inquiry concerning the whereabouts of my mate, that the bush had an
idea that I might have done away with him and that the thing ought to
be looked into.

When a man drops mateship altogether and takes to "hatting" in the
bush, it's a step towards a convenient tree and a couple of
saddle-straps buckled together.

I had an idea that I, in a measure, took the place of Jack Moonlight's
mate about this time.

"'Ullo, Jack!" I hailed as he reached the corner of the park.

"Good morning, Harry!" said Jack, as if he'd seen me last yesterday
evening instead of three months ago. "How are you getting on?"

We walked together towards the Union Office, where I had a camp in the
skillion-room at the back. Jack was silent. But there's no place in
the world where a man's silence is respected so much (within
reasonable bounds) as in the Australian bush, where every man has a
past more or less sad, and every man a ghost--perhaps from other lands
that we know nothing of, and speaking in a foreign tongue. They say
in the bush, "Oh, Jack's only thinking!" And they let him think.
Generally you want to think as much as your mate; and when you've been
together some time it's quite natural to travel all day without
exchanging a word. In the morning Jim says, "Well, I think I made a
bargain with that horse, Bill," and some time late in the afternoon,
say twenty miles farther on, it occurs to Bill to "rejoin," "Well,
I reckon the blank as sold it to you had yer proper!"