Now and then a man takes his tucker-bags and goes down to the station
for a bit of flour, or meat, or tea, or sugar, choosing the time when
the manager is likely to be out on the run. The cook here is a "good
cook," from a traveller's point of view; too good to keep his place
long.

Occasionally someone gets some water in an old kerosene-tin and washes
a shirt or pair of trousers, and a pair or two of socks--or
foot-rags--(Prince Alfreds they call them). That is, he soaks some of
the stiffness out of these articles.

Three times a day the black billies and cloudy nose-bags are placed on
the table. The men eat in a casual kind of way, as though it were
only a custom of theirs, a matter of form--a habit which could be left
off if it were worth while.

The Exception is heard to remark to no one in particular that he'll
give all he has for a square meal.

"An' ye'd get it cheap, begod!" says a big Irish shearer. "Come
and have dinner with us; there's plenty there."

But the Exception only eats a few mouthfuls, and his appetite is gone;
his stomach has become contracted, perhaps.

The Wreck cannot eat at all, and seems internally disturbed by the
sight of others eating.

One of the men is a cook, and this morning he volunteered
good-naturedly to bake bread for the rest. His mates amuse themselves