Besides, had he not been on board of ships and there drank rum of such strength as made his very hair stand on end; and eaten biscuits and salt junk. Moreover, once his friends had taken him out and away upon the ‘lagoon,’ away so far, than when he looked for his native land he beheld it not. Then the water, hitherto smooth, gradually began to heave and swell into hills as tall as the Wonga Ranges, and, presently, he fell deadly sick and lay in the salt water in the boat’s bottom, feeling as if the very soul-bolts were being wrenched out of him. Afterwards his friends had apologised, and said something about ‘a squall.’ But Peter would venture no more. These things, and many others, would he have to tell. Also the time was approaching for the weaning of calves and branding of foals. He had spent nearly all his money. But that did not trouble him. For the future he must be a bold man who, in the hut, or on the run, could snub Peter Barlow. One last jovial evening he and his sea-friends would have together, and then, hey for the far-inland scrubs and rolling downs. So far as Peter recollected, it _was_ a jovial evening. He had sung his famous ballad of ‘The Wild Australian Boy,’ applauded to the echo as he had never been at home. He had drunk healths innumerable in divers liquors; had accepted as much strong ‘niggerhead’ in parting gifts—it was all they possessed—as would have stocked a tobacconist’s shop, and seen the last guest lurch out into the night. Then Gallagher had proposed one more drink, ‘for luck!’ After that—oblivion. * * * * * When Peter awoke, his first thought was that he must have fallen asleep in the saddle, as he had done before now when camping out with cattle from the back of the run. But, on this occasion, his throat was hot and dry, and his head full of ringing bells. Raising himself, he bumped his nose sharply, and fell back to consider. It was almost dark, and he could hear a noise of wind and of rushing waters. Also he felt a rocking motion which assuredly was not that of a feeding horse. He had heard the same sounds and felt the same motion recently, but he could not recollect when. Presently a door slid open, and a flood of sunshine came in, with a black face in the midst of it. ‘Ahi,’ said a voice, as Peter blinked at its owner. ‘You ’wake now, eh? Copper hot, I ’spect? Have drink?’ and the speaker handed up a hook-pot full of water. Peter drank copiously, and made shift to get out. ‘Where the blazes am I?’ he exclaimed, weak and trembling all over, as his feet touched the deck. ‘Barque _John F. Harkins_, o’ Boston, State o’ Maine. I’m de doctor. Guess you’ve been shanghaied. Best come out afore de greaser gets mad.’ This was Greek to poor Peter. But, stumbling over the door-sill, he gazed about him with a wildly-amazed look, which made the negro cook grin more widely than ever.