We shoved our way outside and soon reached the comparatively quieter hotel, where under the back verandah we sat down to chat. “See here, Hutton,” said West, as soon as we had been served with long drinks, “I want you to give our young friend a hand. He is going up with us in the _St Kilda_, taking a letter from the Defence Minister to McDonnell, whom he is going to join as a Ranger. Now we were both of us new chums once, and you can do him plenty of good turns, as I do not expect to go myself farther than Wanganui.” Hutton looked me over for a minute, and said: “I don’t want to be inquisitive, Mr Burke, but I think I know a good deal about you. I used to know London well years ago, and have still an old pal in the Guards who writes to me. I expect you are the Dick Burke who made himself rather notorious by fighting duels, blowing up your ancestors and joined the Papal Zouaves. Well, if such is the case I think you will do for a Ranger, provided you can stand the work and hardships. We are chiefly composed of individuals who have run awful muckers, the balance being men from the gold-diggin’s, together with the sea-drift of the Pacific slope and the South Seas. But why on earth should you plunge into the pit? Remember a man who once joins Les Enfants Perdus is lost for ever, not one man in a hundred ever returning to civilised society. Look here, Burke--we have no misters in the Rangers--I was once the same as you are now. Good old family, public school, crack regiment, best society in London, and all the rest. What am I now? A knock-about adventurer, stock-rider, prospector, digger, all those I’ve been and plenty more. I ran a mucker, never mind how, but do you think I never regret the past? My God!” and his face became suffused with blood and his eyes glared, “you see me and hundreds of others like me. You see us drink, hear us laugh and shout, and think what a jovial, high-spirited crowd we are. Jovial, forsooth, yes, with the joy of hell in our hearts and the high spirits born of rum in our laughter; and do you think there is no thought or longings for the old life and the sweet women whose companionship our folly has cut us off from for ever? Yes, by God, as the man dying of thirst in the desert longs for water, so we long for the past life we shall never live again.” “Yes, yes, old chap,” said West soothingly; “but remember the honours you have gained.”