In the beginning he exerted himself to set the lad at ease. He soon saw,
however, that he might spare his pains. Though clearly not much more
than eighteen years old, Ned Turnharn had the aplomb and assurance of
double that age. Lolling back in the single armchair the room boasted,
he more than once stretched out his hand and helped himself from the
sherry bottle Mahony had placed on the table. And the disparity in their
ages notwithstanding, there was no trace of deference in his manner. Or
the sole hint of it was: he sometimes smothered a profane word, or
apologised, with a winning smile, for an oath that had slipped out
unawares. Mahony could not accustom him self to the foul language that
formed the diggers' idiom. Here, in the case of Polly's brother, he
sought to overlook the offence, or to lay the blame for it on other
shoulders: at his age, and alone, the boy should never have been plunged
into this Gehenna.
Ned talked mainly of himself and his doings. But other facts also
transpired, of greater interest to his hearer. Thus Mahony learned that,
out of a family of nine, four had found their way to the colony, and a
fifth was soon to follow--a mere child this, on the under side of
fifteen. He gathered, too, that the eldest brother, John by name, was
regarded as a kind of Napoleon by the younger fry. At thirty, this John
was a partner in the largest wholesale dry-goods' warehouse in
Melbourne. He had also married money, and intended in due course to
stand for the Legislative Council.
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