A LUNATIC'S CHEQUES 



nearly drowned once in crossing a river. They wired 

 that they had lost all their belongings, and begged me 

 to send a fiver. For once in my life I was not a fool, and 

 tore up the telegram. A week after they came into 

 my office — I was by this time living in Brisbane— each 

 with a brand-new suit of reach-me-downs on, and tried 

 to get me interested in some new business Rice had 

 invented. I was not having any. I may tell you, 

 however, and this is rather curious, that the thought 

 reader had developed a most extraordinary talent for 

 finding winners. He did not try to come it on me that 

 he did this by mysterious influences, or that he had 

 second sight, but there was something uncanny in the 

 persistent way he did spot them, as one or two of the 

 local bookmakers knew : he never had to pay them. 

 My brother believed in him no end, and told me I was 

 wrong not to go on with him as he was " so wonderful 

 in getting out of a town." I knew that. My brother 

 played the piano pretty well, and sang too, and thus 

 the show could be varied. By the way, this same 

 brother once sang at a lunatic asylum at Gladesville 

 in New South Wales, and one of the inmates wrote 

 him out a cheque for a million after the show, express- 

 ing his pleasure ! The giver was a poor chap named 

 Harry Roberts, a good fellow who used to be about 

 Sydney ; he was a brother of ex-Mayor Roberts 

 there. At one time Harry had a small moneylending 

 business and used to advertise that he had '* £10,000 

 to lend." Racing did him in, and he found his way to 

 Gladesville. 



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