was quite comfortable. "I can get a whiff of air here," he said.

Going in next day I thought for a moment that I had dropped suddenly
back into the past and into a bush dance, for there was a concertina
going upstairs. He was sitting on the bed, with his legs crossed, and
a new cheap concertina on his knee, and his eyes turned to the patch
of ceiling as if it were a piece of music and he could read it. "I'm
trying to knock a few tunes into my head," he said, with a brave
smile, "in case the worst comes to the worst." He tried to be
cheerful, but seemed worried and anxious. The letter hadn't come. I
thought of the many blind musicians in Sydney, and I thought of the
bushman's chance, standing at a corner swanking a cheap concertina,
and I felt sorry for him.

I went out with a vague idea of seeing someone about the matter, and
getting something done for the bushman--of bringing a little influence
to his assistance; but I suddenly remembered that my clothes were worn
out, my hat in a shocking state, my boots burst, and that I owed for a
week's board and lodging, and was likely to be thrown out at any
moment myself; and so I was not in a position to go where there was
influence.

When I went back to the restaurant there was a long, gaunt
sandy-complexioned bushman sitting by Jack's side. Jack introduced
him as his brother, who had returned unexpectedly to his native
district, and had followed him to Sydney. The brother was rather
short with me at first, and seemed to regard the restaurant
people--all of us, in fact--in the light of spielers who wouldn't
hesitate to take advantage of Jack's blindness if he left him a
moment; and he looked ready to knock down the first man who stumbled