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.
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