Somewhere about dinner time (twelve o’clock) we got the cattle on to the river and let ‘em spread over the flat. Then the man in charge rode up to the inn, the Traveller’s Rest, a pretty long rest for some of ‘em (as a grave here and there with four panels of shickery two-rail fence round it showed), and shouted nobblers round for us.

While we was standing up at the bar, waiting for the cove to serve it out, a flash-looking card he was, and didn’t hurry himself, up rides a tall man to the door, hangs up his horse, and walks in. He had on a regular town rig—watch and chain, leather valise, round felt hat, like a chap going to take charge of a store or some thing. I didn’t know him at first, but directly our eyes met I saw it was old Jim. We didn’t talk—no fear, and my boss asked him to join us, like any other stranger. Just then in comes the landlady to sharpen up the man at the bar.

“Haven’t you served those drinks yet, Bob?” she sings out. “Why, the gentlemen called for them half-an-hour ago. I never saw such a slow-going crawler as you are. You’d never have done for the Turon boys.”

We all looked at her—not a bad-looking woman she’d been once, though you could see she’d come down in the world and been knocked about a bit. Surely I knew her voice! I’d seen her before—why, of course—

She was quicker than I was.

“Well, Dick!” says she, pouring out all the drinks, taking the note, and rattling down the change on the counter, all in a minute, same as I’d often seen her do before,“this is a rough shop to meet old friends in, isn’t it? So you didn’t know me, eh? We’ve both changed a bit. You look pretty fresh on it. A woman loses her looks sooner than a man when she goes to the bad. And Jim, too,” she goes on; “only to fancy poor old Jim turning up here, too! One would think you’d put it up to meet at the township on some plant of that sort.”