To this period of his life Boake always looked back with keen pleasure. He was now 23 years old, in the prime of youth. No portrait gives a complete idea of him, but at this time he was changing from the bright lad to a thoughtful man. Boake matured slowly, and to the last there was a touch of boyishness in his nature and appearance. In figure he was slim and loosely-knit, rather tall than short. ‘He looked infinitely better on a horse than off,’ says his friend Raymond. His eyes were dark, his hair dark-brown, almost black; and his face was made remarkable by a deep scar on the right brow, the result of a fall in childhood. He has been called him ‘shy, moody, dispirited.’ Listless he seemed often in the Monaro days, and sometimes dispirited; but rather reserved than shy. The moodiness came later.
On 29th August the mob had reached. Windorah, and Boake writes—
Dear Father . . . Enclosed you will find a note in pencil. I don’t know if you will be able to decipher it. The day I wrote it I was very sick, and was bad for three days with a touch of a fever they get out here. At present I have very bad eyes from the flies and dust: everyone gets it.
. . . This is a regular dog's life. Breakfast by starlight; with the cattle till dark; then get up in the night to do two hours’ watch. Still, it has its charms. As a song of ours says—
Still his wild, roving life with its hardships is dear
To the heart of each wandering bush cavalier.
About those letters of intro. It was very good of you to go to so much trouble about me. I don’t deserve it, really. I am very sorry I never got them.
