We always looked forward to Sunday. It was our day of sport. Once, I
remember, we thought it would never come. We longed restlessly for it,
and the more we longed the more it seemed to linger.

A meeting of selectors had been held; war declared against the marsupial;
and a hunt on a grand scale arranged for this particular Sabbath. Of
course those in the neighbourhood hunted the kangaroo every Sunday, but
"on their own," and always on foot, which had its fatigues. This was to
be a raid EN MASSE and on horseback. The whole country-side was to
assemble at Shingle Hut and proceed thence. It assembled; and what a
collection! Such a crowd! such gear! such a tame lot of horses! and such
a motley swarm of lean, lank, lame kangaroo-dogs!

We were not ready. The crowd sat on their horses and waited at the
slip-rails. Dogs trooped into the yard by the dozen. One pounced on a
fowl; another lamed the pig; a trio put the cat up a peach-tree; one with
a thirst mounted the water-cask and looked down it, while the bulk of the
brutes trotted inside and disputed with Mother who should open the safe.

Dad loosed our three, and pleased they were to feel themselves free. They
had been chained up all the week, with scarcely anything to eat. Dad
did n't believe in too much feeding. He had had wide experience in dogs
and coursing "at home" on his grandfather's large estates, and always
found them fleetest when empty. OURS ought to have been fleet as
locomotives.

Dave, showing a neat seat, rode out of the yard on Bess, fresh and fat
and fit to run for a kingdom. They awaited Dad. He was standing beside