Joe was a naturalist. He spent a lot of time — time that Dad considered should have been employed cutting burr or digging potatoes — in ear-marking bears and bandicoots, and catching goannas and letting them go without their tails, or coupled in pairs with pieces of greenhide. The paddock was full of goannas in harness and slit-eared bears. THEY belonged to Joe.

Joe also took an interest in snakes, and used to poke amongst logs and brush-fences in search of rare specimens. Whenever he secured a good one he put it in a cage and left it there until it died or got out, or Dad threw it, cage and all, right out of the parish.

One day, while Mother and Sal were out with Dad, Joe came home with a four-foot black snake in his hand. It was a beauty. So sleek and lithe and lively! He carried it by the tail, its head swinging close to his bare leg, and the thing yearning for a grab at him. But Joe understood the ways of a reptile.

There was no cage — Dad had burnt the last one — so Joe walked round the room wondering where to put his prize. The cat came out of the bedroom and mewed and followed him for the snake. He told her to go away. She didn’t go. She reached for the snake with her paw. It bit her. She spat and sprang in the air and rushed outside with her back up. Joe giggled and wondered how long the cat would live.

The Rev. Macpherson, on his way to christen M’Kenzie’s baby, called in for a drink, and smilingly asked after Joe’s health.

“Hold this kuk-kuk-cove, then,” Joe said, handing the parson the reptile, which was wriggling and biting at space, “an’ I’ll gug-gug-get y’ one.” But when Mr. Macpherson saw the thing was alive he jumped back and fell over the dog which was lying behind him in the shade. Bluey grabbed him by the leg, and the parson jumped up in haste and made for his horse — followed by Bluey. Joe cried, “KUM ’ere!”— then turned inside.

Mother and Sal entered. They had come to make Dad and themselves a cup of tea. They quarrelled with Joe, and he went out and started playing with the snake. He let it go, and went to catch it by the tail again, but the snake caught HIM— by the finger.

“He’s bit me!” Joe cried, turning pale. Mother screeched, and Sal bolted off for Dad, while the snake glided silently up the yard.

Anderson, passing on his old bay mare, heard the noise, and came in. He examined Joe’s finger, bled the wound, and was bandaging the arm when Dad rushed in.

“Where is he?” he said. “Oh, you d — d whelp! You wretch of a boy! MY God!”

“’Twasn’ MY fault.” And Joe began to blubber.

But Anderson protested. There was no time, he said, to be lost barneying; and he told Dad to take his old mare Jean and go at once for Sweeney. Sweeney was the publican at Kangaroo Creek, with a reputation for curing snake-bite. Dad ran out, mounted Jean and turned her head for Sweeney’s. But, at the slip-rails, Jean stuck him up, and wouldn’t go further. Dad hit her between the ears with his fist, and got down and ran back.

“The boy’ll be dead, Anderson,” he cried, rushing inside again.

“Come on then,” Anderson said, “we’ll take off his finger.”

Joe was looking drowsy. But, when Anderson took hold of him and placed the wounded finger on a block, and Dad faced him with the hammer and a blunt, rusty old chisel, he livened up.

“No, Dad, NO!” he squealed, straining and kicking like an old man kangaroo. Anderson stuck to him, though, and with Sal’s assistance held his finger on the block till Dad carefully rested the chisel on it and brought the hammer down. It didn’t sever the finger — it only scraped the nail off — but it did make Joe buck. He struggled desperately and got away.

Anderson couldn’t run at all; Dad was little faster; Sal could run like a greyhound in her bare feet, but, before she could pull her boots off, Joe had disappeared in the corn.

“Quick!” Dad shouted, and the trio followed the patient. They hunted through the corn from end to end, but found no trace of him. Night came. The search continued. They called, and called, but nothing answered save the ghostly echoes, the rustling of leaves, the slow, sonorous notes of a distant bear, or the neighing of a horse in the grass-paddock.

At midnight they gave up, and went home, and sat inside and listened, and looked distracted.

While they sat, “Whisky,” a blackfellow from Billson’s station, dropped in. He was taking a horse down to town for his boss, and asked Dad if he could stay till morning. Dad said he could. He slept in Dave’s bed; Dave slept on the sofa.

“If Joe ain’t dead, and wuz t’ come in before mornin’,” Dave said, “there won’t be room for us all.”

And before morning Joe DID come in. He entered stealthily by the back-door, and crawled quietly into bed.

At daybreak Joe awoke, and nudged his bed-mate and said:

“Dave, the cocks has crowed!” No answer. He nudged him again.

“Dave, the hens is all off the roost!” Still no reply.

Daylight streamed in through the cracks. Joe sat up — he was at the back — and stared about. He glanced at the face of his bed-mate and chuckled and said:

“Who’s been blackenin’ y’, Dave?”

He sat grinning awhile, then stood up, and started pulling on his trousers, which he drew from under his pillow. He had put one leg into them when his eyes rested on a pair of black feet uncovered at the foot of the bed. He stared at them and the black face again — then plunged for the door and fell. Whisky was awake and grinned over the side of the bed at him.

“Wot makit you so fritent like that?” he said, grinning more.

Joe ran into Mother’s room and dived in behind her and Dad. Dad swore, and kicked Joe and jammed him against the slabs with his heels, saying:

“My GAWD! You DEVIL of a feller, how (KICK) dare you (KICK) run (KICK) run (KICK, KICK, KICK) away yesterday, eh?” (KICK).

But he was very glad to see Joe all the same; we all felt that Shingle Hut would not have been the same place at all without Joe.

It was when Dad and Dave were away after kangaroo-scalps that Joe was most appreciated. Mother and Sal felt it such a comfort to have a man in the house — even if it was only Joe.

Joe was proud of his male prerogatives. He looked after the selection, minded the corn, kept Anderson’s and Dwyer’s and Brown’s and old Mother Murphy’s cows out of it, and chased goannas away from the front door the same as Dad used to do — for Joe felt that he was in Dad’s place, and postponed his customary familiarities with the goannas.

It was while Joe was in charge that Casey came to our place. A starved-looking, toothless little old man with a restless eye, talkative, ragged and grey; he walked with a bend in his back (not a hump), and carried his chin in the air. We never saw a man like him before. He spoke rapidly, too, and watched us all as he talked. Not exactly a “traveller;” he carried no swag or billycan, and wore a pair of boots much too large. He seemed to have been “well brought up”— he took off his hat at the door and bowed low to Mother and Sal, who were sitting inside, sewing. They gave a start and stared. The dog, lying at Mother’s feet, rose and growled. Bluey wasn’t used to the ways of people well brought up.

The world had dealt harshly with Casey, and his story went to Mother’s heart. “God buless y’,” he said when she told him he could have some dinner; “but I’ll cut y’ wood for it; oh, I’ll cut y’ wood!” And he went to the wood-heap and started work. A big heap and a blunt axe; but it didn’t matter to Casey. He worked hard, and didn’t stare about, and didn’t reduce the heap much, either; and when Sal called him to dinner he couldn’t hear — he was too busy. Joe had to go and bring him away.

Casey sat at the table and looked up at the holes in the roof, through which the sun was shining.

“Ought t’ be a cool house,” he remarked.

Mother said it was.

“Quite a bush house.”

“Oh, yes,” Mother said —“we’re right in the bush here.”

H............