Mount Gambier was ever a thriving town, and important as a police administrative centre. The passenger who had joined the coach at Adelaide changed here to an old bus that connected Mount Gambier with the small fishing village called Cowdry. The way ran over the low hills and climbed to the famed Blue Lake, into which, so said the cynical driver, the Mount Gambier people emptied tons of washing blue every six months. Beyond this serene pool the road crossed bare uplands where even the occasional tree seemed lifeless.

“Depressing, isn’t it,” observed the man from Adelaide, who was seated immediately behind the local driver.

“Yair, looks grim all right,” agreed the driver. “Still, there’s no argument. Old Wickham predicted the drought, and them who wouldn’t believe him deserved what they’re getting. There’s lots of people who howled him down for crying drought, and lots who’ve been on his side. Would have cheered him up if he’d lived.”

“His home was down this way, I understand,” said the Adelaide passenger.

“Yair. Place about twenty thousand acres called Mount Mario. You can see it ahead just right of that line of pines. They took his body to Adelaide for cremation, and flew the ashes back and scattered ’emover Mount Mario. Nice-lookin’ place from the road. I’ll pull up and let you take a peep at it. You’re staying with John Luton, you said. You get off at the bridge.”

“Thanks. Yes, Mr. Luton invited me down for a few days’ fishing. The kingfish are in, he tells me.”

“Coming around. Bit early this year. Where you from?”

To this frank question the passenger proffered a lie, as the driver’s curiosity was due to habit. They came to the line of pines bordering the road and offering a magnificent windbreak to the pasture-lands beyond. Then into the line of trees grew the white sandstone pillars of a gateway, where the bus stopped.