the town, and he's getting on my nerves for one. . . . Come on, you
sinners! Chuck 'em in; we're only taking quids and half-quids."

About daylight next morning Tom Hall slipped into the Giraffe's room
at the Carriers' Arms. The Giraffe was sleeping peacefully. Tom put
the hat on a chair by his side. The collection had been a record one,
and, besides the packet of money in the crown of the hat, there was a
silver-mounted pipe with case--the best that could be bought in
Bourke, a gold brooch, and several trifles--besides an ugly valentine
of a long man in his shirt walking the room with a twin on each arm.

Tom was about to shake the Giraffe by the shoulder, when he noticed a
great foot, with about half a yard of big-boned ankle and shank,
sticking out at the bottom of the bed. The temptation was too great.
Tom took up the hair-brush, and, with the back of it, he gave a smart
rap on the point of an in-growing toe-nail, and slithered.

We heard the Giraffe swearing good-naturedly for a while, and then
there was a pregnant silence. He was staring at the hat we supposed.

We were all up at the station to see him off. It was rather a long
wait. The Giraffe edged me up to the other end of the platform.

He seemed overcome.

"There's--there's some terrible good-hearted fellers in this world,"
he said. "You mustn't forgit 'em, Harry, when you make a big name
writin'. I'm--well, I'm blessed if I don't feel as if I was jist
goin' to blubber!"