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 did n't answer.
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