" "All right, old man, but I'm thinking I'll add a
bandanna handkerchief and a blackthorn. They'll come in handy to carry
the fossils over your shoulder. There now, I've forgot the printers'
paper and the strap flower press for my specimens. True, there's Monday
for that; but I'm afraid I'll have to shave the boards of the flower
press down, or it'll be a sorry burden for a poor, tired botanist. Good
night to you, my bouchal boy, and it's a pack you might throw into a
corner of your sack." "Cards!" replied Wilkinson; "no sir, but my
pocket chess box will be at your service." "Chess be hanged," said the
lawyer; "but, see here, are they checkers when you turn them upside
down? If they are, it's I'm your man."
On Tuesday morning, about eight o'clock, there appeared at the Brock
Street Station of the Northern Railway, two well-dressed men with shiny
knapsacks on their shoulders. They had no blackthorns, for Wilkinson had
said it would be much more romantic to cut their own sticks in the bush,
to which Coristine had replied that, if the bush was as full of
mosquitos as one he had known, he would cut his stick fast enough.
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