more familiarly, "Watty Bothways"--turned over the Giraffe's hat in
a tired, bored sort of way, dropped a quid into it, and nodded
resignedly at the Giraffe.

The Giraffe caught up the hint and the hat with alacrity. The hat
went all round town, so to speak; and, as soon as his leg was firm
enough not to come loose on the road German Charlie went home.

It was well known that I contributed to the Sydney _Bulletin_ and
several other papers. The Giraffe's bump of reverence was very large,
and swelled especially for sick men and poets. He treated me with
much more respect than is due from a bushman to a man, and with an odd
sort of extra gentleness I sometimes fancied. But one day he rather
surprised me.

"I'm sorry to trouble yer," he said in a shamefaced way. "I don't
know as you go in for sportin', but One-eyed Bogan an' Barcoo-Rot is
goin' to have a bit of a scrap down the Billybong this evenin',
an'---"

"A bit of a what?" I asked.

"A bit of fight to a finish," he said apologetically. "An' the
chaps is tryin' to fix up a fiver to put some life into the thing.
There's bad blood between One-eyed Bogan and Barcoo-Rot, an' it won't
do them any harm to have it out."

It was a great fight, I remember. There must have been a couple of
score blood-soaked handkerchiefs (or "sweat-rags") buried in a hole
on the field of battle, and the Giraffe was busy the rest of the