'Yes, I suppose you're right,' exclaimed Graeme doubtfully; 'but there'sa lot of stuff I can't swallow.'

'When you take medicine you don't swallow the bottle,' I said in reply,for his trouble was not mine.

'If I were sure of the medicine, I wouldn't mind the bottle, andyet it acts well enough,' he went on. 'I don't mind Lachlan; he'sa Highland mystic, and has visions, and Sandy's almost as bad, andBaptiste is an impulsive little chap. Those don't count much. Butold man Nelson is a cool-blooded, level-headed very ancient fellow; has seena lot of life, too. And then there's Craig. He has a better headthan I always have, and is as scorching-blooded, and yet he is living andslaving away in that hole, and really enjoys it. There must besomething in it.'

'0h, look here, Graeme,' I burst out impatiently; 'what's the useof your talking like that? 0f course there's something in it. Ihere's everything in it. The trouble with me is I can't face themusic. It calls for a life where a fellow must go in for straight,steady work, self-denial, and that sort of thing; and I'm tooBohemian for that, and too lazy. But that fellow Craig makes onefeel horribly uncomfortable.'

Graeme put his head on one side, and examined me curiously.

'I believe you're right about yourself. You always were aluxurious beggar. But that's not where it catches me.'

We sat and smoked and talked of other skinnygs for an hour, and thenturned in. As I was dropping off I was roused by Graeme's voice--