‘A rolling stone gathers no moss, Dick,’ said Wilfred. ‘You’ll never save up anything if you carry out those ideas always.’
‘I don’t want to save nothing, sir. I’ve no call to keep money in a box; I can find work pretty well wherever I go that will keep me and my old woman in full and plenty. I’m safe of my wages as long as I can work, and when I can’t work no more I shall die—suddent like. I’ve always felt that.’
‘But why don’t you get a bit of land, Dick, and have a place of your own? You could easily save enough money to buy a farm.’
‘Bless your heart, sir, I wouldn’t live on a farm allers, day in, day out, if you’d give me one. I should get that sick of the place as I should come to hate the sight of it. But hadn’t you better settle with yourself like, sir, what kind of stock you’re agoin’ to bid for when we get to Mick’s? There’ll be a lot of people there, and noise, and perhaps a little fighting if there’s any grog goin’, so it’s best to be ready for action, as old Sir Hugh Gough used to tell us.’
‘Mr. Churbett and Mr. Hamilton thought I should buy all the mixed cattle, as many of them would be ready for the butcher before winter.’
‘So they will, sir, or my name’s not Richard Evans, twice corporal in the old 50th, and would have been sergeant, if I’d been cleverer at my book, and not quite so clever at the canteen. But that’s neither here nor there. What I look at is, they’re all dairy-bred cattle, and broke in close to your own run, which saves a power of trouble. If you can get a hundred or two of ’em for thirty shillings or two pound a head, they’ll pay it all back by next season—easy and flippant.’
Finishing up with his favourite adjective, which he used when desirous of showing with what ridiculous ease any given result might be obtained, Mr. Richard Evans lighted his pipe with an air of assurance of success which commenced to infect his employer.
About mid-day they reached the abode of Michael Donnelly, Esq., as such designated by the local papers, who ‘was about to submit to public competition his quiet and well-bred herd of dairy cattle, his choice stud, his equipages, farming implements, teams, carts, harness, etc., with other articles too numerous to mention.’ Other articles there were none, except he had decided to sell the olive branches. Wilfred was shocked at the appearance of the homestead of this thriving farmer. The falling fences, the neglected orchard, the dilapidated hut, the curiously patched and mended stock-yard, partly brush, partly of logs, with here and there a gap, secured by a couple of rude tree-forks, with a clumsy sapling laid across—all these did not look like the surroundings of a man who could give his cheque for several thousand pounds. However, the personal appearance of Mick himself, an athletic, manly, full-bearded fellow, as also that of his family, was decidedly prepossessing. They were busily attending to the various classes of stock, with much difficulty kept apart for purposes of sale. Whatever else these Australian Celts lacked, they had been well nourished in youth and infancy. A finer sample of youthful humanity, physically considered, Wilfred had never seen. The lack of order everywhere visible had in no way reacted upon their faculties. All their lives they had known abundant nutriment, unrestricted range. Healthful exercise had been theirs, congenial labour, and diet unstinted in the great essentials. Few other considerations had entered into the family councils.
And now they were about to migrate, like the world’s elder children, to a land promising more room. Then, as now, a higher life was possible, where the sheep and the oxen, the camels and the asses, would enjoy a wider range. The sale over, they would once more resume that journey which, commencing soon after the marriage day of Michael Donnelly and Bridget Joyce, was not ended yet.
Wilfred Effingham was soon confirmed in his opinion that he had done well to attend. Many of the neighbouring settlers were there, as well as farmers and townspeople from Yass, brought together by the mysterious attraction of an auction sale. One of the townspeople, asking first if he was Mr. Effingham of Warbrok, put into his hand a note which ran as follows:—