* * * * *
Shortly before eleven, Strong was closeted in his private office with a burly man of unmistakably bush appearance, modified both in voice and dress by considerable contact with the towns. Of sandy complexion, broad features and light-coloured eyes that did not look one full in the face, the man was of the type that attracts upon casual acquaintance but about which there is an indefinable something which, without actually repelling, effectually prevents any implicit confidence.
"You have been an officer of the shearers' union, you say?" enquired
Strong, coldly.
"I've been an honorary officer, never a paid one," answered the man, who held his hat on his knee.
"There's a man in Sydney now, named Hawkins. Do you know him?"
"Yes. I've shorn with him out at the—"
"What sort of a man is he?" interrupted Strong.
"He's a young fellow. There's not much in him. He talks wild."
"Has he got much influence?"
"Only with his own set. Most of the men only want a start to break away from fellows like Hawkins. I'm confident the new anion I was talking of, admitting 'freedom of contract,' would break the other up and that Hawkins and the rest of them couldn't stop it."