that seemed to his slow understanding dishonest, mean or paltry;
most especially, and above all, treachery to a mate.
THAT he could never forget. Andy was uncomfortably "straight".
His mind worked slowly and his decisions were, as a rule, right and just;
and when he once came to a conclusion concerning any man or matter,
or decided upon a course of action, nothing short of an earthquake
or a Nevertire cyclone could move him back an inch -- unless a conviction
were severely shaken, and then he would require as much time
to "back" to his starting point as he did to come to the decision.

Andy had come to a conclusion with regard to a selector's daughter
-- name, Lizzie Porter -- who lived (and slaved) on her father's selection,
near the township corner of the run on which Andy was a general "hand".
He had been in the habit for several years of calling casually
at the selector's house, as he rode to and fro between
the station and the town, to get a drink of water and exchange the time of day
with old Porter and his "missus". The conversation concerned the drought,
and the likelihood or otherwise of their ever going to get a little rain;
or about Porter's cattle, with an occasional enquiry concerning,
or reference to, a stray cow belonging to the selection,
but preferring the run; a little, plump, saucy, white cow, by-the-way,
practically pure white, but referred to by Andy -- who had eyes
like a blackfellow -- as "old Speckledy". No one else
could detect a spot or speckle on her at a casual glance.
Then after a long bovine silence, which would have been painfully embarrassing
in any other society, and a tilting of his cabbage-tree hat forward,
which came of tickling and scratching the sun-blotched nape of his neck
with his little finger, Andy would slowly say: "Ah, well. I must be gettin'.
So-long, Mr. Porter. So-long, Mrs. Porter." And, if SHE were in evidence
-- as she generally was on such occasions -- "So-long, Lizzie."