“Suppose he’s like us in most iv his ways?” continued Bill.  “Does he smoke, ’r chew, ’r drink?”

“Its considered by the faculty and all the scientific gents that proof of his being a near relation to the human race is found in the fact that he has a weakness for intoxicating liquors,” said the Professor, sadly.  “We’ve tried to reform him, but he refuses to become teetotal, showing how much a man he is.”

Bill and Ben and Mike and Fred applauded these sentiments.  Then they returned to the Emu bar and had another drink.

“Four thousan’ bloomin’ quid fer a blanky monkey!” said Bill, and he looked dreamily at his companions.  “Four thousand quid!” he added.  “It’s a sin.”

“Now, supposin’ that monkey was to get away!  There’d be four thousan’ o’ th’ best tearin’ round in th’ bush fer anyone t’ drop on.”

“He couldn’t,” said Mike, “outer that iron cage.”

“He could,” said Bill, “if he was helped.”  Ben, Mike and Fred woke up.  They looked hard at Bill.  Bill had a grave, still face.  He winked his left eye suddenly.

“If he did escape there’d be a reward.  I reckon,” said Ben.

“Precisely,” said Bill; “there’d be a reward.  Now, if that Missin’ Link could escape—­if helped—­and if there was a reward offered fer his capture, what’s t’ prevent us earnin’ it?”

The shearers looked at each other gravely.  Then they all winked.

“The spoutin’ bloke sez he likes his fill iv tangle,” said Bill, “well he’ll get it t-night.  I’m goin t’ stand a spree fer me poor relation.”

That night at about ten o’clock, when Professor Thunder was concentrating the attention of his patrons on the fascinating boniness of Matty Cann, Nickie, who was taking his ease on the straw, became aware of a slight disturbance at his elbow, between the back of his cage and the tent wall.  Blinking his eyes he discovered the shape of a man in the darkness.  The man held a pannikin in one hand, and was offering it through the bars.

“Here, old boy.  Here old fellow,” murmured the intruder, in a tone one adopts in propitiating strange dogs.

He shook the pannikin, and the Missing Link detected the familiar flavour of rum, good red-rum, bush rum.  Nickie sniffed again, and backed away, growling a low, guttural growl.  The Missing Link had a great tenderness for rum, the smell of it excited profound longings, but he wanted time to deliberate.  What was the game?  “These fellows have heard Thunder describing Mahdi’s fondness for liquor,” thought Nickie.  “They want to make him drunk, and see him play up.  It’s a lark.  Shall I encourage them?  I can do it safely to a moderate extent.  It’s like flying in the face of Providence missing drinks that are thrown at you.  I’ll encourage them to the extent of one drink, anyhow.  Here’s luck.”

The Missing Link seized that pannikin of rum, the Missing Link took a good, long pull, and in less than half a minute was curled up on the straw, dead to the world, a thoroughly hocussed man-monkey.