“You have!” Obviously Mrs Poole was pleased. “Then you will be boarding here, I hope?”

“For my meals, yes. I understand, however, that sleeping quarters are provided by the department at the depot.”

“Yes, that’s so.” Quick steps sounded from without.“Oh my! Here’s Eric.”

A man entered as might a small whirlwind from the plains of Central Australia.

“Ah, late again, Mrs Poole! Quarter pastseven, and breakfast not ready. When is that husband of yours coming back? Every time he’s away you hug that bed, don’t you? You’ll die in it one of these days. Now, don’t argue. Get on-get on. No burgoo for me. There’s no time to eat. I’ll be getting the sack for being always late.”

The whirlwind was dressed in dungaree overalls. Keen hazel eyes examined Bony humorously.

“Good morning,” Bony said.

“Going to work for the Rabbits,” interposed Mrs Poole.

“Oh! Well, I’d advise you not to board here. Better stop at the pub. Mrs Poole’s husband is a Water Rat, and sometimes he’s away for weeks on end. When he is away Mrs Poole hardly ever leaves her bed, she loves it so. You only get one minute ten seconds to gollop your breakfast, but you do get plenty of indigestion. I’m half dead already.”

“I’m not as bad as all that, Eric,” pleaded Mrs Poole in a way which decided Bony that he was going to like his landlady. To him she added: “Don’t you believe him, Mr-what is your name?”

“Bony.”

“Sometimes I’m late, Mr Bony, but not always. Will you take porridge?”

“Please.”

“You married?” inquired the subsided whirlwind.

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll be Mr Bony henceforth. All married men here are called misters, and single men are called by their Christian monikers. I’m Eric Hurley, unmarried, and, therefore, plain Eric. What’s yours?”

“Xavier,” replied Bony blandly. “But everyone calls me Bony without the mister. I prefer it.”