and tanners or sprats--to say nothing of the scrums--that had been
chucked into it in its time and shaken up.

They say that when a new governor visited Bourke the Giraffe happened
to be standing on the platform close to the exit, grinning
good-humouredly, and the local toady nudged him urgently and said in
an awful whisper, "Take off your hat! Why don't you take off your
hat?"

"Why?" drawled the Giraffe, "he ain't hard up, is he?"

And they fondly cherish an anecdote to the effect that, when the
One-Man-One-Vote Bill was passed (or Payment of Members, or when the
first Labour Party went in--I forget on which occasion they said it
was) the Giraffe was carried away by the general enthusiasm, got a few
beers in him, "chucked" a quid into his hat, and sent it round. The
boys contributed by force of habit, and contributed largely, because
of the victory and the beer. And when the hat came back to the
Giraffe, he stood holding it in front of him with both hands and
stared blankly into it for a while. Then it dawned on him.

"Blowed if I haven't bin an' gone an' took up a bloomin' collection
for meself!" he said.

He was almost a teetotaller, but he stood his shout in reason. He
mostly drank ginger beer.

"I ain't a feller that boozes, but I ain't got nothin' agen chaps
enjoyin' themselves, so long as they don't go too far."