“That’s because you don’t go the right way to work. If I had the land, I’d make it pay soon enough.” “You are a practical farmer, and I am not,” said Joyce. “Even if I desired to gain experience, it is precious little I could gain with Wilson--and I long for home again.” “That’s all very well--but if you fail with your writing? I have heard it is a precarious trade.” “I’m used to failure,” replied Joyce. “That’s what I came into the world for. You can’t say that I am a conspicuous success as a colonist.” “Sell out from Wilson, and come here,” said the farmer, “on the metayer system. I will put you up to a few things.” Joyce looked round him; they were sitting on the verandah of the nicely-built house. Everything had the trim appearance of scientific English farming--the outbuildings solid and clean, the fields high with grain, the dams in perfect repair, the yard spick and span. A flower garden lay beneath him. A well-trimmed vine covered the lattice-work of the verandah. All was a striking contrast to his own ramshackle, neglected surroundings. A month ago he would have leaped at the offer. But now he declined it. He distrusted himself, his power of content. If he once put his hand to the plough, he would not be able to draw back. And he held ploughs in cordial detestation. He rode back, having thanked his friend and obtained his consent to act as arbiter, if need were, between Wilson and himself. A day or two later, he took advantage of a sober and quasi-friendly moment, to announce his intention to Wilson, who listened to him stolidly. “I hope my sudden withdrawal won’t cause you inconvenience,” said he, politely. “If it does--” “My good friend,” replied Wilson, “I am only too damn glad to get rid of you.” “Then if you ’ll give me a lump sum down for my share, and lend me a team, I ’ll leave the infernal place this afternoon,” said Joyce, nettled. Wilson went into the house and came out with a roll of greasy notes. “There,” he said, “will that satisfy you? I ’ve been wanting to part company for a long time, and I ’ve kept ’em by me.” Joyce counted the notes, and to his surprise found the sum exceeded that which he himself calculated to be his due. After half an hour’s joint examination of their roughly-kept accounts, he found that Wilson was right. “You are an honest man,” he said with a smile. “It is a pity you have so many other failings.” “I can keep myself out of quod, at any rate,” replied Wilson, “which is more than some people can say.” The retort was like a blow in the face. Joyce staggered under it. “Another time don’t be so devilish smart with your tongue,” said Wilson. “I ain’t the one to cast a man’s misfortunes in his teeth, but, all the same, it’s best for a man like you to lie low.” “What the devil are you talking of?” said Joyce, fiercely. “What’s the good of bluff? You’ve given yourself away heaps of times.” “I insist upon knowing what you mean,” said Joyce.