So, after a day or two, Peter rode 150 miles to the railway terminus, and, leaving his horse in a paddock, embarked on a very strange adventure, and one that will be handed down with ever-increasing embroidery to each generation of Barlows, until, in time, the narrative overshadows that of Munchausen. It would be tedious to attempt to depict Peter’s astonishment at the first sight of steam. As a matter of fact, he was not a bit surprised—or, if he was, he didn’t show it. It takes more than the first sight of an express train to upset the marvellous stoicism, or adaptability—which is it?—of the Native-Born. It takes all that subsequently befel to do so. Peter arrived in safety at the first large inland town. Here he tarried awhile and enjoyed himself after the manner of his kind. He stared into shop windows; went to a race meeting, and there lost five pounds to a monte man. With a dim notion percolating under his cabbage-tree that he had been cheated, he made a furious attack on both man and table. Sequel—five shillings or twenty-four hours. This, now, was something like life! Would he not soon be able to ruffle it with the loudest of them on his return? After this exploit Peter decided to proceed on his travels. His first emotion of expressed surprise was displayed at sight of the sea. As the train ran along the embankment, and the stretch of water studded with ships’ masts caught his eye, he exclaimed,— ‘By Jinks! that’s a thunderin’ big lagoon if yer likes. But what’s all that dead timber a-stickin’ up in it? Must ha’ been a good-sized flood hereabout!’ Then his fellow-travellers laughed; and Peter, abashed, withdrew into himself, but stared steadily over that wondrous expanse of water whose like so far exceeded his imaginings. At the port Fate led him—of all people in the world—to put up at a sailors’ boarding-house. And here, for the first time in his life, he found himself an oracle. Many sailors ‘go up the Bush.’ But those who get so far as where Peter hailed from seldom or never return to the sea. Therefore, no one criticising, wondrous were the yarns he spun to an ever-shifting audience of all nations. Wondrous yarns of fierce blacks, of men perishing of thirst and hunger in the lonely bush, of wild cattle, of bucking horses, of the far inland life. And, in return, they told him tales of the stormy seas, and drank heartily at his expense. The port was busy, wages high, and men scarce. But Peter’s audience never failed him. The fame of the ‘Jolly Bushman down at Gallagher’s’ had spread about the shipping, and whole crews used to drop in of an evening to listen to Peter and drink his beer and rum. It would have taken a longer purse than Peter’s to stand this kind of thing. He had put aside enough money to take him back, and now he resolved to travel no further. He had heard and seen sufficient; and, above all, been listened to with deference and attention.