“Can’t see why they don’t name a chap with something that’s easily wrote,” Dan said, as we rode forward, with our united team of horses and boys swinging along behind us, and M and T and O were quoted as examples.  “Reading’s always had me dodged,” he explained.  “Left school before I had time to get it down and wrestle with it.”

“There’s nothing like reading and writing,” the Quiet Stockman broke in, with an earnestness that was almost startling; and as he sat that evening in the firelight poring over the “Cardinal’s Snuff-box,” I watched him with a new interest.

Jack’s reading was very puzzling.  He always had the same book—­that “Cardinal’s Snuff-box”—­and pored over it with a strange persistence, that could not have been inspired by the book.  There was no expression on his face of lively interest or pleasure, just an intent, dogged persistence; the strong, firm chin set as though he were colt-breaking.  Gradually, as I watched him that night, the truth dawned on me:  the man was trying to teach himself to read.  The “Cardinal’s Snuff-box”! and the only clue to the mystery, a fair knowledge of the alphabet learned away in a childish past.  In truth, it takes a deal to “beat the Scots,” or, what is even better, to make them feel that they are beaten.

As I watched, full of admiration, for the proud, strong character of the man, he looked up suddenly, and, in a flash, knew that I knew.  Flushing hotly, he rose, and “thought he would turn in “; and Dan, who had been discussing education most of the evening, decided to “bottle off a bit of sleep too for next day’s use,” and opened up his swag.

“There’s one thing about not being too good at the reading trick,” he said, surveying his permanent property:  “a chap doesn’t need to carry books round with him to put in the spare time.”

“Exactly,” the Maluka laughed.  He was Iying on his back, with an open book face downwards on his chest, looking up at the stars.  He always had a book with him, but, book-lover as he was, it rarely got farther than his chest when we were in camp.  Life out-bush is more absorbing than books.

“Of course reading’s handy enough for them as don’t lay much stock on education,” Dan owned, stringing his net between his mosquito-pegs, then, struck with a new idea, he “wondered why the missus never carries books round.  Any one ’ud think she wasn’t much at the reading trick herself,” he said.  “Never see you at it, missus, when I’m round.”

“Lay too much stock on education,” I answered, and, chuckling, Dan retired into his net, little guessing that when he was “round,” his own self, his quaint outlook on life, and the underlying truth of his inexhaustible, whimsical philosophy, were infinitely more interesting than the best book ever written.

But the Quiet Stockman seemed perplexed at the answer.  “I thought reading ’ud learn you most things,” he said, hesitating beside his own net; and before we could speak, the corner of Dan’s net was lifted and his head reappeared.  “I’ve learned a deal of things in my time,” he chuckled, “but reading never taught me none of ’em.”  Then his head once more disappeared, and we tried to explain matters to the Quiet Stockman.  The time was not yet ready for the offer of a helping hand.