reigned.

"Well, gentlemen—I mean, boys," said Claud, fumbling with his eyeglass, "I wish to make a motion——"

"You're a new chum—sit down," roared Neverwork.

"And that's why I want to speak," said Claud, in such a quiet, cynical way that the M.P. almost choked. "I'm a new chum—yes. And I am, also, one of the boys. I'm in the Shearers' Union, too. I have been treated well here—don't cher know, and here are my good friends. And we're all going to fight, for what——"

"For financiers and Jews," roared the M.P.

"No, my apoplectic friend! We're going to fight for Australia—not Britain—and we're going to fight to prevent fools like you handing this land over to German or Yellow men. It's the proper thing, don't cher know. Now, gentlemen——"

"Not so much of the gentlemen," shouted Neverwork.

"My dear friend, you were not included in the term. I am addressing these gentlemen from the Bush. You're too beastly dirty and lazy to be a Bushman," said Claud, adjusting his eyeglass and surveying the squat figure of the M.P. as if he were examining a maggot.

"My motion, boys, is simply this, that we stop the train by pulling the communication cord, and hold the driver up for ten minutes. Meantime, we might seize our political gasbag, secure him with a few bits of rope, hoist him out of the carriage, and tie him up to one of the signal posts, leaving a suitable inscription attached to his corporation, so that all the world shall know what a delightful idiot this gentleman—I mean politician—is."

"Carried, be jabers!" roared Paddy Doolan, pulling the communication cord, while Bill, Sandy and some more, seized the Socialist. He kicked, cursed, bit, screamed and wriggled, but to no purpose. As the train slowed down, Bill jumped out, and, running along to the driver, held him up with a masonic wink and a Scotch refreshment. The trussed form of the M.P. was then carried out of the train. He was still cursing. But the Bushmen quietly tied him to a signal post. This completed, Claud pinned a great white sheet of paper with an inscription on it.

"Good-bye, old cock," shouted the Bushmen, jumping into the train again. The whistle blew, and as the train went slowly past the enraged captive, the eyes of all read the notice fixed to his waist:

"THIS IS NOT AN AUSTRALIAN,
HE'S A D—— FOOL.
(Signed) KANGAROO MARINES."

CHAPTER II

MELBOURNE VERSUS SYDNEY

Sam Killem, Commanding Officer of the Kangaroo Marines, sat in his Recruiting Office chewing a cigar in the usual Australian style. Now and again he looked at his recruiting figures and smiled. "Five hundred men in three days," he mused. "Not bad for you, Sam; and good stuff at that"—for Sam was a judge of men. He was a squatter and as rich as Croesus. His big, bony frame spoke of strength, while his eye and face told the tale of shrewdness and resource. He was forty, and successful. Three hundred miles of land was chartered as his own. His sheep were counted in thousands, and his brand as familiar as a postage stamp. Yet, in all his struggles for success, Sam had found time to be a patriot. He had served as a Tommy in the African War, and since then had commanded a corps of mounted men in the back of beyond. He was the fairest yet fiercest, the most faithful and fearless man in the force. A man who disobeyed his orders always received a knock-out blow, for Sam boxed like a pro. and hit like a hammer.

"Some more recruits, sir," said his sergeant-major, opening the door.

"Right, Jones; show them in."

The door closed on the now famous quartette—Claud, Bill, Paddy, and Sandy. They were still in their rough bush-whacking clothes, while their eyes told the tale of a merry night before.

"Well, boys—glad to see you."

"We've met before, Sam," said Bill.

"Guess we have, but cut out the 'Sam,' click your heels together, say 'sir,' when you answer, and salute when you meet me. I'm bossing this show. And we can't have sheep-shearing familiarities—understand!"

"Bit sudden like!" smiled Bill, trying to comply.

"Not so sudden as death, or a shrapnel. Now, to business. You fellows look fit. What's your names?"

"Bill Buster's mine."

"Age?"

"About thirty—that's near enough."

"Religion?"

"Ain't got any."

"That means you're officially C. of E."

"What's that, Sam—eh—sir?"

"Church of England—they father queer birds like you."

"Now, your father and mother?"

"None."

"How's that?"

"I was found as a kid on the Woolamaloo Road, with a newspaper for a bellyband and a rubber tit in my mouth. The old woman who found me said I dropped from heaven."

"The other's the most likely place. Now, sign.

"Right! Next."

Paddy Doolan described himself as an Irishman, born in Kerry, and an egg-merchant by trade.

"Your religion?" asked Sam.

"Sure, I'm a Catholic."

"When were you at Confession last?"

"It's a long time now, yer riverance; but if yis'll lend me a pound I'll have something worth confessing by early Mass to-morrow."

"Your name, now?"

"Sandy Brown."

"Where from?"

"Glesca, sir."

"Where's Glesca?"

"The place whaur they mak' gunboats an' bailies."

"Trade?"

"Coal merchant—I mean stoker."

"Married?"

"Often."

A few more questions settled Sandy. Then Claud came forward, adjusting his eyeglass.

"Better take that window out of your face, young fellow. What's your name?"

"Claud Dufair."

"Father?"

"Lord Dufair."

"You're the goods, young fellow. Now, do you think you can stand up to me for five rounds?"

"Boxing's a beastly bore, sir; but I would have a go—certainly."

"Right! I'll make you corporal. We've need of your brains. By the way, why did you leave home—women and wine, eh?"

"Well—yes, sir."

"Human failing—we're all like that," soliloquised Sam, who had been one of the lads in his day. "Now, boys, about turn, and off for your uniform—good day."

"Good day, sir," replied the four, attempting to salute.

"Good lads—good lads!" muttered Sam to himself as they stumbled through the door.

Three days afterwards Sam had his thousand men. He quartered them in tents, selected some old soldiers for instructors, and commenced to train for war. Sergeant-Major Jones, an ex-Imperial Army man, was the terror of the show. This warrant officer realised what he was up against—a thousand rebels against convention, hypocrisies, and shams. They called a spade a spade. "Red tape" they cursed, and stupid officialdom they loathed. They were freemen, Bohemians of the plains. In the Bush they had learned to fight, cook, scheme, and generally look after themselves. Pioneers of the toughest kind. The type that has made our Empire what it is to-day. In drink they were like savages, ready to shoot the men they hated, ready to give a drunken embrace to the men they liked and respected.

And few of them were fools. Many could rip off Shakespeare by the yard; others could recite, in a feeling way, the best of Byron, Tennyson, Kipling, and Burns. The lonely plains and self-communion had given each a soul. Indeed, they were the oddest bunch of daring, devilry, romance, and villainy that had ever gathered for war. For such men there is only one type of leader, that is—the gentleman. Not the gentleman who says, "Please," like a drawing-room lady; but the gentleman who says, "Come on, boys—here's a job," in a kindly, but firm manner, with that touch of authority in the words which spells the master and the man, and reveals to the skunk that if he refuses a great fist will crack right under his chin and lay him out. Sergeant-Major Jones was, therefore, the gentleman required. He