he is going to?” he said, by way of changing the subject. “Squatter man, I suppose?” “Oh, yes, and one of the real old sort, too,” interposed Pinnock. “Perfect old gentleman, you know, but apt to make himself deuced unpleasant if everything doesn’t go exactly to suit him; sort of old chap who thinks that everyone who does not agree with him ought to be put to death at once. He had a row with his shearers one year, and offered Jack Delanty a new Purdey gun if he’d fire the first two charges into the shearers’ camp at night.” “Ha!” said the globe trotter. “That’s his sort, eh? Well, if this Carew is the Carew I mean, he and this old fellow will be well met. They’ll about do for each other in the first week or two.” “No great loss, either,” said the Bo’sun. “Anyhow, I’ve asked this new chum to dinner to-night, and Charley Gordon is coming too. He came into my office to-day, but he had not heard of this new chum. Charley Gordon is a member here now—he has joined the club.” “What is he like?” said the globe trotter. “Like his namesake that wanted the shearers killed?” “Oh, no; a good fellow,” said the Bo’sun, taking a sip at his sherry. “He’s old Gordon’s nephew, and the old man has kept him out on the back stations nearly all his life. He was out in the Gulf country in the early days, got starved out in drought, swept away in floods, lost in the bush, speared by blacks, and all that sort of thing. He was out pioneering in the days when men camped under bushes and didn’t wear shirts. He’s gone a bit queer in the head, I think, but he's a good chap for all that.” Pinnock looked at his watch. “Well, I wish they’d come along,” he said. “It’s too hot to eat, but we might as well go in and drink something.” As he spoke a buttony boy came in and walked up to the Bo’sun. “Gentleman to see you, sir,” he said. “Mr Carew, sir.” The Bo’sun hurried off to bring in his guest, while Pinnoek called after him, “Mind your eye, Bo’sun. Be civil to him. See that he doesn’t kill a waiter or two on the way up. Not but what he’d be welcome to do it, for all the good the waiters are here,” he added, gl romily, taking another sip at his sherry and bitters; and before he had finished it the Bo’sun and his guest re-entered the room.

The guest was an absolutely typical young Englishman, of the sort that the universities turn out by the hundred—all east in the same mould, all with the same mannerisms and appearance, differing only in physical shape or size. They had expected to see a Hercules, a fiery faced, fierce eyed man; but this was merely a

broad shouldered, well built youth, about 23 years of age, with a square rather stolid face, clean shaved, brown complexioned, with honest eyes and a firm set mouth. He was clean and wholesome looking, and his clothes fitted him. As he stood at the door he adopted the absolutely wooden expression which the university man always adopts in the presence of strangers. He said nothing on being introduced to Pinnock, and when the globe trotter came up and claimed acquaintance, defining himself as Throckmorton of Balliol, the stranger said he didn’t remember him, and regarded him with an aspect of armed neutrality. After a sherry and bitters he thawed a little, and the Bo’sun started to cross-exam-ine him. “Mr Gordon, of Kuryong, wired to me about you,” he said “I suppose you came in the Carthaginia?” “Yes,” said the stranger, speajring in the regulation English university voice, a little deeper than usual. “I left her at Adelaide. I’m going out for bush experience, don’t you know. I’ll get you to tell me some place to stop at till I leave, if you don’t mind.” His manner was distinctly apologetic, and he seemed anxious to give as little trouble as possio.e. “Oh, you stop here,” said the Bo’sun. “I’ll have you made an honorary member. They’ll do you all right here.” “That’s awf’lly good of you. Thanks, very much indeed.” “Oh, not at all. You’ll find the club not so bad, and a lot better than where you’re going with old Gordon. He’s a very demon to make fellows work. It’s pretty rough on the stations sometimes.”

“Ah, yes; awf’lly rough, I believe. Quite frightened me, what 1 heard of it, don’t you know. Still, I suppose one must expect to rough it a bit. Eh? What?”

“Charley Gordon will be here in a minute,” said the Bo’sun. “He can tell you all about it. Here he is now,” he added, as the door swung open and the long waited for guest entered the room.

The newcomer certainly looked the character of a far out man to perfection.

