"I can't stand the life here, Uncle Richard, and I'm not going to--not
if father cuts me off with a shilling! I mean to see the world. THIS
isn't the world--this dead-and-alive old country! . . . though it's got
to seem like it to the governor, he's been here so long. And HE cleared
out from his before he was even as old as I am. Of course there isn't
another blessed old Australia for me to decamp to; he might be a bit
sweeter about it, if there was. But America's good enough for me, and
I'm off there--yes, even if I have to work my passage out!"
Early next morning, fully equipped for their journey, the Mahonys stood
on the William's Town pier, the centre of the usual crowd of relatives
and friends. This had been further swelled by the advent of Mrs. Devine,
who came panting up followed by her husband, and by Agnes Ocock and
Amelia Grindle, who had contrived to reach Melbourne the previous
evening. Even John's children were tacked on, clad in their Sunday best.
Everybody talked at once and laughed or wept; while the children played
hide-and-seek round the ladies' crinolines. Strange eyes were bent on
their party, strange ears cocked in their direction; and yet once again
Mahony's dislike to a commotion in public choked off his gratitude
towards these good and kindly people. But his star was rising: tears and
farewells and vows of constancy had to be cut short, a jaunt planned by
the whole company to the ship itself abandoned; for a favourable wind
had sprung up and the captain was impatient to weigh anchor.
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