In conversation with the brothers, he gathered that they had each a small farm ‘down the country,’ as they called it, where they kept a few cattle, raised reasonably regular crops, and generally lived an independent but unprogressive life. They admitted that they were pressed for room, and in a bad season lost many cattle. ‘How should you like to have a half section each on that flat which you see there?’ inquired Ernest, with the light of sanguine benevolence in his eye. ‘Your cattle would increase, and in a few years you might be well-to-do, prosperous men.’ The Australian yeoman, as he may fairly be called, is not wholly dissimilar to his American cousin, though the type is, as yet, not noticeably divergent from the Anglo-Saxon. Slow of speech, his reasoning faculties, within fixed limits, are active and vigorous. Concerning matters which relate to his personal or pecuniary welfare, a more shrewd, cool-judging individual does not exist. Well skilled in the valuable art of holding his tongue, he asks but few questions. He asserts little. But, if you happen to have the arrangement of a bargain in stock or land, or of a contract for carriage or bush-work, with the rural Australian, you will rarely find that the apparently impassive countryman has ‘got the wrong end of the stick.’ So, when Mr. Neuchamp made the somewhat unusual offer to Abraham Freeman and his brothers, William and Joe, of permitting them each to conditionally purchase three hundred and twenty acres upon the river-flat, below the house, himself finding the cash for the first deposit payment, they quickly ran over the advantages in their own minds, and came to the conclusion that the ‘cove,’ or proprietor, was an inexperienced swell, whom Providence had delivered into their hands. They realised the fact that, though cultivation was not likely to flourish in a land where it did not rain, sometimes, for six months, they would be able to keep as many cattle as they liked. From merely legitimate increase, not to speak of chances, such as always occur near large herds, they might look forward to a snug herd each in four or five years. They would have a place to keep their teams, and might continue their carrying uninterruptedly. They could by no possibility lose much, and might gain largely, by accepting Ernest’s offer. Still, with characteristic caution in ‘making a deal’ of any sort, they spoke hesitatingly. ‘Well, I don’t know, sir, about coming up here for good,’ said the eldest brother. ‘Our place down the country is comfortable like, and the cattle do middling well’ (half of them had died during the winter from cold and starvation). ‘I don’t know how my wife would like it either.’ ‘I should be sorry to urge a removal from anything very pleasant as a homestead,’ said Ernest; ‘but I thought, perhaps, that you might have the advantage here of more land, and the opportunity of getting on faster in life―of course you will, and have the carriage from the station.’