'Yes; it does seem a goodish price to pay for a half-bred mare—worth ten pound at the outside,' said old Bill, the cook for the rouseabouts at Jergoolah Station, one wet evening, as the men gathered round the fire after supper, with their pipes in their mouths. It had been wet for three days, so there was no shearing. Very little work for the other men either—half a hundred strong—as the wet-fleeced sheep were best left alone. The shearers were sulky of course. They were eating (and paying for) their own rations. But the ordinary 'pound-a-week men,' whose board, with lodging, was provided for them gratis, were philosophically indifferent to the state of the weather.
'I don't care if it rains till Christmas,' remarked a dissipated-looking youth, who had successfully finished a game of euchre with a dirty pack of cards and an equally unclean companion. 'It's no odds to us, so long's the creeks don't rise and block us goin' to the big smoke to blue our cheques. I don't hold with too much fine weather at shearin' time.'
'Why not?' asked his late antagonist, staring gloomily at the cards, as if he held them responsible for his losses.
'Why not?' repeated the first speaker; ''cause there's no fun in watchin' of bloomin' shearers makin' their pound and thirty bob a day while we can't raise a mag over three-and-six—at it all hours like so many workin' bullocks, and turned out the minute shearin's over, like a lot of unclaimed strangers after a cattle muster.'
'Why did ye come here at all?' asked a tall, broad-shouldered 'corn-stalk' from the neighbourhood of Penrith; 'nobody asked yer. There was plenty for the work afore you struck in. It's you town larrikins that spoil the sheds—blackguardin' and gamblin' and growlin' from daylight till dark. If I was the boss I'd set bait for ye, same's the dingoes.'
'You shut up and go home to yer pumpkin patch,' retorted the card-player, with sudden animation. 'You Sydney-siders think no one can work stock but yourselves. You've no right this side of the Murrumbidgee, if it comes to that; and I'd make one of a crowd to start you back where you come from, and all your blackleg lot.'
'Put up your hands, you spieler!' said the New South Wales man, making one long stride towards the light-weight, who, standing easily on guard, appeared in no way anxious to decline the combat.