opposite the station, talking to Montgomery and Martin, and the other fellows
lost the run of him. I wonder where he camped last night?
He ought to be able to tell us where the safest grass is, considering
he's had a load in from the station. But to tell you the truth,
I'm in favour of the ram-paddock. If we're caught there, we'll most likely
only get insulted--and we can stand a lot of that--but if we're caught
in the selection, it's about seven years. Then we can make the Lignum Swamp
to-morrow from the ram-paddock, and we can't make it from the selection.
So I think we better be moving; it'll be dark enough before we unyoke.
I've worked on that ram-paddock so often that I seem to have
a sort of title to it."

"But there's lots o' changes since you was here last," said Mosey.
"Magomery he's beginnin' to think he's got a sort o' title
to the ram-paddick now, considerin' it's all purchased. Tell you what I'll do:
I'll slip over in two minits on Valiparaiser, an' consult with Alf.
Me an' him's as thick as thieves."

"I'll go with you, Mosey," said I. "I've got some messages for him.
Keep an eye on my dog, Steve."

Mosey untied the fine upstanding grey horse from the rear of his wagon;
I hitched Bunyip to a tree, and mounted Fancy, and we cantered away together
across the plain; the ponderous empty wagon--Sydney-side pattern--with
eight bullocks in yoke and twelve travelling loose, coming more clearly
into detail through the vibrating translucence of the lower atmosphere.
Alf did n't deign to stop. I noticed a sinister smile on his sad, stern face
as Mosey gaily accosted him.

"An' how's the world usin' you, Alf? Got red o' Pilot, I notice.