By Berwen Banks

"I shall want writing materials and some labels on my return," he said,

as he left the room with a somewhat unsteady step.

"On the razzle-dazzle last night, I expect," said the waiter, with a

wink at his fellow.

The fresh air seemed to relieve Cardo, in some degree, of the weight

which dragged him down; he was even well enough to notice that the

uneven streets were more like those of an old-fashioned English town

than anything he had expected to find in Australia. But this feeling

of relief did not last long. In the street which led down to the quay

he observed a chemist's shop, and, entering it, asked for a "draught or

pick-me-up" of some kind.

"I feel awfully seedy," he said, sinking into a chair.

"Yes, you look it," said the chemist; "what's wrong?"

"I think I must give in," said Cardo, "for I believe I am sickening for

typhoid fever."

The chemist looked grave.

"I advise you to go home at once, and to bed."

"Yes," replied Cardo, trying to rise to the emergency, and still

manfully struggling against the disease which threatened him. "Yes, I

will go home," he said again, walking out of the shop. He took the

wrong turning however, going down towards the harbour, instead of

returning to the hotel, and he was soon walking under a burning sun

amongst the piled-up bales and packages on the edge of the quay. A

heavy weight seemed to press on his head, and a red mist hung over

everything as he walked blindly on. At a point which he had just

reached, a heap of rough boxes obstructed his path, and at that moment

a huge crank swung its iron arm over the edge of the dock, a heavy

weight was hanging from it, and exactly as Cardo passed, it came with a

horizontal movement against the back of his head with terrible force,

throwing him forward insensible on the ground. The high pile of boxes

had hidden the accident from the crowd of loungers and pedestrians who

might otherwise have noticed the fall. The sudden lurch with which he

was thrown forward jerked his pocket-book from the breast-pocket of his

coat, and it fell to the ground a foot or two in front of him. It was

instantly picked up by a loafer, who had been leaning against the pile

of boxes, and who alone had witnessed the accident; he immediately

stooped to help the prostrate man, and finding him pale and still,

shouted for assistance, and was quickly joined by a knot of

"larrikins," who dragged the unconscious man a little further from the

edge of the quay.

It was not long before a small crowd had gathered round, the man who

had first observed him making a safe escape in the confusion, Cardo's

pocket-book carefully hidden under his tattered coat.