For a whole day Mr Potts drove around and about with a selection from his stock.
But he never was allowed even a chance to exhibit a sample. Farmers, selectors, squatters, townsfolk, had all apparently quite made up their minds.
Times out of number he was threatened with personal violence, and greeted with language quite unprintable here.
Once sticks were thrown at him; and once an [197] ]old copy of the ‘Biography’ was hurled into the buggy, whilst cattle-dogs were heeling his horses. Clearly it was useless to persist. The district was fairly demoralised; and with a sigh, Mr Potts drove home to receive the ‘What did I tell you’s’ of the other ‘gents.’
But he was a resourceful man was Mr Potts, and he determined, before leaving the district for ever, to have one more attempt under conditions which should, at all events, give him an opportunity of displaying a specimen of his goods. Besides, he thirsted for vengeance on the community, and knew that if he could but get an opening it was his, full and complete.
. . . . . . . . . .
‘No objection to my camping here to-night, I s’pose?’ asked a rather forlorn-looking traveller of the cook at Barracaboo, shortly after the events related above.
‘Chop that heap o’ wood up, an’ you gets your supper an’ breakfus’,’ said the cook, laconically.
The traveller worked hard for an hour, and finished his task, handling the axe as if born to it, and provoking the cook’s admiration to such an extent that he went one better than his promise, and proffered a pint of tea and a lump of ‘brownie.’
Presently, lighting his pipe, and undoing his swag, the new-comer, remarking that there was nothing like a read for passing the time away, took out a gorgeously bound volume, sat down at the table, and was soon so interested that he let his pipe go out. Save for the cook, the long kitchen was empty, all the men being away on the run.