After we had climbed some distance up a gully aunt Helen called out that she and Harold would rest while I did the honours of the fern grots to my companion.

We went on and on, soon getting out of sight of the others.

“What do you say to my carving our names on a gum-tree, the bark is so nice and soft?” said the bank clerk; and I seconded the proposal.

“I will make it allegorical,” he remarked, setting to work.

He was very deft with his penknife, and in a few minutes had carved S. P. M. and A. S. G., encircling the initials by a ring and two hearts interlaced.

“That’ll do nicely,” he remarked, and turning round, “Why, you’ll get a sunstroke; do take my hat.”

I demurred, he pressed the matter, and I agreed on condition he allowed me to tie his handkerchief over his head.  I was wearing his hat and tying the ends of a big silk handkerchief beneath his chin when the cracking of a twig caused me to look up and see Harold Beecham with an expression on his face that startled me.

“Your aunt sent me on with your hood,” he said jerkily.

“You can wear it—­I’ve been promoted,” I said flippantly, raising my head-gear to him and bowing.  He did not laugh as he usually did at my tricks, but frowned darkly instead.

“We’ve been carving our names—­at least, I have,” remarked Goodchum.

Harold tossed my sun-bonnet on the ground, and said shortly, “Come on, Goodchum, we must be going.”

“Oh, don’t go, Mr Beecham.  I thought you came on purpose for my birthday tea.  Auntie has made me a tremendous cake.  You must stay.  We never dreamt of you doing anything else.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” he replied, striding on at such a pace that we had difficulty in keeping near him.  As we resumed our own head-wear, Good churn whispered, “A bulldog ant must have stung the boss.  Let’s ask him.”

On reaching the house we found other company had arrived in the persons of young Mr Goodjay from Cummabella, his sister, her governess, and a couple of jackeroos.  They were seated on the veranda, and uncle Jay-Jay, attired in his shirt-sleeves, was appearing through the dining-room door with half a dozen bottles of home-made ginger ale in his arms.  Dumping them down on the floor, he produced a couple of tots from his shirt-pockets, saying, “Who votes for a draw of beer?  Everyone must feel inclined for a swig.  Harry, you want some; you don’t look as though the heat was good for your temper.  Hullo, Archie!  Got up this far.  Take a draw out of one of these bottles.  If there had been a dozen pubs on the road, I’d have drunk every one of em dry today.  I never felt such a daddy of a thirst on me before.”

“Good gracious, Julius!” exclaimed grannie, as he offered the governess a pot full of beer, “Miss Craddock can’t drink out of that pint.”

“Those who don’t approve of my pints, let ’em bring their own,” said that mischievous uncle Jay-Jay, who was a great hand at acting the clown when he felt that way inclined.