"He has nothing of his own?" queried Engelhardt, with jealous eyes upon the watch.
"Not a red cent," said Tom Chester, contemptuously. "He lived upon the old boss, and of course he meant to live upon his daughter after him. He was as poor as a church-mouse."
So indeed was the piano-tuner. He did not say as much, however, though the words had risen to his lips. He said no more until the overseer was actually in bed. Then a flash of inspiration caused him to ask, abruptly,
"Are you anything to do with Chester, Wilkinson, & Killick, the big wool-people down in Melbourne?"
"To do with 'em?" repeated Tom, with a smile. "Well, yes; at least, I'm Chester's son."
"I've heard that you own more Riverina stations than any other firm or company?"
"Yes; this is about the only one around here that we haven't got a finger in. That's why I came here, by the way, for a bit of experience."
"Then you don't want to marry her for her money. You'll have more than she ever will! Isn't that so?"
"What the blue blazes do you mean, Engelhardt?"