in the yard. He had a big scar on his face, apparently the result
of collision with a fence; he looked thin and sickly and seemed
poverty-stricken enough to disarm hostility. Obviously, he was down
on his luck. Had it not been for that indefinable self-reliant look
which drovers -- the Ishmaels of the bush -- always acquire, one might
have taken him for a swagman. His horse was in much the same plight.
It was a ragged, unkempt pony, pitifully poor and very footsore,
at first sight, an absolute "moke"; but a second glance showed
colossal round ribs, square hips, and a great length of rein,
the rest hidden beneath a wealth of loose hair. He looked like
"a good journey horse", possibly something better.

We gathered round while M'Gregor questioned the drover.
The man was monosyllabic to a degree, as the real bushmen generally are.
It is only the rowdy and the town-bushy that are fluent of speech.

"Guid mornin'," said M'Gregor.

"Mornin', boss," said the drover, shortly.

"Is this the horrse ye hae for sale?"

"Yes."

"Ay," and M'Gregor looked at the pony with a businesslike
don't-think-much-of-him air, ran his hand lightly over the hard legs,
and opened the passive creature's mouth. "H'm," he said.
Then he turned to the drover. "Ye seem a bit oot o' luck.
Ye're thin like. What's been the matter?"