The man on the boulder shook his head. It was a big head, with a wide brow and lines of pain round the eyes; but he was a small man, and the hand lying on the knee of his rough tweed suit was startlingly thin. Even as he leaned back against the bank it was easy to see that his shoulders were misshapen and humped. Wally glanced once, and withdrew his eyes hurriedly, with a boy’s instinctive dread of appearing to notice anything amiss. “Beastly careless of me!” he said, apologetically. “I never thought of anyone being down below.” “Well, you gave enough warning that you were coming,” said the man. “Anyone remaining below did so entirely at his own risk. Do you always come down a hill in that fashion, may I ask?” Wally grinned. “Not always,” he admitted. “But it was a jolly hill; and it had taken me such a time to climb up it that I had a fancy to see how quickly I could get down. And I was feeling awfully fit. It’s so jolly to be feeling well—makes you act like a kid.” “It must be jolly,” said the other, laconically. Wally flushed hotly, in dread of having hurt him. It was painfully clear that to feel well was not a common experience for the man on the boulder. He had a sudden wild desire to undo the impression of exuberant health and spirits. The tired eyes were even harder to face than the twisted shoulders. “Been an awful crock, really,” he said, sitting down on another fragment of rock. “Gassed—over there.” He nodded vaguely in the direction—more or less—of Europe. “Makes you feel like nothing on earth.” “It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?” asked the other, with swift interest. “Rather. We didn’t get anything like a full dose, of course, or we wouldn’t be here. But even a little is rather beastly. And the worst of it is, that it hangs on to you long after you’re better—it seems to lurk down somewhere inside you, and gets hold of you just as you’re beginning to think you’re really all right. It actually makes a fellow think he’s got nerves!” “You don’t look like it,” said the man, laughing for the first time. The brown, boyish face did not suggest such attributes. “Well, it truly does make one pretty queer,” said Wally, laughing too. “However, I believe we’ve nearly got rid of it—this country of yours is enough to make us forget it.” “You’re Australian, aren’t you?” the man asked. Wally nodded. “How did you know?” “Oh, this is a little place,” said the other. “Strangers are our only excitement, and since the war started we haven’t had nearly so many. All the people who used to come here to fish are away fighting.” He sighed. “Most of them will not come back any more. You were quite a godsend to us. Your boatman told one of my men about you; and the baker’s boy tells the cook; and the butcher tells every one; and the postmistress is simply full of news about you. As for the shops, they are fairly buzzing!” “Why, there are only two,” said Wally, laughing.