Update <hgroup> children after first <h#> to <p>, ref. new HTML standard

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-1" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">In the Club</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">In the Club</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>It was a summer’s evening in Sydney, and the northeast wind that comes down from New Guinea and the tropical islands over leagues of warm sea, brought on its wings a heavy depressing moisture. In the streets people walked listlessly, perspired, mopped themselves, and abused their much-vaunted climate. Everyone who could manage it was out of town, either on the heights of Moss Vale or the Blue Mountains, escaping from the Inferno of Sydney.</p>
 			<p>In the Cassowary Club, weary, pallid waiters brought iced drinks to such of the members as were condemned to spend the summer in town. The gong had sounded, and in ones and twos members shuffled out of the smoking-room, and went in to dinner. At last only three were left talking at the far end of the big, empty smoking-room, like three small stage conspirators at the end of a very large robbers’ cavern.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-10" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">X</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">A Lawyer in the Bush</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">A Lawyer in the Bush</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Gavan Blake, attorney and solicitor, sat in his office at Tarrong, opening his morning’s letters. The office was in a small weatherboard cottage in the “main street” of Tarrong (at any rate it might fairly claim to be the main street, as it was the only street that had any houses in it). The front room, where he sat, was fitted up with a table and a set of pigeonholes full of dusty papers, a leather couch, a small fireproof safe, and a bookcase containing about equal proportions of law-books and novels. A few maps of Tarrong township and neighbouring stations hung on the walls. The wooden partition of the house only ran up to the rafters, and over it could plainly be heard his housekeeper scrubbing his bedroom. Across the little passage was his sitting-room, furnished in the style of most bachelors’ rooms, an important item of furniture being a cupboard where whisky was always to be found. At the back of the main cottage were servants’ quarters and kitchen. Behind the house, on a spare allotment, were two or three loose-boxes for racehorses, a saddle-room and a groom’s room. This was the whole establishment. A woman came in every day to do up his rooms from the hotel, where he had his meals. It was an inexpensive mode of life, but one that conduced to the drinking of a good many whiskies-and-sodas at the hotel with clients and casual callers, and to a good deal of card-playing and late hours. The racehorses, too, like most racehorses, ate up more money than they earned. So that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gavan Blake, though a clever man, with a good practice, always seemed to find himself hard up.</p>
 			<p>It was so on this particular morning. Every letter that he opened seemed to have some reference to money. One, from the local storekeeper, was a pretentious account embracing all sorts of items⁠—ammunition, stationery, saddlery and station supplies (the latter being on account of a small station that Blake had taken over for a bad debt, which seemed likely to turn out an equally bad asset). Station supplies, even for bad stations, run into a lot of money, and the store account was approaching a hundred pounds. Then there was a letter from a horse-trainer in Sydney to whom he had sent a racehorse, and though this animal had done such brilliant gallops that the trainer had three times telegraphed him that a race was a certainty⁠—once he went so far as to say that the horse could stop to throw a somersault and still win the race⁠—on each occasion it had always come in among the ruck; and every time forty or fifty pounds of Blake’s money had been lost in betting. For Blake was a confirmed gambler, a heavy card-player and backer of horses, and he had the contempt for other people’s skill and opinions which seems an inevitable ingredient in the character of brilliant men of a certain type.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-11" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XI</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">A Walk in the Moonlight</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">A Walk in the Moonlight</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>The Court at Ballarook was over, and Gavan Blake turned his horses’ heads in a direction he had never taken before⁠—along the road to Kuryong. As he drove along, his thoughts were anything but pleasant. Behind him always stalked the grim spectre of detection and arrest; and, even should a lucky windfall help to pay his debts, he could not save the money either to buy a practice in Sydney or to maintain himself while he was building one up. He thought of the pitiful smallness of his chances at Tarrong, and then of Ellen Harriott. What should he do about her? Well, sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. He would play for his own hand throughout. With which reflection he drove into the Kuryong yard.</p>
 			<p>When he drove up, the family had gathered round the fire in the quaint, old-fashioned, low-ceiled sitting-room; for the evenings were still chilly. The children were gravely and quietly sharpening terrific-looking knives on small stones; the old lady had some needlework; while Mary and Ellen and Poss and Binjie talked about horses, that being practically the only subject open to the two boys.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-12" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XII</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Blake Breaks His Engagement</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Blake Breaks His Engagement</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>On Monday, Hugh, Poss, and Binjie had to go out to an outlying paddock to draft a lot of station-sheep from a mob of travelling-sheep. As this meant a long, hard job, the three breakfasted by candlelight⁠—a good old fashion, this, but rather forgotten lately⁠—and Blake also turned out for early breakfast, as he wanted to get his drive to Tarrong over while the weather was cool. Of the women-folk, Ellen alone was up, boiling eggs, and making tea on a spirit-lamp; laughing and chattering meanwhile, and keeping them all amused; while outside in the frosty dawn, the stable boy shivered as he tightened the girths round the ribs of three very touchy horses. Poss and Binjie were each riding a station horse to “take the flashness out of him,” and Binjie’s horse tried to buck him off, but might as well have tried to shed his own skin; so he bolted instead, and disappeared with a snort and a rattle of hoofs over the hill. The others followed, with their horses very much inclined to go through the same performance.</p>
