Dave, having grown accustomed to strange sleeping-places, was in a sound slumber five minutes after his head touched the pillow of hay. When Bruce Tempest heard his deep, regular breathing he took his old pipe from a pocket, sat on a fence near, and smoked placidly for half an hour. He always made a point of not smoking in a barn when he was appropriating it for a night’s lodging, partly because there was always the danger of losing his lodgings by burning the barn down, and partly because he felt the farmer might appreciate the little act of courtesy if only he knew. As one who had not a care in the world he knocked the ashes from his pipe at last, hummed a sailors’ ditty, and then strolled to his primitive couch. He, too, was soon in the land of dreams. The sun was just peeping over the horizon when the two wanderers awoke; and before having breakfast they went down to the adjacent beach for a refreshing plunge into the sea. Afterward they pushed on, covering ten miles before the sun “was over the yard-arm,” as Tempest put it, when they fell in with a party of road-menders taking their midday rest. With typical Australian hospitality, the road-menders invited Dave and his companion to join them in their noon meal. It was evening when the two arrived in Albany, tired, hungry, and with the price of one scant meal in their possession. “It would be fun if we could both get fixed up on the same boat,” Dave suggested. “You’re not particular which way you go, are you?” “North, south, east, or west, will do the same,” Tempest replied. “Well, I’d rather go east,” Dave said, “if luck will let me. It isn’t as though my dad had seen me off and all that sort of thing. I told him when I wrote that I should be back by now, and I guess he’s kind of expecting me. Goodness only knows when I shall get home again if I have to sign on some ship bound westward from here.” “Don’t worry, sonny. Things nearly always pan out right by themselves, as I’ve said before. So long as you live clean, pay your way, and can look every man straight in the eyes, there’s hardly a thing in the world that is worth a wrinkle. Besides, if you fuss over every blessed thing that comes along, you’ve got no steam left in you when the time comes for you to make a big effort.” “Such as what?” asked Dave, wondering what manner of thing could give Bruce Tempest a wrinkle.