He was tall, wiry framed, and very dark, and his figure was so spare and lean that he did not seem to have an ounce of superfluous flesh anywhere about him,. His face was as hard and impassive as the face of a Red Indians and looked—so did his hands —almost black by contrast with his white shirt front. He had thin straight hair, high cheek bones, and a- -drooping black moustache. But his eyes were his most remarkable feature. Very keen and piercing they were, deep set in the head, and even when he was looking straight at anyone they seemed to be peering into endless space, over and beyond the man in front of them. Such eyes men get from many years of staring over great stretches of sunlit plain, where there is no colour to relieve the blinding glare—nothing but dull grey clumps of salt-bush and the dull green Mitchell grass. He was quite 6 feet in height, and as straight as a ramrod, with long stringy looking arms and legs and muscular hands. His whole bearing spoke of infinite determination and self-reliance —the square chin, the steadfast eyes telling their tale as plainly as print.

The Bo’sun introduced him to the stranger in the usual stereotyped mumble: “Let me int’duce Mr Carew from England, Mr Gordon, of Where are you located now, Gordon?”

“Well, I am a resident of No Man’s Land at present,” said the bushman.

“I’m off to the edge of nowhere to take over a cattle run. You came out to my uncle, didn’t you, Mr Carew?” “Yes. But I don’t know where I am to be sent, nor when I aim to begin work. I've made no arrangements at all so far.” The bushman looked keenly at him for a while, as though sizing him up. “I expect he’ll send you with me,” he

said. “He won’t send you to the old station. He hates the sight of Jackaroos any time.” “What is a Jackaroof?” said the Englishman. “Sort of animal, eh?” “A new ehum—a colonial experieneer—you’re a Jackaroo. He mostly sends them out to Coorawatha, Lord help you if you go there.” “Why, is that a rough place?" “Rough? Yes; rough as a pile of stones. The last Jackaroo that came out to my uncle was a lord’s son —not such a bad sort of fellow for all that—but he expected that when he got out there he would have to do the De Rougemont business and have a fight with the blacks every day of his life. Instead of that, the old man sent him out with his food and blankets and a pack horse, to live in a hut on the run by himself, and cook for himself, and the work he had to do was to tar gates; and at the end of two days’ work they went out to see how he was getting on,and they couldn’t tell which had the most tar on—the gates or the new chum.”

Here the Bo’sun interposed. “Come on; let us get to dinner,” he said. “What does Mr Carew know about tarring gates? When we’ve had something to eat we can make some plan for later on.” CHAPTER 11. IN ■ PUSH” SOCIETY. The dinner had the usual effect on men who meet for 'the first time—it made them more friendly than a week of ordinary acquaintanceship, and everybody got to think very highly of everybody else before the meal was over. The bushman told stories of his adventures that wouOd have made de Rougemont sick and envy, and Carew listened with deferential interest. They 'tried to draw him as to his opinion on various subjects, but he seemed so eager to admire everything and agree with everything, and asked so many questions, and was so thankful for instruction, that they rather doubted whether he wasn’t purposely keeping dark. He admired the harboui- immensely, liked the town, found the climate rather hot, and agreed that Australian cricket was wonderful; but he wouldn’t 'talk about himself art all. As they were finishing dinner the Bosun proposed an adjournment to the billiard room. “It’s too hot for the theatre,” he said, “and there are only blood and thunder pieces on, anyhow. Do you play billiards, Carew?” “Oh, yes, I play a little.” “Play a good game, 1 suppose?” said the bushman, interrogatively. “Oh, nothing at all wonderful. I’m not a fir kt flight man by any means,” said the other. “I happened to win the cue one year at the ’Varsity, but it was a weak year.” “You’ll be able to take some of the fellows down out our way, I expect,” said Gordon. “They fancy 'themselves out there a bit, some of them.” The Englishman stared at him.

