The yarn reminded the Sydney man of a dog he had and he started some dog lies.
'This dog of mine,' he said, 'knowed the way into the best public-houses. If I came to a strange town and wanted a good drink I'd only have to say: "Jack, I'm dry," and he'd lead me all right. He always knew the side entrances and private doors after hours, and I'
But the yarn did not go very well―it fell flat in fact. Then the commercial traveller was taken bad with an anecdote.
'That's nothing,' he said, 'I had a black bag once that knew the way into publichouses.'
'A what?'
'Yes. A black bag. A long black bag like that one I've got there in my bunk. I was staying at a boarding-house in Sydney, and one of us used to go out every night for a couple of bottles of beer and we carried the bottles in the bag; and when we got opposite the pub the front end of the bag would begin to swing round towards the door. It was wonderful. It was just as if there was a lump of steel in the end of the bag and a magnet in the bar. We tried it with ever so many people but it always acted the same. We couldn't use that bag for any other purpose, for if we carried it along the street it would make our wrists ache trying to go into pubs. It twisted my wrist one time and it ain't got right since―I always feel the pain in dull weather. Well, one night we got yarning and didn't notice how the time was going, and forgot to go for the beer till it was nearly too late. We looked for the bag and couldn't find it―we generally
