“Well, I suppose you’ll go straight back to the States as soon as you’ve done your business in Christchurch,” said the bagman, when near their journey’s end they had become confidential.
“Well, I dunno. I reckon I’ll just take a run over to Australia first. There’s an old mate of mine in business in Sydney, and I’d like to have a yarn with him.”
A DAY ON A SELECTION
The scene is a small New South Wales western selection, the holder whereof is native-English. His wife is native-Irish. Time, Sunday, about 8 a.m. A used-up looking woman comes from the slab-and-bark house, turns her face towards the hillside, and shrieks:
“T-o-o-mmay!”
No response, and presently she draws a long breath and screams again:
“Tomm-a-a-y!”
A faint echo comes from far up the siding where Tommy’s presence is vaguely indicated by half a dozen cows moving slowly—very slowly—down towards the cow-yard.
The woman retires. Ten minutes later she comes out again and screams:
“Tommy!