"My Word, Me Plenty Cross Fellow," He Gasped At Intervals And Finally Led The Way To The Vegetable Garden, Where He Cut An Enormous Cabbage And Carried It To The Store To Weigh It.

The scale turned at twelve pounds, and, sure of our ground now, we compared its mighty heart to the

Stout heart of Cheon - a compliment fully appreciated by his Chinese mind; then, having disparaged the tattered results to his satisfaction, we went to the house and wrote a letter of thanks to our neighbour, giving him so vivid a word-picture of the reception of his cabbages that he felt inspired to play a practical joke on Cheon later on. One thing is very certain - everyone enjoyed those cabbages including even Cheon and the goats.

Of course we had cabbage for dinner that day, and the day following, and the next day again, and were just fearing that cabbage was becoming a confirmed habit when Dan coming in with reports we all went bush again, and the spell was broken. "A pity the man from Beyanst wasn't about," Dan said when he heard of the daily menu.

It was late in September when Dan came in, and four weeks slipped away with the concerns of cattle and cattle-buyers and cattle-duffers, and as we moved hither and thither the water-melons leafed and blossomed and fruited to Billy's delight, and Cheon's undisguised amazement and the line party, creeping on, crept first into our borders and then into camp at the Warlochs, and Happy Dick's visits, dog-fights, and cribbage became part of the station routine.

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