ends; at other times he runs the string down inside the folds and ties it that way, or both ways, or all the ways, so as to be sure it won't come undone―which it doesn't as a rule. If he can't find a piece of string long enough, he ties two bits together, and submits the result to a rather severe test; and if the string is too thin, or he has to use thread, he doubles it. Then he worries round to find out who has got the ink, or whether anyone has seen anything of the pen; and when he gets them, he writes the address with painful exactitude on the margin of the paper, sometimes in two or three places. He has to think a moment before he writes; and perhaps he'll scratch the back of his head afterwards with an inky finger, and regard the address with a sort of mild, passive surprise. His old mate Jim was always plain Jim to him, and nothing else; but, in order to reach Jim, this paper has to be addressed to―
| Mr. James Mitchell, | |
| c/o J. W. Dowell, Esq., | |
| Munnigrubb Station. |
and so on. 'Mitchell' seems strange―Bill couldn't think of it for the moment―and so does 'James.'
And, a week or so later, over on Coolgardie, or away up in Northern Queensland, or bush-felling down in Maoriland, Jim takes a stroll up to the post office after tea on mail night. He doesn't expect any letters, but there might be a paper from Bill. Bill generally sends him a newspaper. They seldom write to each other, these old mates.
'There were points, of course, upon which Bill and Jim couldn't agree―subjects upon which they argued
