Protestant by rights," unwittingly subscribed towards the erection of
a new Catholic church, and, being chaffed for his mistake, said:

"Ah, well, I don't suppose it'll matter a hang in the end, anyway it
goes. I ain't got nothink agenst the Roming Carflicks."

There's the shearer, fresh with his cheque from a cut-out shed,
gloriously drunk and happy, in love with all the world, and ready to
subscribe towards any creed and shout for all hands--including Old
Nick if he happened to come along. There's the shearer, half-drunk
and inclined to be nasty, who has got the wrong end of all things with
a tight grip, and who flings a shilling in the face of out-back
conventionality (as he thinks) by chucking a bob into the Salvation
Army ring. Then he glares round to see if he can catch anybody
winking behind his back. There's the cynical joker, a queer mixture,
who contributes generously and tempts the reformed boozer afterwards.
There's the severe-faced old station-hand--in clean shirt and
neckerchief and white moleskins--in for his annual or semi-annual
spree, who contributes on principle, and then drinks religiously until
his cheque is gone and the horrors are come. There's the shearer,
feeling mighty bad after a spree, and in danger of seeing things when
he tries to go to sleep. He has dropped ten or twenty pounds over bar
counters and at cards, and he now "chucks" a repentant shilling into
the ring, with a very private and rather vague sort of feeling that
something might come of it. There's the stout, contented,
good-natured publican, who tips the Army as if it were a barrel-organ.
And there are others and other reasons--black sheep and
ne'er-do-wells--and faint echoes of other times in Salvation Army
tunes.