They had been grubbing
that day, and were tired. The night was nearly dark. Dad lay upon his
back, watching the stars; Dave upon his stomach, his head resting on his
arms. Both silent. One of the draught-horses cropped the couch-grass
round about them. Now and again a flying-fox circled noiselessly overhead,
and "MOPOKE!--MOPOKE!" came dismally from the ridge and from out the
lonely-looking gully. A star fell, lighting up a portion of the sky, but
Dad did not remark it. In a while he said:
"How old are you, Dave?" Dave made a mental calculation before answering.
"S'pose I must be eighteen now ...Why?"
A silence.
"I've been thinking of that land at the back--if we had that I believe we
could make money."
"Yairs--if we HAD."
Another silence.
"Well, I mean to have it, and that before very long."
Dave raised his head, and looked towards Dad.
"There's four of you old enough to take up land, and where could you get
better country than that out there for cattle? Why" (turning on his side
and facing Dave) "with a thousand acres of that stocked with cattle and
this kept under cultivation we'd make money--we'd be RICH in a very
few years.
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