would n’t misdoubt the selection, on’y Cunningham told me the other day, Magomery’s shiftin’ somebody to live there. If that’s so, it’s up a tree, straight. The ram-paddick’s always a risk—too near the station.”
“The hut on the selection was empty a week ago,” I remarked. “I know it, for I camped there one night.”
“Good grass?” inquired a chorus of voices.
“About the best I’ve had this season.”
“We’ll chance the selection,” said Mosey decidedly. “Somebody can ride on ahead, an’ see the coast clear. But they won’t watch a bit of a paddick in the thick o’ the shearin’, when there’s nobody livin’ in it.”
“Squatters hed orter fine grass f’r wool teams, an’ glad o’ the chance,” observed Price, with unprintable emphasis.
“Lot of sense in that remark,” commented Mosey, with a similar potency of adjective.
“Well, this is about the last place God made,” growled Cooper, the crimson thread of kinship running conspicuously through his observation, notwithstanding its narrow provinciality.
“Roll up, Port Phillipers! the Sydney man’s goin’ to strike a match!” retorted Mosey. “I wonder what fetched a feller like you on-to bad startin’-ground. I swear we did n’t want no lessons.”
Cooper was too lazy to reply; and we smoked dreamily, while my kangaroo dog silently abstracted a boiled leg of mutton from Price’s tuckerbox, and carried it out of sight. By-and-by, all eyes converged on a shapeless streak which had moved into sight in the restless, glassy glitter of the plain, about a mile away.
“Warrigal Alf going out on the lower track,” remarked Thompson, at length. “He was coming behind Baxter and Donovan yesterday, but he stopped opposite the station, talking to Montgomery and Martin, and the other fellows lost the run of him. I wonder where he camped last night? He ought to be able to tell us where the safest grass is, considering he’s had a load in from the station. But to tell you the truth, I’m in favour of the ram-paddock. If we’re caught there, we’ll most likely only get insulted—and we can stand a lot of that—but if we’re caught in the selection, it’s about seven years. Then we can make the Lignum Swamp to-morrow from the ram-paddock, and we can’t make it from the selection. So I think we better be moving; it’ll be dark enough before we unyoke. I’ve worked on that ram-paddock so often that I seem to have a sort of title to it.”
“But there’s lots o’ changes since you was here last,” said Mosey. “Magomery he’s beginnin’ to think he’s got a sort o’ title to the ram-paddick now, considerin’ it’s all purchased. Tell you what I’ll do: I’ll slip over in two minits on Valiparaiser, an’ consult with Alf. Me an’ him’s as thick as thieves.”
“I’ll go with you, Mosey,” said I. “I’ve got some messages for him. Keep an eye on my dog, Steve.”
Mosey untied the fine upstanding grey horse from the rear of his wagon; I hitched Bunyip to a tree, and mounted Fancy, and we cantered away together across the plain; the ponderous empty wagon—Sydney-side
