This was credible; Mahony nodded his assent. He also added,
gratuitously, that he had before now been obliged to reclaim on casks of
mouldy mess-pork. At which Ocock ceased coddling his chin to point a
straight forefinger at him, with a triumphant: "You see!"--But Purdy
who, sick and tired of the discussion, had withdrawn to the window to
watch the rain zig-zag in runlets down the dusty panes, and hiss and
spatter on the sill; Purdy puckered his lips to a sly and soundless
whistle.

The interview at an end, Ocock mentioned, in his frigidly urbane way,
that he had recently been informed there was an excellent opening for a
firm of solicitors in Ballarat: could Mr. Mahony, as a resident, confirm
the report? Mahony regretted his ignorance, but spoke in praise of the
Golden City and its assured future.--"This would be most welcome news
to your father, sir. I can picture his satisfaction on hearing it."

--"Golly, Dick, that's no mopoke!" was Purdy's comment as they emerged
into the rain-swept street. "A crafty devil, if ever I see'd one."

"Henry Ocock seems to me to be a singularly able man," replied Mahony
drily. To his thinking, Purdy had cut a poor figure during the visit: he
had said no intelligent word, but had lounged lumpishly in his chair--
the very picture of the country man come up to the metropolis--and,
growing tired of this, had gone like a restless child to thrum his
fingers on the panes.

"Oh, you bet! He'll slither you through."

"What? Do you insinuate there's any need for slithering . . as you call
it?" cried Mahony.