In the swagman’s tortured blue eyes leapt strange exultation as he strode along the branch track to the selector’s house flanked by windmill and reservoir tanks on one side and bysheepyards on the other.

There was that about the front of the house plainly indicating that the door on this side was never used, and, as any swagman would, Fisher passed round the side of the house to its back door. Just beyond this door was a round iron water-tank before which stood a girl gazing vacantly at the terrible sky while water from the tap filled a bucket.

“Good afternoon!” the swagman said, pitching his voice to master the howl of the wind about the roof.

The meeting produced a remarkable result. The girl cried out, sprang about, and then pressing back against the tank stared with undoubted fear shining from her dark-brown eyes. The water continued to gush into the bucket and began to overflow and run to waste along the short brick drain.

“The tap,” said the swagman, regarding the running water with a slight frown of disapproval.

Without removing her gaze from his face, the girl permitted herself to sink on bending knees until her groping hand found the tap and so shut off the water.

“You seem to be fearful of something,” Fisher said. “I hope you are not afraid of me.”

The friendliness in his eyes and the flash of his well-kept teeth had its effect. The ice of her fear began quickly to melt, and it was with evident relief that she asked him what he wanted.

“If you could spare me a little meat,” he replied. “I am on my way north and I intend to camp beside the waterhole on Nogga Creek. Catfish Hole, isn’t it?”

The girl nodded, normal composure not yet regained. Fisher gave her time, and presently she said:

“Yes, I can give you a little meat. But… but… Nogga Creek… in this weather!” Again her eyes grew big. “You wouldn’t camp there, would you? Not on a night that this is going to be?”