and in the evening they had a general all-round time. We got back,
and the crew had to reload the wool without assistance, for it bore
the accursed brand of a "freedom-of-contract" shed.

We slept, or tried to sleep, that night on the ridge of two wool bales
laid with the narrow sides up, having first been obliged to get ashore
and fight six rounds with a shearer for the privilege of roosting there.
The live cinders from the firebox went up the chimney all night,
and fell in showers on deck. Every now and again a spark
would burn through the "Wagga rug" of a sleeping shearer,
and he'd wake suddenly and get up and curse. It was no use shifting round,
for the wind was all ways, and the boat steered north, south, east, and west
to humour the river. Occasionally a low branch would root
three or four passengers off their wool bales, and they'd get up and curse
in chorus. The boat started two snags; and towards daylight struck a stump.
The accent was on the stump. A wool bale went overboard,
and took a swag and a dog with it; then the owner of the swag and dog
and the crew of the boat had a swearing match between them. The swagman won.

About daylight we stretched our cramped limbs, extricated one leg from between
the wool bales, and found that the steamer was just crayfishing away
from a mud island, where she had tied up for more wool. Some of the chaps
had been ashore and boiled four or five buckets of tea and coffee.
Shortly after the boat had settled down to work again an incident came along.
A rouseabout rose late, and, while the others were at breakfast,
got an idea into his head that a good "sloosh" would freshen him up;
so he mooched round until he found a big wooden bucket with a rope to it.
He carried the bucket aft of the wheel. The boat was butting up stream
for all she was worth, and the stream was running the other way, of course,
and about a hundred times as fast as a train. The jackeroo gave the line