Yet, in spite of this useful gift of discovery, its owner was neither liked nor trusted. Uncharitable people—especially the ones whom he took such trouble to oblige—would persist in hinting that none knew so well where to find as those that hid. All sorts of odds and ends, too, from an unbranded calf to a sheepskin, from a new tarpaulin to a pair of hobbles, had a curious knack of disappearing within a circuit of fifty miles of the Browns’ residence. In appearance, Steve was long, lathy, awkward and freckled, also utterly ignorant of all things good for man to know. Suspicious, sly and unscrupulous, just able by a sort of instinct to decipher a brand on an animal, he was a thorough specimen of the very worst type of far inland Australian Bush Native, and only those who have met him can possibly imagine what that means. Years ago, his parents, fresh from the wilds of Connemara, had squatted on this forest reserve of Scrubby Corner. How they managed to live was a mystery. But they were never disturbed; and in time they died, leaving Steve, then eighteen, to shift for himself, by virtue of acquired knowledge. Shortly after the death of his mother, he took unto himself the daughter of an old shepherd on a run adjoining—a fit match in every way—and continued to keep house in the ramshackle shanty in the heart of the Corner. He had never been known to do a day’s work if he could possibly get out of it; much preferring to pick up a precarious living by ‘trading’ stock, ‘finding’ stragglers, and in other ways even less honest than the last, but which nobody, so far, had taken the trouble of bringing home to him. * * * * * It was Sunday, and the caravan was spelling for the day. Greg, having had his dinner—only a half ration, as feed was scarce—and feeling but little inclined for a chat with the tiger, or the lion, or the bear, or any other of the sulky, brooding creatures behind the iron bars, whom he saw every day, and of whose company he was heartily tired, took it into his great head to have a look at the country. So, unperceived of Hassan Ali, who was fast asleep in the hot sunshine, or any of the rest dozing in the tents, Greg, plucking a wattle up by the roots to keep the flies off, sauntered quietly away. He was not impressed by inland Australia. In the first place it was hot and dusty, also the flies were even worse than in his native Ceylon. Nor, so far as he could discover, was there anything to chew—that is—no tender banana stems, no patches of young rice or succulent cane. All that he tried tasted bitter, tasted of gum, peppermint, or similar abominations. He spat them out with a grunt of disgust, and meandered on.