But to-day -- a couple of months after the proposal described above --
Andy had trouble on his mind, and the trouble was connected
with Lizzie Porter. He was putting up a two-rail fence
along the old log-paddock on the frontage, and working like a man in trouble,
trying to work it off his mind; and evidently not succeeding --
for the last two panels were out of line. He was ramming a post --
Andy rammed honestly, from the bottom of the hole, not the last few shovelfuls
below the surface, as some do. He was ramming the last layer of clay
when a cloud of white dust came along the road, paused,
and drifted or poured off into the scrub, leaving long Dave Bentley,
the horse-breaker, on his last victim.

"'Ello, Andy! Graftin'?"

"I want to speak to you, Dave," said Andy, in a strange voice.

"All -- all right!" said Dave, rather puzzled. He got down,
wondering what was up, and hung his horse to the last post but one.

Dave was Andy's opposite in one respect: he jumped to conclusions,
as women do; but, unlike women, he was mostly wrong. He was
an old chum and mate of Andy's who had always liked, admired, and trusted him.
But now, to his helpless surprise, Andy went on scraping the earth
from the surface with his long-handled shovel, and heaping it conscientiously
round the butt of the post, his face like a block of wood,
and his lips set grimly. Dave broke out first (with bush oaths):

"What's the matter with you? Spit it out! What have I been doin' to you?
What's yer got yer rag out about, anyway?"