“Them three? Oh yes! Easy! Easy! Get ’em on easy. Get them on easy, no trouble at all.” And he clambered down from his perch, and resolved into a little red-faced man, rather beery and hen-pecked looking. He stood gazing at the bags. On one was printed the name: “R. L. Somers.” “_R. L. Somers!_ All right, you get in, sir and madam. You get in. Where d’you want to go? Station?” “No. Fifty-one Murdoch Street.” “All right, all right, I’ll take you. Fairish long way, but we’ll be there under an hour.” Mr Somers and his wife got into the cab. The cabby left the doors flung wide open, and piled the three bags there like a tower in front of his two fares. The hat-box was on top, almost touching the brown hairs of the horse’s tail, and perching gingerly. “If you’ll keep a hand on that, now, to steady it,” said the cabby. “All right,” said Somers. The man climbed to his perch, and the hansom and the extraneous tower began to joggle away into the town. The group of workmen were still lying on the grass. But Somers did not care about them. He was safely jogging with his detested baggage to his destination. “Aren’t they _vile_!” said Harriet, his wife. “It’s God’s Own Country, as they always tell you,” said Somers. “The hansom-man was quite nice.” “But the taxi-drivers! And the man charged you eight shillings on Saturday for what would be two shillings in London!” “He rooked me. But there you are, in a free country, it’s the man who makes you pay who is free--free to charge you what he likes, and you’re forced to pay it. That’s what freedom amounts to. They’re free to charge, and you are forced to pay.” In which state of mind they jogged through the city, catching a glimpse from the top of a hill of the famous harbour spreading out with its many arms and legs. Or at least they saw one bay with warships and steamers lying between the houses and the wooded, bank-like shores, and they saw the centre of the harbour, and the opposite squat cliffs--the whole low wooded table-land reddened with suburbs and interrupted by the pale spaces of the many-lobed harbour. The sky had gone grey, and the low table-land into which the harbour intrudes squatted dark-looking and monotonous and sad, as if lost on the face of the earth: the same Australian atmosphere, even here within the area of huge, restless, modern Sydney, whose million inhabitants seem to slip like fishes from one side of the harbour to another.