I like a good thinking mate, and I believe that thinking in company is
a lot more healthy and more comfortable, as well as less risky, than
thinking alone.

On the way to the Union Office Jack and I passed the Royal Hotel, and
caught a glimpse, through the open door, of a bedroom off the veranda,
of the landlord's fresh, fair, young Sydney girl-wife, sleeping
prettily behind the mosquito-net, like a sleeping beauty, while the
boss lay on a mattress outside on the veranda, across the open door.
(He wasn't necessary for publication, but an evidence of good faith.)

I glanced at Jack for a grin, but didn't get one. He wore
the pained expression of a man who is suddenly hit hard with the
thought of something that might have been.

I boiled the billy and fried a pound of steak.

"Been travelling all night, .Tack?" I asked.

"Yes," said Jack. "I camped at Emus yesterday."

He didn't eat. I began to reckon that he was brooding too much for
his health. He was much thinner than when I saw him last, and pretty
haggard, and he had something of the hopeless, haggard look that I'd
seen in Tom Hall's eyes after the last big shearing strike, when Tom
had worked day and night to hold his mates up all through the hard,
bitter struggle, and the battle was lost.

"Look here, Jack!" I said at last. "What's up?"