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290 friend who forgets the insulting language he used to you when he was under the influence; and by the boy who forgets his catechism. The meal-signal is the real Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame; the Greek invocation which calls fools into a circle as surely as wise men; for neither folly nor wisdom is proof against its spell.

Just then, two swagmen on foot came into the yard, and approached Moriarty and me. I fixed my belltopper, adjusted my specs, and assumed my stately pipe, whilst my soul went forth in psalms of thanksgiving. Here was the true key to the Wilcannia shower; here was the under-side of my imagined precaution against ophthalmia; here was the hidden purpose of that repetitional picking and sorting of the hawker's stock which had left Jack the Shellback his Hobson's choice in coats; here was a Wesleyan converging of the whole vast order of the universe toward the happiest issue. For here was Tom Armstrong at last; and I stood prepared to force a temporary renewal—albeit for double the original amount—of the bill, drawn by me on the Royal Inevitable, and now about to be presented by the legitimate holder.

"Is the bose at hame?" asked the holder briskly, turning first to Moriarty and then to me. "Losh! it's no Tam M'Callum!"—he swung his swag to the ground, and extended his hand—"Mony 's the thocht A had o' ye, mun. Ma certie, A kent weel we wad forgather ir lang. An' hoo're ye farin' syne?"

"Excellent, i' faith—of the chameleon's dish," I replied, with winning politeness, and a hearty hand-grip, though I felt like a man in the act of parrying a rifle bullet. "I have a wretched memory for faces, yet yours seems familiar; and I 'm certain I've heard your voice before. Pardon me if I ask your name?"

"Tam Airmstrang," replied my creditor, in an altered tone.

"Now, where have we met before?" I pondered. "Armstrong? I know several of the name in Riverina, and several in Victoria. Wait a moment—Did we meet at the Caledonian Sports, in Echuca, two years ago, past? No! Well, perhaps—yes—didn't we have a drink together, at Ivanhoe, three or four months ago?"

"Od sink 't," muttered the honest fellow, in vexation; "A thocht ye was yin Tam M'Callum, frae Selkirksheer."

"I'm a Victorian myself, and my people are Irish," I remarked gently. "But my name's Collins," I continued, brightening up; "and Collins sounds something like M'Callum."

"Ye 'se no be the mon A thocht ye was," replied Tam decidedly—and the unconscious double-meaning of his words sank into my heart—"Bit hae ye onything tae dae wi' Rinnymede?"

"No; I 'm only a caller, like yourself. Moriarty, here, is the storekeeper."

"D' ye want ony han's?" continued Tam, addressing Moriarty.

"I think we do," replied the young fellow, moving toward the barracks. "The boss was saying there was a few burrs that would have to be looked after at once. Call again in the evening, and see him."

"Yon wad fit mysen like auld breeks," persisted Tam; "bit A'm