Dan was only going to stay a short while at home, he said, then was off
West again. Dad tried to persuade him to change his mind; he would have
him remain and help to work the selection. But Dan only shook his head
and laughed.

Dan accompanied Dad to the plough every morning, and walked cheerfully up
and down the furrows all day, talking to him. Sometimes he took a turn at
the plough, and Dad did the talking. Dad just loved Dan's company.

A few days went by. Dan still accompanied Dad to the plough; but did n't
walk up and down with him. He selected a shade close by, and talked to
Dad from there as he passed on his rounds. Sometimes Dan used to forget
to talk at all--he would be asleep--and Dad would wonder if he was unwell.
Once he advised him to go up to the house and have a good camp. Dan went.
He stretched himself on the sofa, and smoked and spat on the floor and
played the concertina--an old one he won in a raffle.

Dan did n't go near the plough any more. He stayed inside every day, and
drank the yeast, and provided music for the women. Sometimes he would
leave the sofa, and go to the back-door and look out, and watch Dad
tearing up and down the paddock after the plough; then he'd yawn, and
wonder aloud what the diggins it was the old man saw in a game like that
on a hot day; and return to the sofa, tired. But every evening when Dad
knocked off and brought the horses to the barn Dan went out and watched
him unharnessing them.

A month passed. Dad was n't so fond of Dan now, and Dan never talked of
going away. One day Anderson's cows wandered into our yard and surrounded
the hay-stack. Dad saw them from the paddock and cooeed, and shouted for
those at the house to drive them away. They did n't hear him. Dad left