Lester was coming from breakfast and Martyr met him. He was middle-aged, shrivelled like a mummy by the embalming sun and wind. He affected a straggling moustache to hide his long nose. His pale-blue eyes were always red-rimmed and watery, and he was cursed by a sniffle which deputized as a chuckle. A good stockman, a reliable worker, for the time being Bob Lester was acting homestead rouseabout, doing all the chores from bringing in the working hacks early to milking cows and slaughtering ration sheep at evening.

“Morning, Bob!”

“Mornin’, Mr Martyr!” The watery eyes peered from under bushy grey brows.

“Not up your street. Bob, but would you go with Mac to Johnson’s?” Without waiting for assent, Martyr concluded: “Draw your lunches, and give Mac a hand with the portable pump. By the way, the breaker will be coming out tomorrow.”

Lester sniffed.

“Tomorrow, eh! Do we know him?”

“I don’t. Goes by the name of Bony. A caste, from what the Boss implied. Ever hear of him?”

“No… not by that name. Them sort’s terrible good with horses when they’re good, and terrible bad when they’re crook.” Lester claimed the truism. “You givinghim an offsider?”

“Haven’t decided,” replied the overseer, abruptly distant, and Lester sniffled and departed to ask Mrs Fowler to provide lunches.

Martyr strolled to the shed housing the power plant and started the dynamo. From there he crossed to the stock-yards, where the men were saddling horses. The night horse used by Lester to bring in the workers was waiting, and Martyr mounted the horse to take the unwanted hacks back to their paddock, a chore normally falling to the rouseabout. On his return, he assistedMacLennon and Lester to load the portable pump and saw they had the right tools for the work at Johnson’s Well, and after they had driven away he went into the house and stood for the second time this morning on the front veranda overlooking Lake Otway.