 			<p>After they had gone, Ellen Harriott and Blake were left alone in the breakfast-room. Outside, the heedless horse-boy was harnessing Blake’s ponies; but inside no one but themselves was awake, and as he finished his breakfast, Ellen stepped up to the table and blew out the two candles, leaving the room in semidarkness. She caught his hand, and he drew her to him. It was what she had been waiting for all night. She had pictured a parting, which was to be such sweet sorrow. Blake had also pictured it to himself, but in quite a different way.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-13" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XIII</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Rivals</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Rivals</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>For the next couple of weeks, affairs at Kuryong flowed on in usual station style. A saddle-horse was brought in for Miss Grant, and out of her numerous boxes that young lady produced a Bond Street outfit that fairly silenced criticism. She rode well too, having been taught in England, and she, Poss, Binjie and Hugh had some great scampers after kangaroos, half-wild horses, or anything else that would get up and run in front of them. She was always so fresh, cheerful, and ready for any excitement that the two boys became infatuated in four days, and had to be hunted home on the fifth, or they would have both proposed. Some days she spent at the homestead housekeeping, cooking, and giving out rations to swagmen⁠—the wild, half-crazed travellers who came in at sundown for the dole of flour, tea and sugar, which was theirs by bush custom. Some days she spent with the children, and with them learnt a lot of bush life. It being holiday-time, they practically ran wild all over the place, spending whole days in long tramps to remote parts in pursuit of game. They had no “play,” as that term is known to English children. They didn’t play at being hunters. They were hunters in real earnest, and their habits and customs had come to resemble very closely those of savage tribes that live by the chase.</p>
 			<p>With them Mary had numberless new experiences. She got accustomed to seeing the boys climb big trees by cutting steps in the bark with a tomahawk, going out on the most giddy heights after birds’ nests, or dragging the opossum from his sleeping-place in a hollow limb. She learned to hold a frenzied fox-terrier at the mouth of a hollow log, ready to pounce on the kangaroo-rat which had taken refuge there, and which flashed out as if shot from a catapult on being poked from the other end with a long stick. She learned to mark the hiding-place of the young wild-ducks that scuttled and dived, and hid themselves with such supernatural cunning in the reedy pools. She saw the native companions, those great, solemn, grey birds, go through their fantastic and intricate dances, forming squares, pirouetting, advancing, and retreating with the solemnity of professional dancing-masters. She lay on the riverbank with the children, gun in hand, breathless with excitement, waiting for the rising of the duck-billed platypus⁠—that quaint combination of fish, flesh and fowl⁠—as he dived in the quiet waters, a train of small bubbles marking his track. She fished in deep pools for the great, sleepy, hundred-pound codfish that sucked down bait and hook, holus-bolus, and then were hauled in with hardly any resistance, and lived for days contentedly, tethered to the bank by a line through their gills.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-14" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XIV</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">Red Mick and His Sheep Dogs</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">Red Mick and His Sheep Dogs</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>When Hugh came home one day with his face, as usual, full of trouble, Mary began to laugh him out of it.</p>
 			<p>“Well, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hugh, which is it today⁠—the Doyles or the Donohoes? Have they been stealing sheep or breaking gates?”</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-15" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XV</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">A Proposal and Its Results</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">A Proposal and Its Results</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>The question whether Mick Donohoe should be prosecuted was not likely to be prejudiced by his claim of kinship. Billy the Bully would as soon prosecute his own brother-in-law as anybody else⁠—sooner, in fact. So Hugh, having reached home very crestfallen and angry, wrote a full account of the affair in his report of the station work, and asked whether he should lay an information.</p>
 			<p>Grant’s reply was brief and to the point; he seldom wrote letters, always telegraphing when possible. On this occasion the telegram said, “Prosecute at once; offer reward informers;” which, leaking out (as telegrams frequently did at the local office) put Red Mick considerably on the <span xml:lang="fr">qui vive</span>. The old man actually paid him the compliment of writing a letter about him later on, saying that it would be a good thing to prosecute⁠—it would give Red Mick a good scare, even if it didn’t get him into gaol. Circumstances, no doubt, justified a prosecution, and it was hard to see bow Mick could make a countermove.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-16" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XVI</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Road to No Man’s Land</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Road to No Man’s Land</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Now we must follow for a time the adventures of Charlie Gordon and the new chum, whom we left just starting out for “far back,” Charlie to take over a cattle-station for Old Man Grant, and Carew to search for Patrick Henry Considine. After a short sea-journey they took train to a dusty back-blocks township, where Gordon picked up one of the many outfits which he had scattered over the country, and which in this case consisted of a vehicle, a dozen or so of horses, and a black boy named Frying Pan.</p>
