“But it’s your home for the present.”
The man threw a few more sticks on the fire, and said nothing.
“I say, Leather, what sort of a place is it?”
“Station’s like other stations.”
“Yes, but is it pretty—beautiful?”
“No.”
“What? My father said it was a grand place with a glorious view.”
“It’s built of wood and thatched with bark, and you can see a long way.”
“But the mountains?”
“There are mountains; so there are for miles.”