with the querulousness of a sick child. "I don't deny I done three months; but so help"
"Whisht! ye daft"
"So help me God, I never deserved it. I knowed no more about it nor the babe unborn, till I got it off o' the bobby that nabbed me."
"But how could you (adj.) well get three months for a thing you (adj.) well knew nothing about?" asked the catechumen rouseabout. (Henceforth, the reader will have to supply from his own imagination the clumsy and misplaced expletive which preceded each verb used by this young fellow.)
"Ye moight foine it dang aisy yeerself, Dave," observed a middle-aged diner significantly.
"I been a misfortunate man, there's no denyin'," continued the swagman; "but I never done a injury to nobody in my life, so fur as I'm aware about."
"What did he get the three months for?" asked Dave, turning to Tam.
"Gin ye speer onythin' frae me," replied Carlyle's townie, after slowly surveying his questioner from head to foot, "A maun inform ye A ken naethin' bit gude o' Andraw; an' A hae warkit wi' him mair nir fowr minth. 'Deed, the puir body taks owre muckle thocht fir ithers, an' disna' spare himsel' ava. A ken naethin' aboot yon three minth; yon 's atween Andsaw an's Makker; an' A'll nae jidge onybody, sin' we maun a' be judgit by Ane wha jidgeth iprightly. Bit as lang's A hae a pickle siller, Andraw'll no want." And Tam returned to his seat.
"What would I want of burnin' a stack?" remonstrated Andrew, blinking defiantly round the table. "Tell you how it come. Hold on a minute"—he went to the bucket, and refilled his pannikin—"It was this way: I was jist startin' to thatch a new haystack for two ole bosses o' mine, on the Vic. side o' the Murray, when up comes a trooper.
"'What's your name?' says he.
"'Andrew Glover,' says I.
"'Well, Andrew Glover, you're my prisoner—charged with burnin' a stack,' says he. 'I must fetch you along,' says he. So he gives me the usual warnin', an' walks me off to the logs."
"And how did it go?" shouted Dave, who had shifted his pannikin and plate to Andrew's side.
"Well, the Court day it come roun'; an' when my case was called, the prosecutor he steps down off the bench, an' gives evidence; an' I foun' him sayin' somethin' about not wantin' to press the charge; an' there was a bit of a confab; an' then I foun' the Bench askin' me if I'd sooner be dealt with summary, or be kep' for the Sessions; an' I said summary by all means; so they give me three months."
"What was the prosecutor's name? "shouted Dave.
"Waterman."
"So called because he opens the carriage-doors," I remarked involuntarily.
"Do you know him, Collins?" persisted Dave.
