`By George!' says Jim, `they're Mr. Hunter's cattle, and all these circle dots
belong to Banda. What a mob of calves! not one of them branded!
What in the world does father intend to do with them?'

Father was up, and came over where we stood with our horses in our hands
before we had time to say more. He wasn't one of those
that slept after daylight, whether he had work to do or not.
He certainly COULD work; daylight or dark, wet or dry, cold or hot,
it was all one to father. It seems a pity what he did was no use to him,
as it turned out; for he was a man, was old dad, every inch of him.

`Now, boys,' he said, quite brisk and almost good-natured for him,
`look alive and we'll start the cattle; we've been long enough here;
let 'em head up that gully, and I'll show you something
you've never seen before for as long as you've known Broken Creek Ranges.'

`But where are you going to take 'em to?' I said. `They're all
Mr. Hunter's and Mr. Falkland's; the brands are plain enough.'

`Are the calves branded, you blasted fool?' he said, while the black look
came over his face that had so often frightened me when I was a child.
`You do what I tell you if you've any pluck and gumption about you;
or else you and your brother can ride over to Dargo Police Station
and "give me away" if you like; only don't come home again, I warn you,
sons or no sons.'

If I had done what I had two minds to do -- for I wasn't afraid of him then,
savage as he looked -- told him to do his own duffing and ridden away with Jim
there and then -- poor Jim, who sat on his horse staring at both of us,