“I hain’t got it here. It’s round in my caboose. Come round for it with me. It ain’t more’n quarter of a mile.” Jimmy consents reluctantly. When they reach the tumble-down hut the keeper asks him cheerily to dismount and to come in. “Give me the letter,” says Jimmy. “It ain’t altogether wrote yet, but you sit down here for a minute and it’ll be right,” and so the stockman is beguiled into the shanty. At last the letter is ready and handed over. “Now, Jimmy,” says the keeper, “one drink at my expense before you go.” “Not a taste,” says Jimmy. “Oh, that’s it, is it?” the other says, in an aggrieved tone. “You’re too damned proud to drink with a poor cove like me. Here--give us back that letter. I’m cursed if I’ll accept a favor from a man whose too almighty big to have a drink with me.” “Well, well, mate, don’t turn rusty,” says Jim. “Give us one drink an’ I’m off.” The keeper pours out about half a pannikin of raw rum and hands it to the bushman. The moment he smells the old familiar smell his longing for it returns, and he swigs it off at a gulp. His eyes shine more brightly, and his face becomes flushed. The keeper watches him narrowly. “You can go now, Jim,” he says. “Steady, mate, steady,” says the bushman. “I’m as good a man as you. If you stand a drink, I can stand one too, I suppose.” So the pannikin is replenished, and Jimmy’s eyes shine brighter still. “Now, Jimmy, one last drink for the good of the house,” says the keeper, “and then it’s time you were off.” The stockman has a third gulp from the pannikin, and with it all his scruples and good resolutions vanish forever. “Look here,” he says, somewhat huskily, taking his cheque out of his pouch. “You take this, mate. Whoever comes along this road, ask ’em what they’ll have, and tell them it’s my shout. Let me know when the money’s done.” So Jimmy abandons the idea of ever getting to town, and for three weeks or a month he lies about the shanty in a state of extreme drunkenness, and reduces every wayfarer upon the road to the same condition. At last one fine morning the keeper comes to him. “The coin’s done, Jimmy,” he says; “it’s about time you made some more.” So Jimmy has a good wash to sober him, straps his blanket and his billy to his back, and rides off through the bush to the sheep-run, where he has another year of sobriety, terminating in another month of intoxication.