uninformed people apparently imagine him to be. Squatting, at the best,
is but a game of chance. It depends mainly on the weather,
and that, in New South Wales at least, depends on nothing.

Joe Middleton was a struggling squatter, with a station some distance
to the westward of the furthest line reached by the ordinary "new chum".
His run, at the time of our story, was only about six miles square,
and his stock was limited in proportion. The hands on Joe's run
consisted of his brother Dave, a middle-aged man known only
as "Middleton's Peter" (who had been in the service of the Middleton family
ever since Joe Middleton could remember), and an old black shepherd,
with his gin and two boys.

It was in the first year of Joe's marriage. He had married
a very ordinary girl, as far as Australian girls go, but in his eyes
she was an angel. He really worshipped her.

One sultry afternoon in midsummer all the station hands,
with the exception of Dave Middleton, were congregated about
the homestead door, and it was evident from their solemn faces
that something unusual was the matter. They appeared
to be watching for something or someone across the flat,
and the old black shepherd, who had been listening intently with bent head,
suddenly straightened himself up and cried:

"I can hear the cart. I can see it!"

You must bear in mind that our blackfellows do not always talk the gibberish
with which they are credited by story writers.