around to see if the dray was all right. I said, “How did you like the singing?” “First rate,” said he. “You have not a church here, I suppose?” “Church!” said he, “I haven’t been in a church for twenty years.” “But you say your prayers, don’t you?” “Me pray!” said he, “I never prayed in my life.” “Oh, yes,” said I, “I heard you pray this morning, and I was so struck with the words that I wrote them down.” I took out my pocket-book—for our slow coaching gave me too much time to write memos, and, with other things, I had noted some of the oaths and imprecations of the driver. I began and read on a little, when he said, “Do you mean to say that I used those words?” I said, “Indeed, you did. I took down the very words as they fell from your lips.” “Well, then, stop—stop!” said he; “I am ashamed to hear you say them. I am ashamed of myself.” Next morning we started, and there was less cursing, but now and then a sad imprecation escaped his lips. I had almost to bite mine as the poor fellow declared that the (almost forgetting himself) bullocks would not pull without a little cursing now and then. The roads remained the same, but the cursing propensities perhaps improved. We got to the end of our journey, and I have never seen our driver since. On reaching Kyneton I called at a respectable-looking store, and to my surprise found that I was served by my late hospital assistant on board the good ship Garland. He was getting good wages, and was quite pleased with his new employment. He said that after leaving the ship he spent the last shilling he had for a nobbler, and was almost too weary to walk from “Liardet’s” to Melbourne, where he found a man in a bar of a publichouse offering a £5-note to anyone who could paint his name on a boat he had just purchased. My friend engaged to do it if his employer furnished the materials. This he promised to do, and the bargain was soon struck. The painter got a bed “on tick” and slept soundly in the prospect of getting something to do. He was accommodated with sleeping room on the top of the kitchen table, and was awakened early next morning by the boatman with a paint pot in hand and all etceteras for commencing his job.
After my late assistant had given me this account of himself, he accompanied me a short distance to where there was a disturbance taking place in the street, and we stopped to see what was the matter, for there seemed to be a general fight in front of a publichouse. At this juncture a gentleman rushed from the hotel, bawling at the top of his voice, “What's the matter? What's the matter?” “Who are you?” said a rollicking Irishman. “I’m the Chief Magistrate,” said the gentleman. “Take that, then,” giving the dignitary such a blow in the face as made him reel across the street. I presume he thought, under the circumstances, “discretion was the better part of valour,” and
