Nearly naked, with the exception of a short ’possum cloak, his skin plentifully covered with red and white ochre, and his hair decorated with cockatoo feathers; whilst across one side of his face ran a long, gaping scar, a relic of some recent corrobboree—what wonder that the reverend gentleman gazed more than doubtfully at the person introduced to him by the publican as his guide. The landlord observed his hesitation and the cause of it. ‘Never mind, sir,’ said he, ‘he’s as quiet as a sheep. Dessay his ’ed’s sore, though. Have a nobbler, Cooronga? It’ll make him lively like, you see,’ he concluded, addressing the curate, who evidently thought that Billy looked quite lively enough. At length they started, Billy driving, sulky and taciturn, answering questions as shortly as possible, and in the vilest of pigeon English. Nearly three parts of the journey was accomplished—for Billy drove like a very Jehu—when the curate began to feel hungry. So, as they came to a deep gully where the rain-water lay in pools amongst the rocks, he made his guide pull up, and prepared to comfort the inner man. Taking no notice of his companion, he sat down by the edge of the water, and began with immense gusto to demolish a roast fowl and other materials for a very fair repast. [Illustration: Who hath woe? Who hath sorrow? Who hath contentions? (Page 186.)] At R—— the reverend gentleman had provided himself with two bottles of port, a wine which he had been told was a first-class specific in cases of bush-fever and dysentery. The bottles were by this gone; but out of the last one he had filled a large travelling flask, which now producing, along with a tumbler, he proceeded—first qualifying his liquor with a modicum of water—to wash down his lunch. Billy’s eyes sparkled. He at once recognised the smell and colour, but would have preferred rum. However, little of anything, solid or fluid, seemed likely to fall to his share, for the weather was hot, and our curate thirsty. Presently, addressing Cooronga, the Reverend Spicer, who had no idea of entering the scene of his ministrations, with such a figure as Billy for his charioteer, said,— ‘How many miles did you say it was from here to Dingo Creek?’ ‘Lebn,’ grunted Billy. ‘Is the road as plain all the way as it is here?’ ‘Ess,’ again grunted the tantalised Cooronga. ‘Very well, then,’ replied the curate, ‘you can walk on. I will follow with the buggy when it gets a little cooler.’ But this was out of Billy’s programme altogether. Pointing to the capacious flask, to which the thirsty divine was paying repeated attention, he said abruptly,— ‘You gib it Cooronga. Him dry too!’ ‘That is medicine, my friend,’ was the reply, ‘and it would do you no good. If, as you seem to imply, you are thirsty, there lies water in abundance.’