in the room, or up and down the yard in the dark sometimes,
or lie awake some nights thinking. . . . Ah well!

I was between twenty-one and thirty then: birthdays had never been
any use to me, and I'd left off counting them. You don't take much stock
in birthdays in the Bush. I'd knocked about the country for a few years,
shearing and fencing and droving a little, and wasting my life without getting
anything for it. I drank now and then, and made a fool of myself.
I was reckoned `wild'; but I only drank because I felt less sensitive,
and the world seemed a lot saner and better and kinder
when I had a few drinks: I loved my fellow-man then and felt nearer to him.
It's better to be thought `wild' than to be considered eccentric or ratty.
Now, my old mate, Jack Barnes, drank -- as far as I could see --
first because he'd inherited the gambling habit from his father along with
his father's luck: he'd the habit of being cheated and losing very bad,
and when he lost he drank. Till drink got a hold on him.
Jack was sentimental too, but in a different way. I was sentimental
about other people -- more fool I! -- whereas Jack was sentimental
about himself. Before he was married, and when he was recovering
from a spree, he'd write rhymes about `Only a boy, drunk by the roadside',
and that sort of thing; and he'd call 'em poetry, and talk about
signing them and sending them to the `Town and Country Journal'.
But he generally tore them up when he got better. The Bush is breeding
a race of poets, and I don't know what the country will come to in the end.

Well. It was after Jack and I had been out shearing at Beenaway shed
in the Big Scrubs. Jack was living in the little farming town of Solong,
and I was hanging round. Black, the squatter, wanted some fencing done
and a new stable built, or buggy and harness-house, at his place at Haviland,
a few miles out of Solong. Jack and I were good Bush carpenters,