innate charm and gallantry which is always the particular prerogative of the wanderer. No questions are asked in this land. A man's soul is never probed, nor is he expected to reveal his birth, or the cause of his being there. It is the place to hide a broken heart or mend an erring past. But it is only a place for men. And this quartette was full of the war. They were itching to fight. This advertisement, therefore, cheered their hearts and clinched their hopes. 

 "Well, boys," said Bill, "this is our call. We'd better join." 

 "Hear, hear!" remarked the others. That was all. They immediately packed their swag for the road. That afternoon they received their pay from the squatter. While Buster, Brown, and Doolan said good-bye to the master and mistress on the veranda, Claud was kissing Sybil, the charming daughter of the house, a tender farewell. For Sybil Graham loved the "English Johnny," as her friends called Claud. Her love was returned—not in the way he had treated some women in England, but with that reverence which is born out of true affection. This Englishman, despite his faults, had a veneration for the straightforward type which can be found in the Australian squatter's home. 

 "Come on, Claud—here's the coach," yelled Bill from the veranda. They embraced once more, then stepped out of doors. 

 "Good-bye, boys—God bless you!" said old Graham with a husky throat. 

 "Good-bye—Good-bye!" said his wife, with tears in her eyes, while Sybil had only strength to wave her arm to the fast disappearing figure of Claud as he drove with his friends to the railway station twenty miles beyond. 

 "You're queer lookin', Claud," said Sandy, as they went down the road. 

 "Shut up!" interjected Bill, who, like all Bushmen, had a true respect for the sentiment inspired by the dangers of war. However, the sadness of parting was soon forgotten. They were, also, cheered to see, coming over the plains, little groups of cookies, shearers and others, bent on their own errand. 

 "Sakes alive! where's all you mad fellows goin'?" inquired the wizened old stationmaster. 

 "Berlin," said Bill. 

 "Ach sure, stationmaster, we're goin' to kiss the little darlints in the Sultan's harem." 

 "Well, hurry up, boys; the train's 

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