Although he would never again see his sixtieth birthday, Mr Stanton’s movements were springy, his body was still lithe and supple, and beneath his white pent eyebrows scintillated searching grey eyes. Here was a man raised on the back of a horse, not on a cushioned seat behind a motor steering-wheel.

The men’s quarters were situated on the creek-bank, shaded by gnarled box-trees. Outside the weather-boarded, iron-roofed kitchen and dining-room, flanked by the cane-grass meat-house and a huge iron triangle supported by two posts and cross-beam, he found a number of his men awaiting their orders for the day. Seeing him, the men ceased talking, and, seeing them, Mr Stanton paused, scratched his head, and looked vacantly at the cook, the picture of a man trying hard to find jobs for a pack of useless loafers. At last:

“Morning!”

“Morning, Jeff!” several replied in unison.

“How were the sheep doing in the Seven-Mile, Ted?” Mr Stanton asked a stalwart brown-bearded man, dressed in white moleskin trousers, a blue shirt, an exceedingly old felt hat, and elastic-sided riding-boots.

“They’resettlin ’ down-settlin’ down,”came the drawled reply.

“Well, you settle down into that saddle of yours and look ’emover again. We can’t risk them weaner ewes getting hung up in a corner. When you’ve got ’embroke in properly to find their way to water, you can have a day’s drunk in Mount Lion on full pay.”

Mr Stanton smiled grimly. Ted looked sheepish, but pleased, and moved away to the horse-yards. The boss glared at another rider, slim, agile and swarthy.

“Better take a ride round Hell’s Swamp, Joe,” he ordered. “Water should be dried up and swamp probably boggy. Alec can go with you. Engine going good at Stewart’s Well, Jack?”