they usually go to sleep, and forget to bite him. The climate is so hot
that the very grasshoppers crawl into the hotel parlours out of the sun,
climb up the window curtains, and then go to sleep. The Riot Act
never had to be read in Ninemile. The only thing that can arouse
the inhabitants out of their lethargy is the prospect of a drink
at somebody else's expense.

For these reasons it had been decided to start the Cast-iron Canvasser
there, and then move him on to more populous and active localities
if he proved a success. They sent up the Genius, and one of their men
who knew the district well. The Genius was to manage the automaton,
and the other was to lay out the campaign, choose the victims,
and collect the money, geniuses being notoriously unreliable
and loose in their cash. They got through a good deal of whisky
on the way up, and when they arrived at Ninemile were in a cheerful mood,
and disposed to take risks.

"Who'll we begin on?" said the Genius.

"Oh, hang it all," said the other, "let's make a start with Macpherson."

Macpherson was a Land Agent, and the big bug of the place.
He was a gigantic Scotchman, six feet four in his socks,
and freckled all over with freckles as big as half-crowns.
His eyebrows would have made decent-sized moustaches for a cavalryman,
and his moustaches looked like horns. He was a fighter from the ground up,
and had a desperate "down" on canvassers generally,
and on Sloper and Dodge's canvassers in particular.

Sloper and Dodge had published a book called "Remarkable Colonials",