378 TROPIC DAYS 



Such was the potency of the mechanical repetition 

 of the all-healing words that Tim presently found him- 

 self echoing them, and brought himself up with a 

 jerk. 



"It's all haythen rubbish and cussing. The pore 

 fule's daft wid the hate and the dust and the welt I 

 give him. Shure it's the way I have to be sorry for 

 the crature." 



Like the refrain of an infectious song, the musical 

 phrase would not be banished from Tim's mind and 

 lips, and so the tough, rough Irishman and the gentle 

 exile from the Flowery Land went on their way, scarce 

 conscious of the grimy miles, both dreamingly hailing 

 the jewel in the lotus. 



Three days later the travel-stained pair arrived at 

 Cooktown, where Hu Dra henceforth to be known 

 officially and authoritatively, and in spite of all protest, 

 as Tsing Hi was duly consigned to the custody of 

 the lock-up keeper, to await escort to the town where 

 his sentence was to be served. 



"He's that quare in his hid," Tim informed Jock Egan, 

 who now had charge. "He's bin Tsing Hi -in and Hu 

 Rah-in' and Paddy Om-in' (d'ye know the maan, Jock ?) 

 all along the thrack till it's fair fascinated I am. And 

 barrin' him bein' the very thafe o* the wurrld, it's a 

 poor honest body he be. Shure it's little enough 

 truble he give me, and me all alone be meself. An ! 

 the swag of him ! Glory be to God, I dunno but it's 

 wort five hundred pounds if it's wort a sint ! Yirra ! 

 but it's weery I am. It's little slape I've had. Shure 

 the whole beesely thrack be lousy wid shnaakes; and 

 show me the man as cud slape shweet wid maybe four 

 of the varmint all ascroodging and squaaking nath 

 his blanket !" 



"It's quare in yer head yerself, ye 're !" exclaimed 



