He was short, and stout, and bow-legged, and freckled, and sandy. He
had red hair and small, twinkling, grey eyes, and--what often goes
with such things--the expression of a born comedian. He was dressed
in a ragged, well-washed print shirt, an old black waistcoat with a
calico back, a pair of cloudy moleskins patched at the knees and held
up by a plaited greenhide belt buckled loosely round his hips, a pair
of well-worn, fuzzy blucher boots, and a soft felt hat, green with
age, and with no brim worth mentioning, and no crown to speak of. He
swung a swag on to the platform, shouldered it, pulled out a billy and
water-bag, and then went to a dog-box in the brake van.

Five minutes later he
appeared on the edge of the cab platform, with an anxious-looking
cattle-dog crouching against his legs, and one end of the chain in his
hand. He eased down the swag against a post, turned his face to the
city, tilted his hat forward, and scratched the well-developed back of
his head with a little finger. He seemed undecided what track to
take.

"Cab, Sir!"

The swagman turned slowly and regarded cabby with a quiet grin.

"Now, do I look as if I want a cab?"

"Well, why not? No harm, anyway--I thought you might want a cab."

Swaggy scratched his head, reflectively.

"Well," he said, "you're the first man that has thought so these