He had taken them from the front of his shirt.
'Don't be frightened to stretch 'em a little, old man, I've got two mates to feed.'
The cook took the bags mechanically and filled them well before he knew what he was doing. Mitchell talked all the time.
'Thank you,' said he―'got a bit of baking-powder?'
'Ye―yes, here you are.'
'Thank you. Find it dull here, don't you?'
'Well, yes, pretty dull. There's a bit of cooked beef and some bread and cake there, if you want it!'
'Thanks,' said Mitchell, sweeping the broken victuals into an old pillow-slip which he carried on his person for such an emergency. 'I 'spose you find it dull round here.'
'Yes, pretty dull.'
'No one to talk to much?'
'No, not many.'
'Tongue gets rusty?'
'Ye-es, sometimes.'
'Well, so long, and thank yer.'
'So long,' said the cook (he nearly added 'thank yer').
'Well, good day; I'll see you again.'
'Good day.'
Mitchell shouldered his spoil and left.
The cook scratched his head; he had a chat with the overseer afterwards, and they agreed that the traveller was a bit gone.
But Mitchell's head wasn't gone―not much: he was a Sydney jackeroo who had been round a bit―that was all.
