bullock-drivers, some going down with wool and some going back for
more.

"Hold on, Ben," cried Jimmy Nowlett, from his hammock under his
wagon as Ben was riding off--"Hold on a minute! I want to look at
yer."

Jimmy got his head out of his bunk very cautiously and carefully, and
his body after it--there were nut ends of bolts, a heavy axle, and
extremely hard projections, points, and corners within a very few
short inches of his chaff-filled sugar-bag pillow. Slipping cannily
on to his hands and knees, he crawled out under the tail-board,
dragging his "moles" after him, and stood outside in the moonlight
shaking himself into his trousers.

Jimmy was a little man who always wore a large size in moleskins--for
some reason best known to himself--or more probably for no reason at
all; or because of a habit he'd got into accidentally years ago--or
because of the motherly trousers his mother used to build for him when
he was a boy. And he always shook himself into his pants after the
manner of a woman shaking a pillow into a clean slip; his chin down on
his chest and his jaw dropped, as if he'd take himself in his teeth,
after the manner of the woman with a pillow, were he not prevented by
sound anatomical reasons.

"You look reg'lerly tuckered out, Ben," he said, "an' yer horse
could do with a spell too. Git down, man, and have a pint er tea and
a bite."

Ben got down wearily and knew at once how knocked up he was. He sat