“Why, surely, you don’t have billiard tables out in the wilderness, do you?” he said; “I thought it was quite a wild place—snakes and all sorts of things like that. I never expected to see a billiard table.” The bushman laughed quietly. “It’s rough enough for most people,” he said. “Bwt there is a billiard table at Logwood township, about a hundred miles away. It’s wonderful how they take the tables out to those places. Wherever there’s men and money, there’s billiards and women. But of course, you know, I’m not going back to the startion just now. I’m off to take over a cattle run tha.t has fallen into my uncle’s hands—a place that the ticks swept clean, and the late owners have decided to abandon. My undle had a mortgage over It, and now he’s got to take the place over. It’s what I call ‘no man’s land’ now. You’d better come out there with me, and get. the roughness over straight away.” “Not much billiards there. I expect ?” said Carew. “No,” said Gordon, “not likely. But we’ll soon find something else to do. All about the bush 'there are real good athletes of ail descriptions; regular red hot men—English fellows mostly, that daren’t go back into eivhisart ion.” “How do you mean ‘dareni’L’ go back?" said the Englishman, puzzled. "What’s to stop ’em?” “Oh, half of ’em are sort of in hiding there—sent out there to get away from some trouble over women, or stain)M*d paper. or something of that

sort. Lots of men there daren’t go Lack until suddenly somebody dies, or relents; and then off they go, to blossom out into howling swells in the old country. You’ll find plenty of men up there who will take you on at any game you fancy yourself at. But the question now is, what are we going to do with ourselves this evening? I’m not fond of billiards myself.”

By this time they had finished the dessert, and had adjourned to the smoking room for coffee; and the Bosun. more in fun than anything else, proposed an axljourmnent to a larrikin dancing saloon. A lively debate ensued.

“I should like it awfully,” said the Englishman. “I’ve heard such a lot alxnit the Australian larrikin. What they call a Hooligan in England, isn’t it? er, what? Sort of rough that lays for you with a pal, and robs you, eh?” The Bosun rang for cigars and liquors, and 'then answered the question. “Pretty much the same thing as a Hooligan,” he said, “but with n lot more science and dog cunning about him. They go in gangs, and if you hit one of the gang, all the rest will! ‘deal with you,” as they call it. If 'they have ‘to wait a year to get you. 'they’ll wait, and get you alone some night or other and set on to you. They jump on a man if they get him down, too. Oh, they are regular beauties. “Rather roughish sort of Johnnies, ea.?” said the Englishman. “But we might, go and see the dancing? No harm in that.” Pinnock said he had to go back to his office; the Globe Trotter said he didn’t care about going out at night, and the Bosun tried to laugh the thing off. “You don’t catch me going,” he Said. “There’s nothing to be seen —just a lot of flash young rowdies dancing. You’ll gape at them, and they’ll gape at you, and you’lH feel rather a pair of fools, and you’ll come away. Better stop and have a rubber at whist.” “If you dance with any of their women, you get her particular fancy man on to you, don’t you?” said Gordon. “It’s years since I’ve been round that sort of place myself.’ Tlhe -B,oeaim, who, knew nothing about the matter, assumed the Sir Oracle at once.

“I dont suppose their women would dance with you if you paid ’em 5s a step,” he said. “There would be sure to be a fight if they did. Are you fond of fighting, Carew?” “Not a bit,” said that worthy, filling himself another brandy. “Never fight if you can help it. No chap with any sense ever does. Bet ter be a coward all your life than a corpse half a minute.”

“That’s like me,” said Gordan,reaching over for the decanter. “I’d sooner run a mile than tight, any time. I can tight like a rat, if I’m cornered, but it takes a man with a stockwhip to corner me. I never start fighting till I’m done running. But we needn’t get into a row. I vote we go. Will you come. Carew?”

