most times, as I noticed later on; he was of a type of bushman that I
always liked--the sort that seem to get more good-natured the longer
they grow, yet are hard-knuckled and would accommodate a man who
wanted to fight, or thrash a bully in a good-natured way. The sort
that like to carry somebody's baby round, and cut wood, carry water
and do little things for overworked married bushwomen. He wore a
saddle-tweed sac suit two sizes too small for him, and his face, neck,
great hands and bony wrists were covered with sun-blotches and
freckles.

"I hope I ain't disturbin' yer," he shouted, as he bent over my
bunk, "but there's a cove--"

"You needn't shout!" I interrupted, "I'm not deaf."

"Oh--I beg your pardon!" he shouted. "I didn't know I was yellin'.
I thought you was the deaf feller."

"Oh, that's all right," I said. "What's the trouble?"

"Wait till them other chaps is done swearin' and I'll tell yer," he
said. He spoke with a quiet, good-natured drawl, with something of
the nasal twang, but tone and drawl distinctly Australian--altogether
apart from that of the Americans.

"Oh, spit it out for Christ's sake, Long'un!" yelled One-eyed Bogan,
who had been the worst swearer in a rough shed, and he fell back on
his bunk as if his previous remarks had exhausted him.

"It's that there sick jackaroo that was pickin'-up at Big