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before dropping down behind a clump of low trees which hid a lagoon. “They are a good omen,” said Frances and put her hand into his.
    Just as the term of endearment had pleased him, so the spontaneous gesture of affection brought a surge of something like gratitude. Impulsively he said, “This pub—the Duck and Dog—what say we put up there for a night or two? I bet you’ve had enough sleeping in the open. What about a change from roughing it?”
    â€œBut Andy, we’d never get in. They’re certain to be full up and the expense—”
    Andrew was himself again, confident and masterful. “Bet you anything you like I can get us in and hang the expense. Aren’t we on our honeymoon?”
    â€œThere is no harm in trying, I suppose,” she returned doubtfully. “And it would be nice to eat a meal someone else has cooked for a change.”
    â€œI’ve no complaints to make about the present cook. We’ll enquire where this joint is when we get to Dunbavin.”
    He pressed the car forward over the corrugated road.
    â€œAndy, I’m sure it must be somewhere near here. We’re coming to the main highway and the map says it is this side of the town.”
    They glided on to the smooth bitumen. “That’s a relief,” said Andrew. “Hullo! Looks like one of the natives ahead. We’ll stop and see if they talk the same language south of the border.”
    It was Wilson, the first guest at Ellis Bryce’s hotel.
    â€œGood-day there!” greeted Andrew. “Can you tell us where to find a pub called the Duck and Dog?”
    Wilson struggled with his Adam’s apple, his eyes fixed with intense concentration on the car’s number plate. “There’s a t-t-turn—” and he pointed further along.
    â€œA turning a bit on?” Andrew queried, unconsciously imitating Ellis. “Left or right?”
    â€œL—l—”
    â€œLeft, is it? Thanks, mate. Much obliged.” He drew his head in and put the car into gear, giving Frances a broad wink. Wilson with his solemn face and painful stammer was a terrific figure of fun to him. An inarticulate sound made him turn back. “You were saying?”
    Wilson made a stupendous effort and left out the extraneous words people with impediments will try to use. “Duck-shooting?”
    â€œThat’s so,” returned Andrew, surprised at the sudden clarity. “The wife and I want to put up at the pub for a night or two. We heard there was good sport round these parts.”
    Wilson screwed his head round and blinked in a puzzled fashion at Frances. Maintaining his telegraphic style of elocution, he asked, “Name, Morton?”
    â€œTurner’s the name. But what’s that to do with you?”
    The other flapped his hands around for a moment. “F-full-up,” he brought out at last.
    â€œThere you are, Andy,” said Frances.
    â€œYou the proprietor?” Andrew asked Wilson, who shook his head. “Then how do you know they’re full up? The season doesn’t open until Monday. Oh, a guest, huh! Well, maybe we’ll go along and enquire just the same. Be seeing you, sport!”
    He tilted his jaw and there was a determined look in his eyes as they came to a narrow dirt road little better than a cart track. A sagging signpost, which Ellis Bryce had had erected in the first flush of inspiration, bore the direction PRIVATE ROAD: DUCK AND DOG INN . He put the car into second as it made its first climb for many miles. “I’m not going to let a little twerp like that put me off. Nosey sort of bloke, wasn’t he?”
    Presently the hotel came into view—a sturdy two-storied building of stone with sprawling additions of sun-blistered weatherboard clinging about it like parasitic growths.
    â€œWell, this is it! Stay where you are and keep your fingers crossed, honey.”
    â€œGood hunting, Mr Fixit,”