Rolf Boldrewood
In Bad Company and other stories
FIVE MEN'S LIVES FOR ONE HORSE
'Yes; it does seem a goodish price to pay for a half-bred mare – worth ten pound at the outside,' said old Bill, the cook for the rouseabouts at Jergoolah Station, one wet evening, as the men gathered round the fire after supper, with their pipes in their mouths. It had been wet for three days, so there was no shearing. Very little work for the other men either – half a hundred strong – as the wet-fleeced sheep were best left alone. The shearers were sulky of course. They were eating (and paying for) their own rations. But the ordinary 'pound-a-week men,' whose board, with lodging, was provided for them gratis, were philosophically indifferent to the state of the weather.
'I don't care if it rains till Christmas,' remarked a dissipated-looking youth, who had successfully finished a game of euchre with a dirty pack of cards and an equally unclean companion. 'It's no odds to us, so long's the creeks don't rise and block us goin' to the big smoke to blue our cheques. I don't hold with too much fine weather at shearin' time.'
'Why not?' asked his late antagonist, staring gloomily at the cards, as if he held them responsible for his losses.
'Why not?' repeated the first speaker; ''cause there's no fun in watchin' of bloomin' shearers makin' their pound and thirty bob a day while we can't raise a mag over three-and-six – at it all hours like so many workin' bullocks, and turned out the minute shearin's over, like a lot of unclaimed strangers after a cattle muster.'
'Why did ye come here at all?' asked a tall, broad-shouldered 'corn-stalk' from the neighbourhood of Penrith; 'nobody asked yer. There was plenty for the work afore you struck in. It's you town larrikins that spoil the sheds – blackguardin' and gamblin' and growlin' from daylight till dark. If I was the boss I'd set bait for ye, same's the dingoes.'
'You shut up and go home to yer pumpkin patch,' retorted the card-player, with sudden animation. 'You Sydney-siders think no one can work stock but yourselves. You've no right this side of the Murrumbidgee, if it comes to that; and I'd make one of a crowd to start you back where you come from, and all your blackleg lot.'
'Put up your hands, you spieler!' said the New South Wales man, making one long stride towards the light-weight, who, standing easily on guard, appeared in no way anxious to decline the combat.
'Come, none of that, you Nepean chap,' said a good-humoured, authoritative voice; 'no scrappin' till shearin's over, or I'll stop your pay. Besides, it's a daylight start to-morrow morning. I've a paddock to clear, and the glass is rising. The weather's going to take up.' This was the second overseer, whose word was law until the 'cobbler' was shorn, and the last man with the last sheep left the shed amid derisive cheers. After a little subdued 'growling,' the combatants, there being no grog to inflame their angry passions, subsided.
'What's that old Bill was sayin' about horses and men's lives? I heard it from outside,' demanded the centurion. 'Any duffing going on?'
'Why, Joe Downey passed the remark,' made answer a wiry-looking 'old hand,' then engaged in mending one of his boots so neatly that he might have passed for a journeyman shoemaker, had it not been an open secret that he had learned the trade within the walls of a gaol, 'that if a man was to "shake" a horse here and ride him into Queensland, he'd never be copped.'
'Oh, he wouldn't, eh? And why did Bill get his hair off?'
'Well, Bill he says, "You're a d – d young fool," says he. "I've seen smarter men than you lose their lives over a ten-pound 'oss – yes, and bring better men to the same end."'
'But he said something about five men,' persisted the overseer. 'What did he mean by that?'
'What did I mean by that?' said the old man, who had now drawn nearer, in stern and strident tones. 'Why, what I say. It's God's truth, as I stand here, and the whole five of 'em's now in their graves – as fine a lot of men, too, as ever you see – all along of one blasted mare, worth about two fivers, and be hanged to her!'
The old man's speech had a sort of rude eloquence born of earnestness, which chained the attention of the variously composed crowd; and when Mr. Macdonald, the overseer, said, 'Come, Bill, let's have it. It's a lost day, and we may as well hear your yarn as anything else before turn-in time,' the old man, thus adjured, took his pipe out of his mouth, and seating himself upon a three-legged stool, prepared to deliver himself of a singular and tragic experience.
William James, chiefly referred to as 'old Bill,' was a true type of the veritable 'old hand' of pre-auriferous Australia. Concerning an early voyage to Tasmania he was reticent. He referred to the period ambiguously as 'them old times,' when he related tales of mystery and fear, such as could have only found place under the régime of forced colonisation. No hirsute ornament adorned his countenance. Deeply wrinkled, but ever clean-shaved, it was a face furrowed and graven, as with a life-record of the darker passions and such various suffering as the human animal alone can endure and live. Out of this furnace of tribulation old Bill had emerged, in a manner purified and reformed. He gave one the impression of a retired pirate – convinced of the defects of the profession, but regretful of its pleasing episodes. Considered as a bush labourer, a more useful individual to a colony did not live. Bill could do everything well, and do twice as much of it as the less indurated industrialist of a later day. Hardy, resourceful, tireless, true to his salt, old Bill had often been considered by the sanguine or inexperienced employer an invaluable servant. And so in truth he was, until the fatal day arrived when the 'cheque fever' assailed him. Then, alas! 'he was neither to hand nor to bind.' No reason, interest, promise or principle had power to restrain him from the mad debauch, when for days – perhaps for weeks – all semblance of manhood was lost.
