I was leaning back against the chain, with my cap tilted forward to
keep off the dazzle of the June sunshine on the water, and lazily
watching Eli as he pushed his sweep. Suddenly I grew aware that by
frequent winks and jerks of the head he wished to direct my attention
to a passenger on my right--a short, round man in black, with a
basket of eggs on his arm.

There was quite a remarkable dearth of feature on this passenger's
face, which was large, soft, and unhealthy in colour: but what
surprised me was to see, as he blinked in the sunlight, a couple of
big tears trickle down his cheeks and splash among the eggs in his
basket.

"There's trouble agen, up at Kit's," remarked Eli, finishing his
stroke with a jerk, and speaking for the general benefit, though the
words were particularly addressed to a drover opposite.

"Ho?" said the drover: "that woman agen?"

The passengers, one and all, bent their eyes on the man in black, who
smeared his face with his cuff, and began weeping afresh, silently.

"Beat en blue las' night, an' turned en to doors--the dirty trollop."

"Eli, don't 'ee--" put in the poor man, in a low, deprecating voice.

"Iss, an' no need to tell what for," exclaimed a red-faced woman who
stood by the drover, with two baskets of poultry at her feet.
"She's a low lot; a low trapesin' baggage. If These-an'-That, there,