SHOOTING THE MOON
We lay in camp in the fringe of the mulga, and watched the big, red, smoky, rising moon out on the edge of the misty plain, and smoked and thought together sociably. Our nose-bags were nice and heavy, and we still had about a pound of nail-rod between us.
The moon reminded my mate, Jack Mitchell, of something―anything reminded him of something, in fact.
'Did you ever notice,' said Jack, in a lazy tone, just as if he didn't want to tell a yarn―'Did you ever notice that people always shoot the moon when there's no moon? Have you got the matches?'
He lit up; he was always lighting up when he was reminded of something.
'This reminds me―Have you got the knife? My pipe's stuffed up.'
He dug it out, loaded afresh, and lit up again.
'I remember once, at a pub I was staying at, I had to leave without saying good-bye to the landlord. I didn't know him very well at that time.
'My room was upstairs at the back, with the window opening onto the backyard. I always carried a bit