However, he was now in the healthful stage of constant work – well fed, paid and sheltered. Cooking was one of his many accomplishments: in it he excelled. While, despite his age, his courage and determination sufficed to keep the turbulent 'rouseabouts' in order. In his leisure hours he was prone to improve the occasion by demonstrating the folly of colliding with the law – its certain victory, its terrible penalties. And of the gloomy sequel to a solitary act was the present story.
'I mind,' he began – pushing back the grey hair which he wore long and carefully brushed – 'when I was workin' on a run near the Queensland border. It's many a long year ago – but that says nothin'; some of you chaps is as young and foolish as this Jack Danvers as I'm a-goin' to tell ye about. Well, some of us was startin' a bit of a spree like, after shearin'; we'd all got tidy cheques; some was goin' one way and some another. Jack and his mate to Queensland, where they expected a big job of work. Just as we was a-saddlin' up – some of us had one neddy, some two – a mob of horses comes by. I knew who they belonged to – a squatter not far off. Among 'em was a fine lump of a brown filly, three year old, half bred, but with good action.
'"That's a good filly," says Jack – he'd had a few glasses – "she could be roped handy in the old cattle-yard near the crick. Lead easy too, 'long with the other mokes."
'"Don't be a darned fool, Jack," says I; "there'll be a bloomin' row over her, you take it from me. She's safe to be missed, and you'll be tracked up. D – n it all, man," says I, "what's a ten-pound filly for a man to lose his liberty over? If it was a big touch it might be different."
'"You're a fine cove to preach," says he, quite savage. The grog had got into his head, I could see. "Mind your own – business." I heard his mate (he was a rank bad 'un) say something to him, and they rode away steady; but the same road that the "mob" had gone. I went off with some other chaps as wer' inside having a last drink, and thought no more about Jack Danvers and the brown filly till nigh a year after. Then it come out. The filly'd been spotted, working in a team, by the man that bred her. The carrier bought her square and honest; had a receipt from a storekeeper. They found the storekeeper in Queensland; he'd bought her from another man. "What sort of a man?" – "Why, a tall, good-looking chap, like a flash shearer." Word went to the police at Warwillah. It was Jack Danvers of course; they'd suspected him and his mate all the time.
'Well, Jack was nabbed, tho' he was out on a Queensland diggin' far enough away. But they sent up his description from the shed we'd left together, and he was brought down in irons, as he'd made a fight of it. The storekeeper swore to him positive as the man that had sold him the brown J.D. filly – old Jerry Dawson's she was. The jury found him guilty and he got three years.
'Now I'm on to the part of the play when the "ante-up" comes in. You mind me, you young fellers, it always does sooner or later. He'd no call to shake that filly. I said so then, and I say so now. And what come'd of it? Listen and I'll tell you —Death in five chapters – and so simple, all along of an unbroke filly!
'Now Jack wa'n't the man to stop inside of prison walls if he could help it. He and another chap make a rush one day, knock over the warder and collar his revolver. Another warder comes out to help; Jack shoots him dead, and they clear. Man's life number one. Big reward offered. They stick up a roadside inn next. Somebody gave 'em away. Police waitin' on 'em as they walk in – dead of night. Soon's they see the police, Jack shoots the innkeeper, poor devil! thought he'd sold 'em. Man's life number two. Jack and his mate and the police bang away at each other at close quarters – trooper wounded – Jack shot dead – mate wounded, dies next day. Men's lives number four.
'Who gave the office to the police and collared the blood-money? Friend of Jack's, a pal. Five hundred quid was too much for him. What became of him? Job leaked out somehow – friends and family dropped him. The money did him no good. Took to drinking straight ahead, and died in the horrors within the year. Men's lives number five.
'Yes; he was the fifth man to go down. Two pound apiece their lives fetched! They're in their graves because Jack Danvers was a d – d fool, and when he was young, strong, good-looking and well-liked, must go and duff a man's mare out of sheer foolishness. He didn't see what was to come of it, or he'd 'a cut off his right hand first. But that's the way of it. We don't see them things till it's too late. But mark my words, you young chaps as has got all the world before you – take a fool's advice. It don't pay to "go on the cross"– never did; and there's no one has cause to know it better than old Bill James.'
'By George!' said the overseer, 'that's the best yarn I have heard for a year. And if the parson preaches a better sermon when he holds service in the woolshed next Sunday, I'll be surprised.'
REEDY LAKE STATION
The Post-office clock in Bourke Street, Melbourne, is about to strike six, in the month of June 1858. At this 'everlastingly early hour A.M. in the morning' (as remarked by Mr. Chuckster), I am the box-passenger of Cobb's coach, en route for Bendigo. The team of greys stand motionless, save for a faint attempt to paw on the part of the near-side leader. The first stroke vibrates on high. Mr. Jackson, with an exclamation, tightens his 'lines.' The six greys plunge at their collars, and we are off.
