On inspection the pole was found to have snapped about a foot from the fore-carriage, upon which the broken stump, catching the ground, had turned that important part of the mechanism under the waggon, causing the alarming jolt. The pole being ‘fished’ with a pine sapling and numberless saddle-straps, the remaining ten miles were safely accomplished rather under the hour, with the middle of the mended pole trailing in the dust. They were heartily welcomed at Rainbar by Mr. Brigalow, the overseer, who produced some good whisky, and with an invention of his own, called a geebung, a fair imitation of soda water was concocted, in which all present drank success to the purchaser. On the morning after their arrival at Rainbar no time was lost by the restless Parklands, who was astir and alive to the utmost possible extent at daylight. Mr. Neuchamp, too excited to sleep during the night, had fallen asleep before dawn. He had but dozed off, it appeared to him, and now here was Parklands rousing up everybody, catching horses, whistling to the dogs, swearing at the black boys, throwing missiles at Brandon’s door, and generally making as much noise as a dozen ordinary people. Where work of any general nature is on foot in the bush, breakfast is the first important stage, being indispensable, as, whatever other meals may be partaken of provisionally or left to chance, human nature urgently cries out for one ‘square meal,’ _pour commencer_. The cook therefore came in for his share of intimidation and criticism from this terrible early bird. Eventually the whole party found themselves assembled for breakfast at the comparatively early hour of 5.30 a.m., while through the unglazed open windows they could see the partially filled horse-yard, in which stood every available screw and stock-horse on the place. ‘Now, Neuchamp,’ commenced Mr. Parklands, only partially arresting the process of deglutition, ‘we must come to a decision about the muster. I am bound by the terms of my agreement with old Father Frankston―rather a downy old bird, in spite of his jolly ways and out-and-out dinners―to get in all the herd and count them over to you. I would rather not do it, I confess; not because I’m afraid of my numbers, but it takes time. I have to be in Melbourne in ten days, in Adelaide in three weeks. Besides, it knocks the cattle about. Doesn’t it, Aymer?’ ‘Of course it does,’ assented that gentleman; ‘but it has an element of safety about it, as far as the purchaser is concerned.’ ‘No doubt of that; but in cases where the books have been so regularly kept for years, as Brigalow’s here, any man can see that he _must_ get his numbers if he takes them by the book total, with a decent percentage knocked off for deaths, etc., for fear of accidents.’