When the bailiff came and took away the cows and horses, and completely knocked the bottom out of Dad’s land scheme, Dad didn’t sit in the ashes and sulk. He wasn’t that kind of person. He DID at times say he was tired of it all, and often he wished it far enough, too! But, then, that was all mere talk on Dad’s part. He LOVED the selection. To every inch — every stick of it — he was devoted. ’T was his creed. He felt certain there was money in it — that out of it would come his independence. Therefore, he didn’t rollup and, with Mother by the hand and little Bill on his back, stalk into town to hang round and abuse the bush. He walked up and down the yard thinking and thinking. Dad was a man with a head.

He consulted Mother and Dave, and together they thought more.

“The thing is,” Dad said, “to get another horse to finish the bit of ploughing. We’ve got ONE; Anderson will lend the grey mare, I know.”

He walked round the room a few times.

“When that’s done, I think I see my way clear; but THAT’S the trouble.”

He looked at Dave. Dave seemed as though he had a solution. But Joe spoke.

“Kuk-kuk-couldn’t y’ b-reak in some kang’roos, Dad? There’s pul-lenty in th’ pup-paddick.”

“Couldn’t you shut up and hold your tongue and clear out of this, you brat?” Dad roared. And Joe hung his head and shut up.

“Well, y’ know”— Dave drawled —“there’s that colt wot Maloney offered us before to quieten. Could get ’im. ’E’s a big lump of a ’orse if y’ could do anythin’ with ’im. THEY gave ’im best themselves.”

Dad’s eyes shone.

“That’s th’ horse,” he cried. “GET him! To-morrow first thing go for him! I’LL make something of him!”

“Don’t know”— Dave chuckled —“he’s a ——”

“Tut, tut; you fetch him.”

“Oh, I’ll FETCH ’im.” And Dave, on the strength of having made a valuable suggestion, dragged Joe off the sofa and stretched himself upon it.

Dad went on thinking awhile. “How much,” he at last asked, “did Johnson get for those skins?”

“Which?” Dave answered. “Bears or kangaroos?”

“Bears.”

“Five bob, wasn’t it? Six for some.”

“What, A-PIECE?”

“Yairs.”

“Why, God bless my soul, what have we been thinking about? FIVE SHILLINGS? Are you sure?”

“Yairs, rather.”

“What, bear-skins worth that and the paddock here and the lanes and the country over-run with them — FULL of the damn things — HUNDREDS of them — and we, all this time — all these years — working and slaving and scraping and-and” (he almost shouted), “DAMN me! What asses we HAVE been, to be sure.” (Dave stared at him.) “Bear-skins FIVE SHILLINGS each, and ——”

“That’s all right enough,” Dave interrupted, “but ——”

“Of COURSE it’s all right enough NOW,” Dad yelled, “now when we see it.”

“But look!” and Dave sat up and assumed an arbitrary attitude. He was growing suspicious of Dad’s ideas. “To begin with, how many bears do you reckon on getting in a day?”

“In a day”— reflectively —“twenty at the least.”

“Twenty. Well, say we only got HALF that, how much d’ y’ make?”

“MAKE?” (considering). “Two pounds ten a day . . . fifteen or twenty pounds a week . . . yes, TWENTY POUNDS, reckoning at THAT even. And do you mean to tell ME that we wouldn’t get more than TEN............