When Dad received two hundred pounds for the wheat he saw nothing but success and happiness ahead. His faith in the farm and farming swelled. Dad was not a pessimist — when he had two hundred pounds.

“Say what they like,” he held forth to Anderson and two other men across the rails one evening —“talk how they will about it, there’s money to be made at farming. Let a man WORK and use his HEAD and know what to sow and when to sow it, and he MUST do well.” (Anderson stroked his beard in grave silence; HE had had no wheat). “Why, once a farmer gets on at all he’s the most independent man in the whole country.”

“Yes! Once he DOES!” drawled one of the men — a weird, withered fellow with a scraggy beard and a reflective turn of mind.

“Jusso,” Dad went on, “but he must use his HEAD; it’s all in th’ head.” (He tapped his own skull with his finger). “Where would I be now if I hadn’t used me head this last season?”

He paused for an answer. None came.

“I say,” he continued, “it’s a mistake to think nothing’s to be made at farming, and any man” (“Come to supper, D— AD!”—’t was Sal’s voice) “ought t’ get on where there’s land like this.”

“LAND!” said the same man —“where IS it?”

“Where IS it?” Dad warmed up —“where IS N’T it? Isn’t this land?” (Looking all round.) “Isn’t the whole country land from one end to the other? And is there another country like it anywhere?”

“There isn’t!” said the man.

“Is there any other country in th’ WORLD” (Dad lifted his voice) “where a man, if he likes, can live” (“Dad, tea!”) “without a shilling in his pocket and without doing a tap of work from one year’s end to the other?”

Anderson didn’t quite understand, and the weird man asked Dad if he meant “in gaol.”

“I mean,” Dad said, “that no man should starve in this country when there’s kangaroos and bears and”—(Joe came and stood beside Dad and asked him if he was DEAF)—“and goannas and snakes in thousands. Look here!” (still to the weird man), “you say that farming”—(Mother, bare-headed, came out and stood beside Joe, and asked Anderson if Mrs. Anderson had got a nurse yet, and Anderson smiled and said he believed another son had just arrived, but he hadn’t seen it)—“that farming don’t pay”—(Sal came along and stood near Mother and asked Anderson who the baby was like)—“don’t pay in this country?”

The man nodded.

“It will pay any man who ——”

Interruption.

Anderson’s big dog had wandered to the house, and came back with nearly all that was for supper in his mouth.

Sal squealed.

“drop IT— drop IT, Bob!” Anderson shouted, giving chase. Bob dropped it on the road.

“DAMN IT!” said Dad, glaring at Mother, “wot d’ y’ ALL want out ’ere? . . . Y-YOU brute!” (to the dog, calmly licking its lips).

Then Anderson and the two men went away.

But when we had paid sixty pounds to the storekeeper and thirty pounds in interest; and paid for the seed and the reaping and threshing of the wheat; and bought three plough-horses, and a hack for Dave; and a corn-sheller, and a tank, and clothes for us all; and put rations in the house; and lent Anderson five pounds; and improved Shingle Hut; and so on; very little of the two hundred pounds was left.

Mother spoke of getting a cow. The children, she said, couldn’t live without milk and when Dad heard from Johnson and Dwyer that Eastbrook dairy cattle were to be sold at auction, he said he would go down and buy one.

Very early. The stars had scarcely left the sky. There was a lot of groping and stumbling about the room. Dad and Dave had risen and were preparing to go to the sale.

I don’t remember if the sky was golden or gorgeous at all, or if the mountain was clothed in mist, or if any fragrance came from the wattle-trees when they were leaving; but Johnson, without hat or boots, was picking splinters off the slabs of his hut to start his fire with, and a mile further on Smith’s dog was barking furiously. He was a famous barker. Smith trained him to it to keep the wallabies off. Smith used to chain him to a tree in the paddock and hang a piece of meat to the branches, and leave him there all night.

Dad and Dave rode steadily along and arrived at Eastbrook before mid-day. The old station was on its last legs. “The flags were flying half-mast high.” A crowd of people were there. Cart-horses with harness on, and a lot of tired-looking saddle-hacks, covered with dry sweat, were fastened to cart-wheels, and to every available post and place. Heaps of old iron, broken-down drays and buggies and wheel-barrows, pumps and pieces of machinery, which Dad reckoned were worth a lot of money, were scattered about. Dad yearned to gather them all up and cart them home. Rows of unshaven men were seated high on the rails of the yards. The yards were filled with cattle — cows, heifers, bulls, and calves, all separate — bellowing, and, in a friendly way, raking skins and hair off each other with their horns.

The station-manager, with a handful of papers and a pencil behind his ear, hurried here and there, followed by some of the crowd, who asked him questions which he didn’t answer. Dad asked him if this was the place where the sale was to be. He looked all over Dad.

A man rang a bell violently, shouting, “This way for the dairy cows!” Dad went that way, closely followed by Dave, who was silent and strange. A boy put a printed catalogue into Dad’s hand, which he was doubtful about keeping until he saw Andy Percil with one. Most of the men seated on the rails jumped down into an empty yard and stood round in a ring. In one corner the auctioneer mounted a box, and read the conditions of sale, and talked hard about the breed of the cattle. Then:

&............