‘You bin over to Walmsley’s shanty to-day?’ asked his wife, looking hard at his pale face and staring eyes. ‘No, s’elp me!’ replied Steve; ‘not fer a month or more! An’ yer knows, Mariar, as it aint very often I touches a drop o’ ennythin’ when I does go over.’ Which was strictly true, for Steve was an abstemious rogue. ‘Well, then, you’ve got a stroke o’ the sun,’ said his better-half, dogmatically, ‘an’ you’d best take a dose of salts at oncest, afore ye goes off yer ’ead wuss.’ ‘_Hrrmp! hrrmp! hrrmp!_’ trumpeted Greg cheerfully, as at this moment, interposing his huge bulk before the setting sun, he looked in at the back door with twinkling eyes. With a scream the woman, snatching up her child, bolted into the bedroom, leaving Steve quaking in an ecstasy of terror, as Greg, spying the pumpkin, deftly reached in with his trunk and asked for it with an insinuating grunt. But Steve, pretty certain that it was himself who was wanted, and that his time had come at last, tumbled off the stool and grovelled before the Unknown Terror. Without coming in further, Greg could not get within a foot of the coveted article. To come in further would be to lift the house on his shoulders, so Greg hesitated. For ten years—long ago in the days of his youth—he had been a member of the Ceylon Civil Service, and had learnt discipline and respect for the constituted authorities. Also, besides being chief constable of his fellows, he had been a favourite at headquarters, had borne royalty itself, and was even named after Governor Gregory. Therefore, hungry as he was, Greg hesitated about demolishing a house for the sake of a pumpkin; but Steve, now on his knees in the middle of the floor, with that curling, snakelike thing twisting and twitching before his eyes, knew less than nothing of all this. Had he been able, he would doubtless have prayed in an orthodox manner to be delivered out of the clutches of the Evil One. Being unable to pray, he did the best he could, which was indifferent. ‘Oh good Mister Bunyip,’ he quavered, ‘let’s off this oncest, an’ I’ll takes them mokes back to the nigger. I’ll give up them two unbranded foals as I shook off the carrier larst week, likewise the bag o’ flour off his waggin. If yer’ll go away, Mr Bunyip, I’ll never plant nor shake nothin’ no more. I won’t—s’elp me! An’ if yer’ll go back quiet’—here the wall-plate began to crack, and Steve’s voice to rise into a howl—‘I’ll promise faithful never to come next anigh yer waterhole over yonder to plant hosses.’ As he concluded, Greg, having at length jammed his big head in far enough to just reach the pumpkin with his trunk, withdrew, taking both doorposts with him.