“Oh. yes. I'll like to,” said the Englishman. “I don’t suppose we need get into a fight.” Ami so, after many jeers from the Bosun, and promises to come back and tell him all about it. they sallied forth together—a pair of men quite as capable of looking after themselves as one would meet in a day’s march. They were lioth in immaculate evening dress, with gold waitdh chains, diamond studs and white ties. Each had a large fat cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, and with a good dinner under their waistcoats they felt fit for anything. Stepping into the street, they call led a cab. “Where to. sir?” said the cabman. “Nearest dancing saloon,” said Gordon, briefly., “Nearest darncin’ saloon,” said the cabman. “There ain’t no parties tonight, sir; it’s too ’ot.” “We’re not expecting to drop into a ball-room without lieing asked, thank you,” said Gordon with elaborate irony. “We want to go to one of those saloons where you j>ay a shilling to go in. Some place where the ‘larrikins go. M.y friend here wants to see the town.” “Ho, is that it, sir?” said the cabman, taking a good stare at them. “Well, I’l'l take you to a noo place, most selectest place I know. Git up, ’orse.” And off they rattled through the quiet streets, turning corners and crossing tram lines about every 50 yards apparently, and bumping against each other in the most fraternal manner, as if they had known each other all their lives. Soon the cab puffed up at the foot of a flight of stairs, leading up to an upj>er room in a dingy house, in a narrow ill-lit street. Instructing- the cabman to wait, they hustled up the stairs, and were confronted at the top by a man who took a shilling each from them, and then did not appear to be too sure whether he would let them in or not. He didn’t seem to like their farm exactly, and muttered something to a by-stander as they came in. They saw a long, low room, brilliantly lighted by flaring gas jets. Down one side, on wooden forms, were seated a. row of girls all flashily dressed—the la.rrikinesses on their native heath; bannaids from cheap, disreputable hotels, shop girls, factory girls, all sharp-faced and pert, young In years but old in knowledge of evil.

The demon of mischief peeped out of their quick-moving, restless eyes. They all had their hair done into an elaborate fringe in front, and their dresses were short, exhibiting wellturned ankles and legs. A large notice on the wall stated that “Gentlemen must not dance with nails in their boots. Gentlemen must not dance together.” “That Blocks us,” said Gordon, pointing to the notice. “Can’t dance together, no matter how much we want to. Look at these fellows here.” On the side of the room opposite the women there sat and lounged a score or two of youths, wiry, hard faced little fellows for the most part —there was scarcely a sizeable man amongst them. They were all clothed in what is recognised in push society as evening dress—black bell bottomed pants, no waistcoat, very short black paget coat, white shirt with no collar, and a gaudy necktie tied round the bare throat. Their boots were marvels of ornanienitation, being very high in the heel and picked out with all sorts of colours down the sides. They looked “varminty” enough for anything, but the shifty eyes, low foreheads and evil faces gave our two heroes a. sense of disgust. The Englishman thought that all the stories he had heard of the Australian larrikin were much exaggerated, and that any man who was any use at athletics could easily take his own part among such a. ]>oor looking- lot. The whole spectacle was disappointing. The most absolutely decorous order prevailed. No excitement, no rough play was noticeable, and their expedition seemed likely to be flat and unprofitable.

Proceedings were, in fact, conducted according to a strict etiquette,and later on this fact was forced upon their notice. The busflimian stared down the room with his far-seeing eyes, apparently looking ait nothing, and contemplated the whole show with bored indifference. “Nothing very dazzling about this,” he said. “I’m afraid we can’t show you anything very exciting here. Better go back to the club, eh?” Just then the band (piano and violin) struck up a slow laboured waltz. Bid Me Good-bye and Go, and each black coated male, with languid selfpossession, strolled across the room, seized a. lady by the arm, jerked her to her feet without saying a syllable, and commenced to dance in slow convulsive movements, making- a great many revolutions for very little pro gress. Two or three girls were left sitting, as their partners were talking in a little knot at the far end of the room.

One of these girls was conspicuously pretty, anl she ogled and smirked at our two heroes in a verv pronounced way.

