“Gute alte Valkyrie!.. gute alte Valkyrie!” he murmured.

* * * * *

Safe so far.  At the outside of the dock-gate Hoppner waited my arrival.  He was interested in the kuemmel, and in the pistols, which were pawnable.

He had been more daring than I. He had tried to pick his captain’s pocket of a gold watch while the latter slept.  But every time he reached for it the captain stirred uneasily.  He would have snatched it anyhow, but just then his first mate stepped into the cabin ... “and I hid till the mate went out again.”

“And what then?”

“I picked up a lot of silverware the captain had for show occasions ... that I found, rummaging about.”

“And him there sleeping?”

“Why not?”

“I found four revolvers that belonged to the mates and captain.  I put them all in one bundle and chucked them into a rowboat over the ship’s side.  And now we must go back to your boat—­”

“To my boat?” I asked, amazed.

“Yes” (I had told him how nearly I had missed our ship-money).

“To your boat, and ransack the cabin till we locate that coin.”

“That’s too risky.”

“Hell, take a chance, can’t you?”

That’s what Hoppner was always saying as long as we travelled together:  “Hell, take a chance.”

But when I began telling him with convulsive laughter, of the revenge I had taken on the mate ... and also how I had thrown all the keys overboard, Hoppner, instead of joining in with my laughter, struck at me, not at all playfully, “What kind of damn jackass have I joined up with, anyhow,” he exclaimed.  “Now it won’t be any use going back, you’ve thrown the keys away and we’d make too great a racket, breaking open things....”

He insisted, however, on going back to his own boat, sliding down to the rowboat, and rowing away with the loot he had cast into it.  We had no sooner reached the prow of the Lord Summerville than we observed people bestirring themselves on board her more than was natural.

“Come on, now we’ll beat it.  They’re after me.”

Hoppner had also brought a blanket.  We went “humping bluey” as swagmen, as the tramp is called in Australia.

The existence of the swagman is the happiest vagrant’s life in the world.  He is usually regarded as a bona fide seeker for work, and food is readily given him for the asking.  Unlike the American hobo, he is given his food raw, and is expected to cook it himself.  So he carries what he calls a “tucker bag” to hold his provisions; also, almost more important—­his “billy can” or tea-pot....

Hoppner and I acquired the tea-habit as badly as the rest of the Australian swagmen.  Every mile or so the swagman seems to stop, build a fire, and brew his draught of tea, which he makes strong enough to take the place of the firiest swig of whiskey.  I’ve seen an old swagman boil his tea for an actual half-hour, till the resultant concoction was as thick and black as New Orleans molasses.  With such continual draughts of tea, only the crystalline air, and the healthy dryness of the climate keeps them from drugging themselves to death.