The last would have been a long spit―and he forgot Maoriland.
We heard afterwards that his name was Clancy, and he had that day been offered a job droving at 'twenty-five shillings a week and find your own horse.' Also find your own horse-feed and tobacco and soap and other luxuries, at station prices. Moreover, if you lost your own horse you would have to find another, and if that died or went astray you would have to find a third―or forfeit your pay and return on foot. The boss drover agreed to provide flour and mutton―when such things were procurable.
Consequently, Clancy's decidedly unfavourable opinion of the colonies.
My mate and I sat down on our swags against the fence to talk things over. One of us was very deaf. Presently a black tracker went past and looked at us, and returned to the pub. Then a trooper in Queensland uniform came along and asked us what the trouble was about, and where we came from and were going, and where we camped. We said we were discussing private business, and he explained that he thought it was a row, and came over to see. Then he left us, and later on we saw him sitting with the rest of the population on a bench under the hotel verandah. Next morning we rolled up our swags and left Hungerford to the North-West.
