“And what good will it do you,” drawled Gordon, “supposing you do find him? Where do you come in?”
“Oh, it doesn’t do me much good, except that if there is such a Johnny, and he dies without making a will, then the money would all come to my people. But if there isn’t, it all goes to another branch of the family.”
Gordon thought the matter over for a while. “What you want,” he said, “is to find this man, and to find him dead. If we come across him away in the back country, we’ll soon arrange his death for you, if you make it worth while. Nasty gun accident, or something like that, you know.”
“I wouldn’t like anyone to shoot him,” said the Englishman.
“Well, you come with me, and we’ll find him,” said Gordon.
By this time dinner was over. The waiters began to turn out the lights on the vacant tables; and, as the party rose it was arranged _nem. con_., and with much enthusiasm, that Carew should accompany Gordon on his trip to No Man’s Land, and that Gordon should, by all means in his power, aid and abet Carew in his search for Considine.
Then, all talking together, and somewhat loudly, they strutted into the smoking-room.
The passing of the evening afterwards is the only true test of a dinner’s success. Many a good dinner, enlivened with wine and made brilliant with repartee, has died out in gloom. The guests have all said their best things during the meal, and nothing is left but to smoke moodily and look at the clock. Our heroes were not of that mettle. They meant to have some sort of fun, and the various amusements of Sydney were canvassed. It was unanimously voted too hot for the theatres, ditto for billiards. There were no supporters for a proposal to stop in the smoking-room and drink, and gambling in the card-rooms had no attractions on such a night. At last Gordon hit off a scent. “What do you say,” he drawled, “if we go and have a look at a dancing saloon—one of these larrikin dancing saloons?”
“I’d like it awfully,” said one Englishman.
“Most interesting” said the other. “I’ve heard such a lot about the Australian larrikin. What they call a basher in England, isn’t it? eh, what? Sort of rough that lays for you with a pal and robs you, eh?”
The Bo’sun rang for cigars and liqueurs, and then answered the question. “Pretty much the same as a basher,” he said, “but with a lot more science and dog-cunning about him. They go in gangs, and if you hit one of the gang, all the rest will ‘deal with you,’ as they call it. If they have to wait a year to get you, they’ll wait, and get you alone some night or other and set on to you. They jump on a man if they get him down, too. Oh, they’re regular beauties.”