"Meat?" "No." "Well, we could have done with meat, but it can't be helped. I'm lucky enough to get anything. It's my luck all over. I'm the luckiest man in the Colony, let me tell you. But we could have done with chops. Gad, but I'd have some yet, if I saw a sheep! They're all wethers in this paddock, but they don't draw down towards the gate much." He turned his head, and knitted his brows, but it was difficult to distinguish things beyond the immediate circle of firelit sand, and he saw no sheep. To do the man justice, he would not have touched one if he had; he had said what he did not mean; but something in his way of saying it made the old man stare at him hard. [Illustration: "HE HAD TURNED HIS BACK."] "Then you're one of the gentlemen from Dandong Station, are you, sir?" "I am," said Deverell. "My horse is fresh off the grass, and a bit green. He's knocked up, but he'll be all right in the morning; the crab-holes are full of water, and there's plenty of feed about. Indeed it's the best season we've had for years--my luck again, you see!" The tramp did not seem to hear all he said. He had turned his back, and was kneeling over the fire, deeply engrossed, with the water-bag and the quart-pot--which he was filling. It was with much apparent preoccupation that he asked:-- "Is Mr. Deverell, the boss, there now?" "He is." Deverell spoke drily, and thought a minute. After all, there was no object in talking about himself in the third person to a man who would come applying to him for work the next day. Realising this, he added, with a touch of dignity, "I'm he." The tramp's arm jerked, a small fountain played out of the bottle neck of the water-bag and fell with a hiss upon the fire. The tramp still knelt with his back to Deverell. The blood had left his face, his eyes were raised to the pale, bright stars, his lips moved. By a great effort he knelt as he had been kneeling before Deverell spoke; until Deverell spoke again. "You were on your way to see me, eh?" "I was on my way to Dandong." "Wanting work? Well, you shall have it," said Deverell, with decision. "I don't want hands, but I'll take _you_ on; you've saved my life, my good fellow, or you're going to, in a brace of shakes. How goes the damper?" "Well," said the old man, answering Deverell's last question shortly, but ignoring his first altogether. "Shall I sweeten the tea or not?" "Sweeten it." The old man got ready a handful of tea and another of sugar to throw into the quart-pot the moment the water boiled. He had not yet turned round. Still kneeling, with the soles of his boots under Deverell's nose, he moved the damper from time to time, and made the tea. His hands shook.