Simons was toasting Naomi Pryse. It took Engelhardt some moments to realize this. The language he could stand; but no sooner did he grasp its incredible application than his self-control boiled over on the spot.  
"Stop it!" he shrieked¹ at the shearer²."How dare you speak of her like that? How dare you?"
 
The foul³ mouth fell open, and the camp-fire flames licked the yellow teeth within. Engelhardt was within a few inches of them, with a doubled fist and reckless eyes. To his amazement⁴, the man burst out laughing in his face.
 
"The little cuss has spunk⁵," said he. "I like to see a cove⁶ stick up for 'is gal⁷, by cripes I do!"
 
"So do I," said Bo's'n. "Brayvo, little man, brayvo!"
 
"My oath," said Bill, "I'd have cut 'is stinkin' throat for 'alf as much if I'd been you, matey!"
 
"Not me," said Simons. "I'll give 'im a drink for 'is spunk. 'Ere, kiddy, you wish us luck!"
 
He held out the pannikin. Engelhardt shook his head. He was, in fact, a teetotaler, who had made a covenant⁸ with himself, when sailing from old England, to let no stimulant⁹ pass his lips until his feet should touch her shores again. The covenant was absolutely private and informal, as between a man and his own body, but no power on earth would have made him break it.
 
 
"Come on," said Simons. "By cripes, we take no refusals here!"
 
"I must ask you to take mine, nevertheless."
 
"Why?"
 
"Because I don't drink."
 
"Well, you've got to!"
 
"I shall not!"
 
Simons seemed bent¹⁰ upon it. Perhaps he had taken a drop too much himself; indeed, none of the three were entirely¹¹ above such a suspicion; but it immediately appeared that this small point was to create more trouble than everything that had gone before. Small as it was, neither man would budge¹² an inch. Engelhardt said again that he would not drink. Simons swore that he should either drink or die. The piano-tuner cheerfully replied that he expected to die in any case, but he wasn't going to touch whiskey for anybody; so he gave Simons leave to do what he liked and get it over—the sooner the better. The shearer promptly¹⁴ seized him by his uninjured wrist, twisted it violently behind his back, and held out his hand to Bo's'n for the pannikin. Engelhardt was now helpless, his left arm a prisoner and in torture, his right lying useless in a sling¹⁵. Bo's'n, however, came to his rescue once more, by refusing to see good grog wasted when there was little enough left.
 
"What's the use?" said he. "If the silly devil won't drink, we'll make him sing us a song. He says he tunes¹⁶ pianners. Let him tune¹³ up now!"
 
"That's better," assented¹⁷ Bill. "The joker shall give us a song before we let his gas out; and I'll drink his grog. Give it here, Bo's'n."
 
The worst of a gang of three is the strong working majority always obtainable against one or other of them. Simons gave in with a curse, and sent Engelhardt sprawling¹⁸ with a heavy kick. As he picked himself up, they called upon him to sing. He savagely¹⁹ refused.
 
"All right," said Bill, "we'll string him up an' be done with him. I'm fairly sick o' the swine—I am so!"
 
"By cripes, so am I."
 
"Then up he goes."
 
"The other beggar's got the rope," said Bo's'n.
 
"Then cut him down. He won't improve by hanging any longer. We ain't a-going to eat him, are we? Cut him down, and sling this one up. It's your job, Bo's'n."
 
Bo's'n was disposed to grumble²⁰. Bill cut him short.
 
"All right," said he, getting clumsily to his feet, "I'll do it myself. You call yourself a bloomin' man! I'd make a better bloomin' man than you with bloomin' baccy-ash. Out of the light, you cripple, an' the thing'll be done in half the time you take talking about it!"
 
Engelhardt was left sitting between Simons and the ill-used Bo's'n. The latter had his grumble out, but Bill took no more account of him. As for the shearer, the ferocity of his attitude toward the doomed²¹ youth was now second to none. He sat very close to him, with a hellish scowl²³ and a great hand held ready to blast any attempt at escape. But none was made. The piano-tuner stuck his thumbs into his ears, covered his closed eyes with his palms, and tried both to think and to pray. He could not think; vague visions of Naomi crowded his mind, but they formed no thought. Nor could he pray for anything but courage to meet his fate. Within a few yards of him was the body of a dead man murdered by these thieves among whom he himself had fallen. He could not but doubt that they were about to murder him too. His last hour had come. He wanted courage. That was all he asked for as he sat with plugged ears and tight-shut eyes.
 
He was aroused by a smart kick in the ribs²⁴. As he got up to go to his doom²², Bill seized him by the shoulders and pushed him roughly toward the hanging rope; it hung so low, it bisected the rising moon.
 
"Let me alone," he cried, wriggling²⁵ fiercely. "I can get there without your help."
 
"Well, we'll see."
 
He got there fast enough. A little deeper in the scrub he could see a shapeless mass of moleskin and Crimean shirting, with a spurred boot half covered by a stiff hand. He was thankful to turn his face to the blazing camp-fire, even though the noose²⁶ went round his neck as he did so.
 
"Now then," said Bill, hauling the rope taut²⁷, "will you give us a song or won't you?"
 
He could not speak.
 
"If you sing us a song we may give you another hour," said the Bo's'n from the ground. Simons and he had been whispering together. Bill shook his head at them.
 
"That rests with me," said he to Engelhardt. "Don't you make any mistake."
 
"Another hour!" cried the young man, bitterly, as he found his voice. "What's another hour? If you're men at all, put an end to me now and be done with it."
 
"How's that?" said Bill, hauling him upon tip-toe. "No, no, sonny, we want our song first," he added, as he let the rope fall slack again.
 
"Sing up, and there's no saying what'll happen," cried the Bo's'n, cheerily.
 
"What shall I sing?"
 
"Anything you like."
 
"Something funny to cheer us up."
 
"Ay, ay, a comic song!"
 
Engelhardt wavered—as once before under the eyes and ears of a male audience. "I'll do my best," he said at last. And Bo's'n clapped.
 
A minute later the bushrangers' camp was the scene of as queer a performance as ever was given. A very young man, with a pallid²⁸, blood-stained face, and a rope round his neck, was singing a "comic" song to a parcel of cut-throats who were presently to hang him, as they had hanged already the corpse²⁹ at his heels. Meanwhile they surrendered themselves like simple innocents to a thorough enjoyment³⁰ of the fine fun provided. The replenished³¹ camp-fire lit their villanous faces with a rich red glow. They grinned, they laughed, they displayed their pleasure and satisfaction each after his own fashion. The fat man shook in his fat; the long man showed his grinning teeth; the sailor-man slapped his thighs³² and rolled on the ground in paroxysms of spirituous mirth. It must have been the humor of the situation, rather than that of the song, which so powerfully appealed to them. The former had the piquant³³ charm of being entirely their own creation. The latter was that poetic³⁴ paraphrase³⁵ of the early chapters of the Book of Genesis which the singer had tried upon another back-block audience but a few nights before. Of the two, this audience, as such, was decidedly the better. At any rate they let him get to the end. And when that came, and Bo's'n clapped again, even the other two joined in the applause.
 
"By cripes," said Simons, "that's not so bad!"
 
"Bad?" cried the enthusiastic Bo's'n. "It's as good as fifty plays. We'll have some more, and I'll give you a song myself."
 
"Right!" said Bill. "The night's still young. Stiffin me purple if............