Up to this time hope had prevailed among the sore disheartened stock-owners that the weather must change. It would be unnatural, impossible, that such a season could last over the next three months. There would be some rain, and even a little rain in that strange country, where most of the trees and shrubs are edible and even fattening for stock, counts for much. Were it to last for three months more millions of sheep and hundreds of thousands of cattle would be lying dead on the bare, dusty, wind-swept wastes, which had formerly been considered to be pastures.
Could this thing be? The old colonists shook their heads. They remembered 1837–38–39—during which memorable years but little rain fell, when flour was £100 per ton, when rice even was too expensive for consumption, when more than half of the handful of stock then in New South Wales perished for lack of food. With the present heavily-stocked runs what manner of desolation might be expected now?
In the midst of this “horror of a great tempest—when men’s hearts were failing them for fear”—John Redgrave received this letter, lying innocently, anguis in herbâ, among the ordinary contents of his Monday morning’s mail-bag:—
“Bank of New Holland,
”June 30th, 1868.
“John Redgrave, Esq., Gondaree, Warroo.
“My dear Sir,—I have been instructed by the Board of Directors to draw your attention to the amount of your over-draft, amounting, at date, with interest, to £30,114 12s. 9d., which I am to request that you will reduce at your earliest convenience.
“I remain,
“Yours faithfully,
”Mildmay Shrood.”