“There’s one hasn’t got a partner.” said Gordon. “Good looking TWtie. too. Go and ask her to dance. See what sdie says.” ’Tile Englishman hesitated for a second. “I don't like asking a perfect stranger to dance.” he said. “Go on,” said Gordon. “It’s all right. She’ll like it.” Carew- drew flown his cuffs, squared his Shoulders and. assuming his most absolutely stolid drawingroom manner. walked across the room a gleaming vision of splendour in his immacrlate evening dress, and stood before the girl. “May I—er—have the—eir—pleasure of this dance?” he said, with most elaborate politeness. The girl giggled a little, but said nothing. Then dhe rose to her feet and took the arm. As she diid so, a youth among the conversationalists at the other end of the room looked suddenly round, and stared for a second. Then he moistened his fingers With his tongue, smoothed down the hair on his temples anil started down the room at a swaggering walk, with elbows held out from his sides, shoulders hunched up and under-jaw well stuck out, and bore down on our hero and the girl. This happy couple were just getting under way when lie came up. He took not the slightest notice of Carew, but touched the girl on the shoulder with a. sharp peremptory tap, and brought their dance to a stop. “ ’Ere,” he said, in commanding tones. “ ’Oo are you darncln’ with?” “I'm darncing' with ’im,” said the girl pertly, indicating the Englishman with a jerk of her head. “Ho, you're darncln' with 'im, are you? ’E brought you 'ere, perhaps?” “No, he didn’t,” she said. “No,” he said. “You know well enough ’e didn’t.” While this conversation was going on, the Englishman maintained an attitude of dignified reserve, leaving it to the lady to decide who was to be the favoured man; but at last he felt that it was hardly right for an undergraduate of Oxford, and a triple blue at that, to be discussed in this contemptuous way by a larrikin and his “donah,” so ’he broke into the discussion, perhaps a little abruptly, but using his most polished and polite style.

“I—ah—asked this lady to dance, and if she —er —will do me the honour,” he said. “Ho! You arst her to darnce? And wha right had you to arst her to

darnee. you lop eared rabbit?” said the larrikin, raising his voice as he warmed to his subject. “I brought ’er ’ere. T paid the bleedin’ shillin’. Now, then, you take your ’ook,” he went on, pointing sternly to the door, and talking in the tone of one addressing a disobedient dog. “Go on, now. Take your ’ook.” The Englishman said nothing, but his jaw set ominously. The girl giggled. delighted at being the centre of so much observation. The band stoped playing, and the dancers crowded round.' The word was passed down the room that it was a “toff darncin with Nugget's donah,” and from various parts of the room black coated duplicates of Nugget hurried swiftly to t'he scene of action. The man at the door turned to Gordon. “You’d better get your mate out o’ this.” he said. “These are the Kocks Push, and they’ll deal with him all right.” “Deal with him. will t'hey? said Gordon, looking at the gesticulating Nugget. "They’ll bite off more than they can chew' if they interfere with him. This is just his form, a row like this. He’s a bit of a champion in the rough and tumble. I believe.” “Is he?” said the doorkeeper, sardonically. “Well, look ’ere now, you take it' from me. if there’s a row Nugget'll spread him out as flat as a newspaper. They’ve all been in the ring in their time, these coves. There’s Nugget, and Ginger, and Brummy—all red ’ot. You get him away.” Meanwhile t'he Englishman's ire was gradually rising. He had got past the stage of reflecting whether it was worth while having a fight, over a factory girl in a shilling dancing saloon, and the desire for battle blazed up in his eyes. He turned and confronted Nugget.

“You go about your business,” he said, dropping all t'he laboured politeness out of his tones. “If she likes to dance ”

Be got no further. A shrill whistle rang through the room: a voice shouted “Don't, 'it ’im; ’ook ’im!” His arms were seized from behind and pinioned to his sides. The lights were turned out. Somebody in front hit him a terrific crack in the eye, at the same moment that someone else administered a violent kick from the rear, lie was propelled by some invisible force to the head of the stairs, and then—whizz! down the steep stairs he went, with one prodigious leap, clear from the top to the first landing. Here, in the pitch darkness, he grappled one of his assailants; for a few seconds they swayed and struggled. and then rolled down the rest of the stairs, over and over each other, grappling and clawing, each trying to tear the other’s shirt off. When they rolled into the street, Carew recognised that he had got hold of Charlie Gordon.

They sat up and looked at each other. Then they made a simultaneous rush for the stairs, but the street door was slammed in t'heir faces. They kicked at it violently, but without result, except that a sea of faces peered out of the first floor window and hooted at them, and a bucket of water was emptied over them. A crowd collected as if by magic, and the spectacle of two gentlemen in evening dress trying to kick in the door of a shilling dancing saloon afforded unmitigated delight. “ 'Eve’s two toffs got done in all right,” said one. “What ho! Oscar, won’t s J he darnee with you?” said another; and somebody from the back threw some banana peel at them.

