had drunk it he began shamming intoxication, and then went to sleep, or
pretended to do so, letting me kick him pretty hard and never budging.

I was angry, for I had to go without my own grog and had got nothing out
of him; so the next day I determined that he should tell me before I gave
him any, or get none at all.

Accordingly, when night came and the shearers had knocked off work and
had their supper, I got my share of rum in a tin pannikin and made a sign
to Chowbok to follow me to the wool-shed, which he willingly did,
slipping out after me, and no one taking any notice of either of us. When
we got down to the wool-shed we lit a tallow candle, and having stuck it
in an old bottle we sat down upon the wool bales and began to smoke. A
wool-shed is a roomy place, built somewhat on the same plan as a
cathedral, with aisles on either side full of pens for the sheep, a great
nave, at the upper end of which the shearers work, and a further space
for wool sorters and packers. It always refreshed me with a semblance of
antiquity (precious in a new country), though I very well knew that the
oldest wool-shed in the settlement was not more than seven years old,
while this was only two. Chowbok pretended to expect his grog at once,
though we both of us knew very well what the other was after, and that we
were each playing against the other, the one for grog the other for
information.

We had a hard fight: for more than two hours he had tried to put me off
with lies but had carried no conviction; during the whole time we had
been morally wrestling with one another and had neither of us apparently
gained the least advantage; at length, however, I had become sure that he
would give in ultimately, and that with a little further patience I
should get his story out of him. As upon a cold day in winter, when one