But there were still other services for the mate to render and as the
bush-folk stood aside, none daring to trespass here, a rough wooden
railing rose about the grave. Then the man packed his comrade's swag for
the last time, and that done, came to the Maluka, as we stood under the
house verandah, and held out two sovereigns in his open palm. The man
was yet a stranger to the ways of the Never-Never.
"I'll have to ask for tick for meself for awhile," he said "But if that
won't pay for all me mate's had there's another where they came from. He
was always independent and would never take charity."
The hard lines about his mouth were very marked just then, and the
outstretched hand seemed fiercely defiant but the Maluka reading in it
only a man's proud care for a comrade's honour, put it gently aside,
saying: "We give no charity here; only hospitality to our guests. Surely
no man would refuse that."
They speak of a woman's delicate tact. But daily the bushman put the
woman to shame, while she stood dumb or stammering. The Maluka had
touched the one chord in the man's heart that was not strained to
breaking point, and instantly the fingers closed over the sovereigns, and
the defiant hand fell to his side, as with a husky "Not from your sort,
boss," he turned sharply on his heel; and as he walked away a hand was
brushed hastily across the weary eyes.
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