beguilers, poor lonely 'Griselda Penelope' doing her worsted work and tatting from year to year, the excellent Telemachus meanwhile looking after the 'selection' at Ithaca. However, this is miles away from the scent. 'Get in there, Fancy.'
In the solitude of my slab-hut this announcement stirred my blood. I considered the pecuniary aspect of the question, and was nearly not going at all. Coin was scarce in the forties, credit shy and difficult. More prudent by far it seemed to remain quietly at home. And yet it was hard. A glimpse of Paradise to be had scarce thirty miles away. A brilliant idea flashed, meteor-like, through my brain. The expense would not amount to more than a bullock. One bullock! The herd was increasing. And I could work so much harder afterwards. My conscience was salved. I made the modest preparations befitting that pioneer period. The valise was packed, the black mare was run in, and proudly mounting that fast, clever hackney, I took the track to the crossing -place of the Shaw River, singing aloud for pure joyousness of heart, like a mavis in springtime.
When I arrived in Port Fairy, and took up my quarters at the Merrijig Hotel (the southern aboriginal predicate signifying 'good,' and thus equivalent to the 'Budgeree' of the Kamilaroi), what news and marvels were afloat! The town was full. Everybody was there or coming; also everybody's favourite horse. All the world and his wife were 'on the march for Rome.' Mr. James Lord had arrived from Tasmania with a draft of hounds for John Cox of Werongurt; had also brought with him The Caliph as a present to the same gentleman from his old friend Sir Richard Dry. The Caliph was a hunting celebrity; I was naturally anxious to see him. The Dunmore people were not down, but were coming of course, with Neil Kennedy and Bob Craufurd, Fred Burchett, the Aplins, Captain and Mrs. Baxter, the Hunters (Alick and Jimmy), George Youl, and the Kemps, Claud Farie, and his partner Rodger—in fact, everybody, as I said before. Old Tom, the stock-rider, had managed to trap a fine dingo. To-morrow the hounds would throw off near Archie M'Neill's farm, across the Moyne. There were to be races the day after, including a steeple-chase, for which Richard Rutledge was going to ride Freedom, a well-known blood hackney. Mr. Rodger had bought the grey racing pony
