he fought for the bushrangers at Castle Sullivan and put a bullet through a troopers arm.
Suddenly something, an association, a reminiscence, a forgotten picture, made him want to weep himself; he was past that, however, and went back into the sulks instead. A new diversion being required, one was provided by the discovery of a young convict, a mere lad, writing a letter in a dark corner on the floor. On being detected, the lad first blushed, and then offered to read them what he had written; whereupon he opened his lips and a ribald stream poured forth, but meandered, slackened, faltered and was soon cut short.
“He’s making it up as he goes along,” cried several. “He never wrote that at all.”
“We’ll see what he did write,” said one who was at hand, cuffing the lad, and snatching the unfinished letter.
With a cry and an uncouth chime from his irons, the young convict attempted to retain his property. It tore in his hand, and a dozen more held him down while the possessor dragged his chains on to one of the long, rude tables, and stood up to read the letter in a silence broken only by the protests of the wretched writer.
“‘My ever dear mother and father,’” the brute brawled out, “‘I received your kind and welcome letter on the 31st of January, and happy was I to read the delightful letter which I received from you that day.’ Ahem! can’t he pitch it in? ‘O, how ’appy I am to ’ear that you are so comfortable and well. O, my dear mother and father, I ’ope my brothers and sisters will mind what you say to them better than ever I done, for you see what it is to be ’eadstrong.’ ’Eadstrong, eh? Stop a bit; now we’re coming to it! ‘O, my dears, I ’ope you will make yourselves as comfortable as you can, for
