The Luminaries

red kerchief that was knotted about his neck, and finally, reached for his coat and hat—the former a plain woollen garment, cut almost to his knees, and the latter, a heavy soft-crowned thing with a wide waxed brim. He donned both, slung his swag onto his back, and left the room, removing the key from the lock as he did so.
    During his absence his trunk was to be kept at Clark’s Warehouse on Gibson Quay, to which place his private mail, if he received any, would also be directed. To finance this relocation, he left three silver shillings at the Crown front desk, along with his key. He slipped a fourth shilling into the hand of the Crown maid, folding her small yellow hand in both his own, and thanked her very warmly for the three months’ service and hospitality she had provided him. Quitting the Crown, he turned down the narrow path that led to the beachfront and at once began walking north, hisswag clanking on his back, his tent roll bumping the backs of his legs with each step.
    He was no more than two miles out of Hokitika when he perceived that he was walking some ten paces ahead of another man, similarly clad in the digger’s habitual costume; Moody glanced back, and they acknowledged one another with a nod.
    ‘Hi there,’ said the other. ‘You walking north?’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘Heading for the beaches, are you? Charleston way?’
    ‘So I hope. Do we share a destination?’
    ‘Seems we do,’ the other said. ‘Mind if I fall into step?’
    ‘Not at all,’ said Moody. ‘I shall be glad of the company. Walter Moody is my name. Walter.’
    ‘Paddy Ryan,’ said the other. ‘You got a Scottish tongue on you, Walter Moody.’
    ‘I cannot deny it,’ said Moody.
    ‘Never had any trouble with a Scot.’
    ‘And I have never quarrelled with an Irishman.’
    ‘That makes one of you,’ said Paddy Ryan, with a grin. ‘But it’s the truth: I never had any trouble with a Scot.’
    ‘I’m very glad of it.’
    They walked on in silence for a time.
    ‘I guess we’re both a long way away from home,’ said Paddy Ryan presently.
    ‘I’m a long way from where I was born,’ said Moody, squinting across the breakers to the open sea.
    ‘Well,’ said Paddy Ryan, ‘if home can’t be where you come from, then home is what you make of where you go.’
    ‘That is a good motto,’ Moody said.
    Paddy Ryan nodded, seeming pleased. ‘Are you fixing to stay in this country, then, Walter? After you’ve dug yourself a patch, and made yourself a pile?’
    ‘I expect my luck will decide that question for me.’
    ‘Would you call it lucky to stay, or lucky to go?’
    ‘I’d call it lucky to choose,’ said Moody—surprising himself, for that was not the answer he would have given, three months prior.
    Paddy Ryan looked at him sidelong. ‘How about we share our stories? Make the road a little shorter that way.’
    ‘Our stories? Do you mean our histories?’
    ‘Ay—or the stories you’ve heard, or whatever you like.’
    ‘All right,’ said Moody, a little stiffly. ‘Do you want to go first, or shall I?’
    ‘You go first,’ said Paddy Ryan. ‘Give us a tale, and spin it out, so we forget about our feet, and we don’t notice that we’re walking.’
    Moody was silent for a time, wondering how to begin. ‘I am trying to decide between the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,’ he said presently. ‘I am afraid my history is such that I can’t manage both at once.’
    ‘Hi—no need for the truth at all,’ said Paddy Ryan. ‘Who said anything about the truth? You’re a free man in this country, Walter Moody. You tell me any old rubbish you like, and if you string it out until we reach the junction at Kumara, then I shall count it as a very fine tale.’

SUN & MOON IN CONJUNCTION (NEW MOON)
    In which Mrs. Wells makes two very interesting discoveries.
    When Lydia Wells returned to the House of Many Wishes a little after seven o’clock, she was informed by the maid that Anna Wetherell had received a caller in her absence: Mr. Crosbie Wells, who had returned unexpectedly after many months of absence in the Otago highlands. Mr. Wells had an appointment of some kind upon George-street that evening, the maid reported, but he had left with the assurance that he would return the next morning, in the hope of securing an interview with his wife.
    Mrs. Wells received this news thoughtfully. ‘How long did you say he stayed, Lucy?’
    ‘Two hours, ma’am.’
    ‘From when until when?’
    ‘Three