a little finger. He seemed undecided what track to take.
'Cab, sir!'
The swagman turned slowly and regarded cabby with a quiet grin.
'Now, do I look as if I want a cab?'
'Well, why not? No harm, anyway―I thought you might want a cab.'
Swaggy scratched his head, reflectively.
'Well,' he said, 'you're the first man that has thought so these ten years. What do I want with a cab?'
'To go where you're going, of course.'
'Do I look knocked up?'
'I didn't say you did.'
'And I didn't say you said I did.…Now I've been on the track this five years. I've tramped two thousan' miles since last Chris'mas, and I don't see why I can't tramp the last mile. Do you think my old dog wants a cab?'
The dog shivered and whimpered; he seemed to want to get away from the crowd.
'But then, you see, you ain't going to carry that swag through the streets, are you?' asked the cabman.
'Why not? Who'll stop me? There ain't no law agin it, I b'lieve?'
'But then, you see, it don't look well, you know.'
'Ah! I thought we'd get to it at last.'
The traveller up-ended his bluey against his knee, gave it an affectionate pat, and then straightened himself up and looked fixedly at the cabman.
