The unknown looked calmly at me with a rather amused countenance (I was about fourteen, and scarcely looked my age), and then said, "Who the devil are you?"
"My name's Boldrewood," I returned, "and this is our run, and no one has any right to come here and shoot or do anything else without my father's leave."
"Gad! I thought it was the Lord of the Manor at least! You're a smart youngster, but I don't know that there are any game laws in this country. What are you going to do with me for instance?"
The stranger turned out to be a guest at a neighbouring station. There were cattle stations in the vicinity in those days. Anyhow, we compromised matters and finished the day together.
Not far from the spot the late John Hunter Kerr, afterwards of Fernihurst, had a veritable cattle station. I attended one of the musters for a purpose. The cattle were in the yard, with various stock-riders and neighbours sitting around, preparatory to drafting, as I rode up, attended by a sable retainer driving a horse and cart.
What did I please to want? "I've come for our black J. B. bullock," said I. "He has been running with your cattle these two years, and I thought he would most likely come in with your muster."
"He is here sure enough, and in fine order, but how are you going to take him home? He always clears the yard when we begin to draft, and no stock-rider about here can drive him single-handed."
"I'll take him home fast enough," returned I, with colonial confidence, "if he'll stay in the yard long enough for me to shoot him."
"Oh, that's the idea," quoth Mr. Kerr. "Go to work; only don't miss him or drop any of my cattle."
"No fear."