Daily we hinted to Happy Dick that Peter’s welcome was wearing out, and daily Happy Dick assured us that he “couldn’t keep him away nohow.”  But then Happy Dick’s efforts to keep him away were peculiar, taking the form of monologues as Peter trotted beside him towards the homestead—­reiterations of: 

“We’re not the sort to say nuff, are we, Peter?  We’ll never say die, will we, Peter?  We’ll win if we don’t lose, won’t we, Peter?” Adding, after his arrival at the homestead, a subdued “S—­ss-s, go it, Peter!” whenever Brown appeared in the thoroughfare.

But the homestead’s hour of triumph was at hand, for as the afternoon wore on, Happy Dick found the very best told recital a poor substitute for the real thing, and thirsting for a further “Peter’s latest,” hissed:  “S—­s—­ss, go it, Peter!” once too often.  For, well, soon afterwards—­figuratively speaking—­Peter was carried off the field on a stretcher.

True, Brown had only one sound leg left to stand on, but by propping the other three carefully against it, he managed to cut a fairly triumphant figure.  But Brown’s victory was not to be all advantage to the homestead, for never again were we to hear “Peter’s latest.”

“Can’t beat the Elsey for a good dog-fight!  Can you, Peter?” the Fizzer chuckled, as Peter lay licking his wounds at Happy Dick’s feet; but the Quarters, feeling the pleasantry ill-timed, delicately led the conversation to cribbage, and at sun-up next morning Happy Dick “did a get” to his work, with bulging pockets, leaving the Fizzer packing up and declaring that “half a day at the Elsey gave a man a fresh start.”

But Dan also was packing up—­a “duplicate” brought in by the Fizzer having necessitated his presence in Darwin, and as he packed up he assured us he would be back in time for the Christmas celebrations, even if he had to swim for it but before he left he paid a farewell visit to the Christmas dinner.  “In case of accidents,” he explained, “mightn’t see it again.  Looks like another case of one apiece,” he added, surveying with interest the plumpness of six young pullets Cheon was cherishing under a coop.

“Must have pullet longa Clisymus,” Cheon had said, and all readily agreeing, “Of course!” he had added “must have really good Clisymus”; and another hearty “Of course” convincing him we were at one with him in the matter of Christmas, he entered into details.

“Must have big poodinn, and almond, and Clisymus cake, and mince pie,” he chuckled, and then after confiding to us that he had heard of the prospective glories of a Christmas dinner at the Pine Creek “Pub.,” the heathen among us urged us to do honour to the Christian festival.

“Must have top-fellow Clisymus longa Elsey,” he said, and even more heartily we agreed, “of course,” giving Cheon carte blanche to order everything as he wished us to have it.  “We were there to command,” we assured him; and accepting our services, Cheon opened the ball by sending the Dandy in to the Katherine on a flying visit to do a little shopping, and, pending the Dandy’s return we sat down and made plans.