"You'd best take what money we have in the camp, Tom;
you'll want it all ag'in' the time you get back from Sydney, and we can
fix it up arterwards. . . . There's a couple o' clean shirts o' mine
-- you'd best take 'em -- you'll want 'em on the voyage. . . .
You might as well take them there new pants o' mine, they'll only dry-rot
out here -- and the coat, too, if you like -- it's too small for me, anyway.
You won't have any time in Perth, and you'll want some decent togs
to land with in Sydney."

. . . . .

"I wouldn't 'a' cared so much if I'd 'a' seen the last of her," he said,
in a quiet, patient voice, to us one night by the rail. "I would 'a' liked
to have seen the last of her."

"Have you been long in the West?"

"Over two years. I made up to take a run across last Christmas,
and have a look at 'em. But I couldn't very well get away
when `exemption-time' came. I didn't like to leave the claim."

"Do any good over there?"

"Well, things brightened up a bit the last month or two.
I had a hard pull at first; landed without a penny, and had to send back
every shilling I could rake up to get things straightened up a bit at home.
Then the eldest boy fell ill, and then the baby. I'd reckoned
on bringing 'em over to Perth or Coolgardie when the cool weather came,
and having them somewheres near me, where I could go and have a look at 'em