‘And I feel confident,’ answered Mr. Neuchamp, who was surveying with an eye of satisfaction his camp full of well-conditioned cattle, ‘that in less than two years there will be water all the way from the river to the Outer Lake. That will be something like an improvement, as you Australians call everything from a bark hut to a five-hundred guinea wash-pen.’ ‘I hope so,’ said Mr. Banks, without any great show of enthusiasm. ‘But improvements cost a deal of money, and my old uncle used to say that the money ought to come first, in station management, and the improvements afterwards. He made plenty, but he never would go into debt, even for his wool bales. He used to lecture me for buying so much as a pair of hobbles without paying cash.’ ‘The principle is sound, no doubt,’ replied Ernest thoughtfully. ‘But it may be pushed too far; I think many of the older pioneers might have made all the money they did in half the time if they had only had sufficient foresight to organise plans of reproductive outlay, certain to pay cent per cent upon any money which they might have expended, or even borrowed at reasonable interest, for their construction.’ ‘Old Nunkey used to say that reasonable interest had a knack of growing into unreasonable interest if you didn’t pay up half-yearly, which people often found something to prevent their doing,’ said the prudent youngster. ‘Of course, I don’t know much about spending money―I never had any to speak of; but there’s nothing beats a certainty, _I_ think.’ Here ‘the tail’ of the large lot of cattle of which ‘the head’ was so sensational and satisfactory, made their appearance, much gratified at being permitted to round up on the camp and mingle with the main multitude, with which they exchanged pushes, greetings, and salutations. Behind them rode Jack Windsor, accompanied by a band of picked volunteers, who, with him, had done an immense amount of outpost duty since sunrise. It was considered reasonable to devote half an hour to rest and refreshment, which comprehended the calming down of the somewhat excited cattle, and a smoke for the stockmen. After this a disposition of forces was made. Certain moderate performers were told off to encircle and keep within the camp limits the main body of the cattle, while ‘the equestrian talent’ was selected to carry out the more dashing and delicate duty of ‘cutting out.’ And few tasks had a more difficult appearance than to divide the fierce and wild-eyed bullocks from the mixed medley of a thousand head of cattle of all ages and sizes which crowded the camp. First, Jack Windsor and a friendly centaur―part and parcel of a violent black mare―ran out half a dozen quiet cattle, placing them in charge of three other men, at about two hundred yards’ distance from the camp. Then he, Charley Banks, and half a dozen of the best mounted men went in to the herd, and commenced to run out, singly or in pairs, such fat cattle as were up to the marketable standard.