Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate.  I have no brains in that direction,—­so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock.

There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—­whatever that is—­voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer.

The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar”, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes.  He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be.  The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking.  The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales.  The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—­his sole remaining prop—­had run him entirely ashore.

He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent.  The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them.  Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs.

I had nothing to say.  Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.

“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last.

“Don’t worry about me.  There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features.  Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur.  He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.

“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief.  The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you.  That is the worst of all.  If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper.  I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.”