Melbourne rubbed its eyes and sat up. As usual, the country was bigger
than its rulers, and more men were coming in than could be coped with.
The whole country was a catchment of patriotism--a huge
river-basin--and these marching bands from the far-out country were the
tributaries which fed the huge river of men which flowed from the State
capitals to the concentration camps in Sydney and Melbourne. The
leading newspapers soon were full of the story of these men from the
bush who could not wait for the government to gather them in, and none
should deny them the right to fight for their liberties.

Strange men these, as they tramped into a bush township, feet tied up
in sacking, old felt hats on their heads, moleskins and shirt, "bluey,"
or blue blanket, and "billy," or quart canister, for boiling tea slung
over their backs, all white from the dust of the road.

Old Tom Coghlan was there. He had lived in a boundary hut for twenty
years, only seeing another human being once a month, when his rations
were brought from the head station. His conversation for days, now
that he was with companions, would be limited to two distinctive
grunts, one meaning "yes," the other "no." But on the station he had
been known to harangue for hours a jam-tin on a post, declaiming on the
iniquities of a capitalist government. Those who heard him as they hid
behind a gum-tree declared his language then was that of a college man.
Probably he was the scion of some noble house--there are many of them
out there in the land where no one cares about your past.

Here, too, was young Bill Squires, who had reached the age of
twenty-one without having seen a parson, and asked a bush missionary
who inquired if he knew Jesus Christ: "What kind of horse does he ride?"