Gordon recovered his wits first; the Englishman was fairly Berserk with rage, and glared round on the bystanders as if he contemplated a rusfh among them. The cabman put an end to the performance. He was tranquil and unemotional, and he soothed them down and coaxed them into the cab. As they drove off. the band in the room above resumed the dreamy waltz music of “Bid Me Good-bye, and Go!” — and t'hey went.

In the cab the Englishman subsided in the corner, breathing hard and feeling his eye. Gordon leant forward and peered out into the darkness. They were nearly at the club before he spoke. Then he said “Well. I’m blessed! We made a nice mess of that, didn't we?”

“I’d like to have got one fair erack at some of ’em.” said the Englishman with heartfelt earnestness. “Couldn’t we go back there now?” “No. What’s the good? We’d never get in. Let the thing alone. We needn’t say anything about it. If once it gets to be known that we were

chucked out we’ll never hear the last of it. Are you marked at all?” “Got- an awful swipe in the eye,” said the other briefly. “I’ve got a cut lip and my head nearly screwed off. You did that. I’ll know the place again. Some day we’ll come back and get a few of the right sort to go with us, and we’ll just go there quietly, as if we didn’t mean anything, and then, all of a sudden, we’ll turn in and break the the whole place up. We'll pitch ’em all out ot that window. Come and have a drink now.

They had a silent drink in the deserted club. The mind of each was filled with a sickening sense of defeat, and without much conversation they retired to bed. They thanked heaven that the Bo’sun 'had disappeared somewhere.

Even then Fate hadn’t quite finished with the busihman. He was a newly joined member of the club, and had lived a. life in which he had to shift for himself a good deal, and the ways of luxury were new ito him. Consequently, wheni he. awoke early next, morning- he saw a man moving with cat-like tread about his room, ■and absolutely taking the money out of ‘h’s pockets liefore his very eves. He sprang out of bed with a. bound and. half throttled the. robber. Then, of course, it turned out that the supposed thief was the bedroom waiter, who was taking 'his clothes away to brush them. And this contretemps, on top of their overnight mishap, made him Wvrv determined to get away from town with all stieed. When he looked in the glass he found that his lips had swelled so much thait his moustache stuck out, in front of him like the bowsprit of a. ship. At breakfast he joined the Englishman, who had an eye with as many Colours as an o-pa.l. Also, he had a tired look about- him, and his bouts were dusty. “Are you only just up?” said Gordon. as they contemplated each other.

The Englishman had resumed his mantle of stolidity, but. he. coloured up a little at the question. “I’ve 'been out for a bit of a walk round the town,” he said. “Fact is,” he added, in a burst of confidence, “I’ve been all over the town lookin’ for that place where we were lasit night. Couldn’t, find any place like it at all.” Gordon laughed at his earnestness. “Oh. both?r the place,” he said. “If you had found it there wouldn’t have l>een any of ’em there. Hut now, about ourselves. We can’t show out like th’s. We’d better be off to-day, and no one need know anything about it. liesides, I half killed a. waiter this morning. I thought he was some chap stealing my money, when he only wanted to take my clothes away and brush 'em. Sooner we're out of town the better. I’ll wire to the old man that I’ve taken you with me.” So saying, they settled d'own to bieakfast. and by tacit agreement avoided the club for the rest of the day.

Before leaving Gordon had to call and Interview Pinnock, the lawyer, on business, and lefit Carew waiting out■sidte while, he Went in. He didn't want to parade their injuries, and said nothing of t'heir over-night adventures. He new that Carew’s eye would excite a remark, while, by keeping his upper lip well down over his iteeth. he hoped his own troubles would escape notice. “Seems harmless sort of chap, that new chum,” said Pinnock.

“He’ll do all right,” said Gordon, casually. “Ive met his sort before. He’s not such a fool as he lets on to be. Shouldn’t wonder if he killed somebody before he gets back here, anyhow.” “How did .you get on nt the dancing saloon?” said Pinnoek. “Oh, slow enough. Nothin' worth seeing. Good-bye.” And then the two of them sneaked on board the steamer without meeting the Bosun or anybody else, and before evening were on their way to No Man’s Land. (To be continued.)