Arnold Bayard, the owner of the station, a wealthy and much-respected magnate in the land, had a particular fancy for this young fellow, whom he watched enjoying himself after his day, or indeed days, of toil and travail, with paternal benevolence.
'A deuced hard-working, honourable, well-principled young fellow,' he was wont to say. 'Every one ought to do him a good turn. I wish all the young ones were like him. His father, Captain Tressider, an old Waterloo veteran, bought that farm of theirs, on the Upper Hunter, instead of a station in the old days, and ruined himself trying to grow oranges and olives, and all that rot, instead of sheep and cattle. When he died, Hugh was left with his mother and the little brothers and sisters to look after. Quite a boy himself, too. He buckled to it then, and it has been all against collar with him ever since. Working like a nigger, and living like one, too, sometimes, but he has managed to keep them going, and pay for their education, though he came off rather short himself. Never mind that; I say he is as true a gentleman as ever stepped, and some day he must come out right. The Tressiders are high enough in point of birth. There's a title, too, in the family, I'm told, if the next heir at home were cleared off, but of course Hugh's too practical a fellow ever to bother his head about that.'
Thus far, Mr. Bayard. But this was only to strangers. Most of the people in the district knew so much, and honoured Hugh Tressider accordingly. Nobody could be poorer; no one could work harder. But curious as it may seem to those people who persist in manufacturing a stage Australia for themselves,—which is as like the country as the English milord of the Porte St. Martin, with his boule-dogue, his top-coat, and the ever-present 'god-dam,' to the real aristocrat,—there are few places where gentle birth and the manners which chiefly accompany that accidental circumstance are more truly honoured. So it will not be considered as anything very wonderful by Australians that Hugh Tressider, though only a drover by occupation, who received a certain sum per head for the conveying of large lots of cattle from one part of the colonies to another, known to be the son of a retired military officer, to be proverbially just, true, and self-respecting in all his dealings, was held in high estimation accordingly, and took rank socially with the best people, many of whom could have counted a thousand pounds to his every ten.
Hugh slept the sleep of the just that night, it may be confidently stated—the delicious, dreamless, utter repose of the fatigued worker; a luxury which the dwellers in high places of the earth very seldom taste. The dawn of a winter's morning had, however, but faintly commenced to tinge the lowering sky when he instinctively arose, and dressing with expedition proceeded to stir up his men and make preparations for an early start. The hut cook, an official whose position rarely permits of morning slumbers, was already up, and had the fire lighted which was to boil the huge breakfast-kettle. A restricted toilette suffices for road-hands in winter time. In half an hour the horses were saddled, a breakfast of beefsteak, damper, and hot tea disposed of, the packer fully accoutred, and all was ready for the road.
'Now boys,' says Tressider, 'I'll count the cattle out of the yard. There won't be another chance for a while. We've had a good night of it, thanks to Mr. Bayard. Let them feed for an hour or two, as soon as they steady to the road, and I'll overtake you somewhere about the Burnt Hut Flat.'
Having counted out his herd, which he was gratified to find turned out the correct number of six hundred and twenty-three—a matter which might well have otherwise resulted after the darkling difficulties of the previous night—and seen them straggle out over the wet green grass, the young man betook himself with a light heart back to the 'big house,' which he reached just in time for the family breakfast.
Here were assembled all the olive branches—from Melanie, aged sixteen, and giving promise of general captivation, to a roly-poly three-year-old boy, who ruled the household despotically, and sat on Hugh's knee, with wide wondering eyes scanning his features, as if seriously considering whether they had met in a former state of existence.
'Very glad to see you, Mr. Tressider,' said the lady of the house, a handsome, hospitable matron, as became the châtelaine of Barallan and the wife of Arnold Bayard; she couldn't well have been otherwise. 'We were afraid that you were going to be one of the mysterious guests who come after every one is in bed, and go away before they get up.'
'Like the avenger of blood in Anne of Geierstein, mother,' put in Melanie, with her hand on her parent's arm. 'There is something so weird about cattle-men. They always seem to be doing their work at unearthly hours, or beside watch-fires, like the people in the German legends.'
'And don't they have to light fires when they travel with sheep?' asked Jack, aged fourteen. 'Girls don't know anything about stock, do they, father?'