Considine

For a few seconds no one spoke. Carew and Gordon stared at the
signature, and then looked at each other. The newly-found Considine
looked at his autograph in a critical way, as if not quite sure he
had spelled it right, and then stood up, handing the deed to Gordon.

"There y'are," he said. "There's my right, title and intrust in
all this here block of land, and all the stock what's on it; and
if you're ever short of a man to look after the place in the wet
season I'll take the job. I might be glad of it."

"I think it's quite likely you won't want any job from me," said
Charlie. "I'll be asking you for a job yet. Are you sure that's
your right name? What was your father?"

"My name? O' course it's my name. My father was billiard-marker at
Casey's Hotel, Dandaloo," said the old man with conscious pride.
"A swell he had been, but the boose done him up, like many a better
man. He used to write to people over in England for money, but they
never giv him any."

"Where did he write to?" asked Carew, looking at the uncouth figure
with intense interest. "Do you know what people he wrote to?"

"Yairs. He wrote to William Considine. That was his father's name.
His father never sent any money, though. Told him to go to hell,
I reckon."

"What was your father's name?"

"William Patrick Considine."

Carew dashed out to his saddle, hurriedly unstrapped a valise, and
brought in a small packet of papers.