“‘Ello, Nell!” said the digger to the eldest daughter.
“‘Ello, father!” she said, with a sort of gasp, but trying to smile.
“‘Ello, Jack, how are you getting on?”
“All right, father,” said the boy, brightening up, and seeming greatly relieved.
He looked down at the little girl with a smile that I can’t describe, but didn’t speak to her. She still stood with quivering chin and mouth and great brimming eyes upturned, full of such pity as I never saw before in a child-face—pity for him.
“You can get ashore now,” said Mitchell; “see, they’ve got the gangway out aft.”
Presently I saw Mitchell with the portmanteau in his hand, and the baby on his arm, steering them away to a quiet corner of the shed at the top of the wharf. The digger had the little girl in his arms, and both hers were round his neck, and her face hidden on his shoulder.
When Mitchell came back, he leant on the rail for a while by my side, as if it was a boundary fence out back, and there was no hurry to break up camp and make a start.
“What did you follow him below that time for, Mitchell?” I asked presently, for want of something better to say.
Mitchell looked at me out of the corners of his eyes.
“I wanted to score a drink!” he said. “I thought he wanted one and wouldn’t like to be a Jimmy Woodser.”