 			<p>They drove four horses in a low, American-made buggy, and travelled about fifty miles a day. Frying Pan was invaluable. He seemed to have a natural affinity for horses. He could catch them anywhere, and track them if they got lost. Carew tried to talk to him, but could get little out of him, for he knew only the pidgin English, which is in use in those parts, and said “No more” to nearly every question. He rode along behind the loose horses, apparently quite satisfied with his own company. Every now and then he came alongside the vehicle, and said “Terbacker.” Charlie threw him a stick of the blackest, rankest tobacco known to the trade, and off he went again.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-17" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XVII</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">Considine</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">Considine</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>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.</p>
 			<p>“There y’are,” he said. “There’s my right, title and entrust 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.”</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-18" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XVIII</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Wild Cattle</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Wild Cattle</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Carew awoke next morning to find that it was broad daylight, and the horses had been run in, caught, and saddled, all ready for a start to the run. Breakfast was soon disposed of, and the cavalcade set out. Naturally, the old man had heaps of questions to ask about his inheritance, and made the Englishman ride alongside while he questioned him.</p>
 			<p>“If I go to England after this money, Mister, I suppose they won’t be handin’ me out ten years for perjury, same as they done for Roger Tichborne, eh? I won’t have no law case, will I?”</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-19" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XIX</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">A Chance Encounter</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">A Chance Encounter</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>The black boys went in with them to Pike’s store to take back supplies on the packhorse. They travelled over the same country that they had seen coming up; the men at the stations greeted them with the same hospitality. Nothing was said about Considine’s good fortune. It was thought wise to be silent, as he didn’t know how soon his wife might hear of it.</p>
 			<p>They left the gins at the blacks’ camp, which they chanced on by a riverside. The camp was a primitive affair, a few rude shelters made by bending bamboo sticks together and covering them with strips of paper bark. Here the sable wariors sat and smoked all day long, tobacco being their only civilised possession. Carew was very anxious to look at them, a development of curiosity that Considine could not understand.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-2" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">A Dinner for Five</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">A Dinner for Five</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>A club dining-room in Australia is much like one in any other part of the world. Even at the Antipodes⁠—though the seasons are reversed, and the foxes have wings⁠—we still shun the club bore, and let him have a table to himself; the head waiter usually looks a more important personage than any of the members or guests; and men may be seen giving each other dinners from much the same ignoble motives as those which actuate their fellows elsewhere. In the Cassowary Club, on the night of which we tell, the Bo’sun was giving his dinner of necessity to honour the draft of hospitality drawn on him by Grant. At the next table a young solicitor was entertaining his one wealthy client; near by a band of haggard University professors were dining a wandering scientist, all hair and spectacles⁠—both guest and hosts drinking mineral waters and such horrors; while beyond them a lot of racing men were swilling champagne and eating and talking as heartily as so many navvies. A few squatters, down from their stations, had foregathered at the centre table, where each was trying to make out that he had had less rain than the others. The Bo’sun and his guests were taken in hand by the head waiter, who formerly had been at a London Club, and was laying himself out to do his best; he had seen that Gillespie had “Wanderers’ Club” on his cards, and he knew, and thanked his stars that he did know, what “Wanderers’ Club” on a man’s card meant. His fellow-waiters, to whom he usually referred as “a lot of savages,” were unfortunately in ignorance of the social distinction implied by membership of such a club.</p>
 			<p>For a time there was nothing but the usual commonplace talk, while the soup and fish were disposed of; when they reached the champagne and the entrées, things become more homelike and conversation flowed. A bushman, especially when primed with champagne, is always ready to give his tongue a run⁠—and when he has two open-mouthed new chums for audience, as Gordon had, the only difficulty is to stop him before bedtime; for long silent rides on the plain, and lonely camps at night, give him a lot of enforced silence that he has to make up for later.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-20" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XX</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">A Consultation at Kiley’s</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">A Consultation at Kiley’s</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Within twenty-four hours after Peggy got back to her old home, it was known all over the mountains that she meant business, and would make a claim on William Grant’s estate. Rumour, of course, supplied all the needful details. It was said, and even sworn to, that Peggy had her marriage lines put by in a big iron box, ready to be produced at the proper time. Other authorities knew for a fact that she had no proofs, but that the family at Kuryong were going to give her any sum from a thousand pounds to a million, to cancel her claim and save exposure.</p>
 			<p>As a matter of fact, none of those who talked knew anything whatever. Peggy confided in no one but Red Mick, and that worthy had had enough legal experience of a rough and ready sort to know that things must be kept quiet till the proper time. But by way of getting ready for action Red Mick and his sister one fine morning rode up to Gavan Blake’s office to consult him as to what they should do.</p>