"Native o' that district, I am. Jist comin' across for the fust time.
What's that bloke's name with the nex' team ahead--if it's a fair question?"

"Bob Dixon."

"Gosh, I'm in luck!" He spurred his mare forward, and attached himself to Dixon
for the rest of the afternoon.

But time, according to its deplorable habit, had been passing,
and the glitter had died off the plain as the sun went on its way
to make a futile attempt at purifying the microbe-laden atmosphere of Europe.

At last we reached the spot selected as a camp. Close on our left
was the clump of swamp box which covered about fifty acres
of the nearer portion of the selection, leaving a few scattered trees
outside the fence. On our right, the bare plain extended indefinitely.

I ought to explain that this selection was a mile-square block,
which had been taken up, four years previously, by a business man of Melbourne,
whose aim was to show the public how to graze scientifically on a small area.
Now Runnymede owned the selection, whilst its former occupier
was vending sixpenny parcels of inferior fruit on a railway platform.
The fence--erected by the experimentalist--was of the best kind;
two rails and four wires; sheep-proof and cattle-proof.

The wagons drew off the track, and stopped beside the fence
in the deepening twilight. The bullocks were unyoked with all speed,
and stood around waiting to see what provision would be made for the night.

"Look 'ere," said Mosey, taking a dead pine sapling from the stock of firewood