Mosey untied the fine upstanding grey horse from the rear of his wagon; I hitched Bunyip to a tree, and mounted Fancy, and we cantered away together across the plain; the ponderous empty wagon—Sydney-side pattern—with eight bullocks in yoke and twelve travelling loose, coming more clearly into detail through the vibrating translucence of the lower atmosphere. Alf did n't deign to stop. I noticed a sinister smile on his sad, stern face as Mosey gaily accosted him.
"An' how's the world usin' you, Alf? Got red o' Pilot, I notice. Ever see sich a suck-in? Best at a distance, ain't he? Tell you what I come over for, Alf: They say things is middlin' hot here on Runnymede; an' we're in a (sheol) of a (adjective) stink about what to do with our frames to-night. Our wagons is over there on the other track, among the pines. Where did you stop las' night? Your carrion's as full as ticks."
"I had them in the selection; took them out this morning after they lay down."
"Good shot!"
"Why, I don't see how it concerns you."
"The selection's reasonable safe—ain't it?"
"Please yourself about that."
"Is the ram-paddick safe?".
"No."
"Is there enough water in the tank at the selection?"