‘By Jove, when I think of those early days, Sparks, how sanguine we must all have been to see anything but ruin, writ large, in such investments. The only sheep one could buy were very indifferent as to the quality, size, and constitution. They had been lambed twice a year for the purpose of stocking up new country, and it was chiefly on paper that the splendid frontages looked in any manner or shape tempting. The calculation had been based on Riverina scales of labour, outlay, and profit. Once on the ground the “dead horse” stood confessed. How often have you and I seen a healthy, high-couraged youngster start out for these fascinating territories of limitless mulga-downs, full-freighted with hope, flattery, coin, and courage―friendship, with delusive crayon, sketching golden futures, cautious capital proffering loans with both hands. At the end of five years returns a subdued, bronzed, resolved-looking man, with signs of dust from the road of Time “upon brow and beard.” His pecuniary correspondents, who, to say truth, have not come off scatheless, scowl upon him. But his “own people” and his true old friends receive the scarred and desert-worn Crusader with loving words and open arms. With these tarries he, till again the trumpet peals for another tilt with the veiled antagonist of the future.’ ‘Devilish fine, old man. You’re a most sentimental buffer after the second tumbler. Can’t be licked, in fact―but how about the nigger? I wonder you had the heart to shoot him―two poetical cusses like you and Lorton. Why didn’t you give him a moral pocketankercher?’ ‘I appeal to Mr. Neuchamp for protection from your coarse attacks,’ quoth Aymer with mock dignity. ‘Perhaps, after all, this incident is of trifling interest.’ ‘My dear Mr. Brandon,’ cried out Ernest, terrified at the idea of losing a tragedy, ‘I sincerely trust that you will not think of withdrawing your promise to give us this deeply interesting tale. I feel painfully curious to hear the sequel.’ Thus adjured, and with a withering look at Parklands, Mr. Brandon proceeded. ‘We devoted the next few days at Tthoondula to fixing the spade-press―that friendly adjunct to the pioneer-squatter’s humble woolshed, and topping up the brush yard at the equally primitive washpool. I decided upon taking charge of the shed, leaving the lavatory to my partner.