"So'd Mr. Beresford. But he couldn't see sixty cows left unmilked. An' those six beauties of his would have walked off like a shot an' left his cows. They've done it on lots of places. Once you start dairyin', you can be as proud as you like on your own account, but you've got to be jolly meek and humble on account of the cows."
"Is Beresford still at it?"
"Not he. He sold all his cows, and went back to sheep; it was a pity, too, 'cause he'd good land an' a lovely herd. But Mrs. Beresford was too delicate, an' he wouldn't have her worked to death. Anyhow, she did die, afterwards, poor thing!"
"Well!" said Tom expressively. "That puts dairying out of the question; one doesn't want to risk experiences of that kind."
"It's all very well if you're brought up to it," said the visitor. "Then you get used to all sorts of things. But you ain't." He looked at them reflectively. "You've both of you got 'city' written all over you, if you don't mind me sayin' so. That bein' so, I couldn't advise you to try cows."
"Well, look here," said Tom. "Say I go in for sheep and young stock, as you said—knowing nothing about them. Is there a reliable man—any settler living near—who would buy them for me—for a commission, of course—and advise me about selling, when they were fit to sell?"
"Bless you, I'd do that, without any ol' commission," said O'Connor cheerfully.
"I couldn't have that. If I take up your time I must pay you."
"Take up my time! Why, you've on'y got to come to sales with me—I'm always 'goin' to them—an' let me give you a word of advice: an' I can come over here now and then, to see how they were doin'. That ain't nothing to be paid for. You'll want to put in a bit of a crop for winter feed, an' I'll lend you my plough an' horses an' 'Possum—you can pay for them, if you like."
"Who is 'Possum?"