Returning to the house for supper, Nickie and the ingenuous Millie loitered by the open kitchen window, and Nickie saw and heard things of no little interest to him professionally.  Farmer Dickson and three neighbours were comparing bottles of Dr. Crip’s Celebrated Healing Mixture.

“Anyhow,” said one, “I’ll swear his nibs sold me this ez a cure fer pip in chickens.”

“And he told me this was a dead sure cure fer corns ‘n’ ingrowin’ toe-nail,” ejaculated another.

“I bought this bottle fer me diabetes,” explained Coleman.  “He said it ud root out diabetes in nine hours.”

Farmer Dickson shook his bottle, and looked at it very dubiously.  “It seems t’ me it’s all the same mixture,” he said.  “It looks like it, tastes like, ‘n’ it smells like.  Now I come t’ think iv it, I ain’t too sure ‘bout these blanky rheumatics o’ mine.”  He reached down his back and rubbed himself anxiously.

“I thought my diabetes was a-movin’, but they’re all back at me agin,” said Coleman.

“The chicken died what I gave the mixture to,” explained Anderson.

Dickson scowled and felt himself, for as far as he could reach up and down his spine.  “I’m pretty certain the rheumatics ‘re comin’ back,” he murmured.  “Wow!” he gasped, as a bad twinge took him.  “It is back!”

“Tell yeh what,” Anderson remarked plaintively, “we’ve been done.”

“He’s a blanky fraud!”

“A robber!”

“Let’s look him up, ‘n’ ’ave a word or two.”

The farmers seized their sticks.  They moved towards the door, but already Nickie had begged to be excused, and passed into the night.  The stillness and mystery of the bush enveloped him.

Next day the neighbours compared notes and bottles, and found that the medicine for influenza, consumption, liver disease, indigestion and cold feet, the embrocation for rheumatism, sprains, corns, bruises and headaches, the cure for pigs, the wash for silvering spoons, and the hair-restorer were all the same mixture.  Then a great popular demand for Dr. Crips set in at Tarra, but by this time Nickie the Kid was back in town, amazing his friends with his lavish hospitality in threepenny bars.

CHAPTER II.

A family matter.

Even Nickie’s intimates of the wharves and the river banks knew nothing of his ancestors or relations.  Nickie was naturally reticent about his own business; On the point of family connections he was dumb.  It was assumed that he had had a father and mother at some stage of his career, but the evolution of Nickie the Kid from a schoolboy, with shining morning face, to a homeless rapscallion, living on his impudence, was never dwelt upon by our hero, which is a great pity, as the process of degeneration must have been highly interesting.

Certainly, Nickie did not regret his respectable past, if he were ever respectable, and it is equally certain that he had no craving for high things in the way of tall hats and two-storey houses.  He appreciated the value of money, since it enabled him to gratify his tastes, but it must be admitted his tastes were scandalous in the main.