There was no Spencer Street terminus in those days. We were truly thankful to King Cobb. I, for one, was glad to get over a hundred miles of indifferent road in a day – winter weather, too. We did not grumble so comprehensively as latter-day travellers.
Remembered yet, how, when we came to the long hill at Keilorbridge, the driver let his horses out when half-way down. The pace that we went 'was a caution to see.' The wheel-spokes flew round, invisible to the naked eye. The coach rocked in a manner to appal the nervous. The horses lay down to it as if they were starting for a Scurry Stakes. But it was a good piece of macadam, and we were half-way up to the next hill before any one had time to think seriously of the danger.
Nobody, of course, would have dared to have addressed the driver upon the subject. In those flush days, when both day and night coaches loaded well, when fares were high and profits phenomenal, he was an autocrat not to be lightly approached. It almost took two people to manage a communication – one to bear the message from the other. Silent or laconic, master of his work in a marvellous degree, he usually resented light converse, advice infuriated him, and sympathy was outrage.
The roads were bad, even dangerous in places. Muddy creeks, bush-tracks, sidelings, washed-out crossings, increased the responsibilities and tried the tempers of these pioneer sons of Nimshi. Men of mark they mostly were. Americans to a man in that day, though subsequently native-born Australians, acclimatised Irishmen, and other recruits of merit, began to show up in the ranks.
I remember the astonishment of a newly-arrived traveller at seeing Carter, a gigantic, fair-bearded Canadian, coming along a baddish road one wet day, with seven horses and a huge coach, containing about fifty Chinamen. How he swayed the heavy reins with practised ease, his three leaders at a hand-gallop; how he piloted his immense vehicle through stumps and ruts, by creek and hillside, with accuracy almost miraculous to the uninitiated.
Mr. Carter was not a 'man of much blandishment.' I recall the occasion, when a spring having gone wrong, he was, with the assistance of a stalwart passenger, silently repairing damage. A frivolous insider commenced to condole and offer suggestions in a weakly voluble way. 'Go to h – l,' was the abrupt rejoinder, which so astonished the well-meaning person, that he retreated into the coach like a rabbit into a burrow, and was silent for hours afterwards.
One always had the consciousness, however, that whatever could be done by mortal man, would be accomplished by them. Accidents might happen, but they belonged to the category of the inevitable.
One dark night, near Sawpit Gully, a tire came off. Al. Hamilton (poor fellow! he was killed by an upset in New South Wales afterwards) was off in a minute; found his way to the smith's house; had him back in an inconceivably short time; left word for us to get the fire lighted and blown up – it was cold, and we thought that great fun; and before another man would have finished swearing at the road, the darkness, and things in general, the hammer was clinking on the red-hot tire, the welding was progressing, and in three-quarters of an hour we were bowling along much as before. We had time to make up, and did it too. But suppose the blacksmith would not work? Not work! He was Cobb and Co.'s man – that is, he did all their 'stage' repairs. Well he knew that the night must be to him even as the day when their humblest vehicle on the road needed his aid. As a firm they went strictly by results and took no excuses. If a man upset his coach and did damage once, he was shifted to another part of the line. If he repeated the accident, he was dismissed. There was no appeal, and the managing body did not trouble about evidence after the first time. If he was negligent, it served him right. If he was unlucky, that was worse.
The journey to Bendigo was accomplished at the rate of nine miles an hour, stoppages included. It was midwinter. The roads were deep in places. It was therefore good-going, punctual relays, and carefully economised time, which combined to land us at Hefferman's Hotel before darkness had set in. As usual a crowd had collected to enjoy the great event of the day.
Bendigo was in that year a very lively town, with a population roused to daily excitement by fortunes made or lost. Gold was shovelled up like sugar in bankers' scoops, and good money sent after bad in reckless enterprise, or restored a hundredfold in lucky ventures.
Here I was to undergo a new experience in company with Her Majesty's Mails.
As I rather impatiently lingered outside of Hefferman's after breakfast next morning, an unpretending tax-cart, to which were harnessed a pair of queer, unmatched screws, drove up to the door. 'German Charlie' – his other name I never knew – driver and contractor, informed me that I was the only passenger, lifted my valise, and the talismanic words 'Reedy Creek' being pronounced, vowed to drop me at the door. He had always parcels for Mr. Keene. This gentleman's name he pronounced with bated breath, in a tone of deepest veneration.
Beyond all doubt would I be landed there early on the morrow.
I mounted the Whitechapel, saw my overcoat and valise in safely, and, not without involuntary distrust, committed myself to Charlie's tender mercies. He gave a shout, he raised his whip – the off-side horse made a wild plunge; the near-side one, blind of one eye, refused to budge. Our fate hung on the balance apparently, when a man from the crowd quietly led off the unwilling near-side, and we dashed away gloriously. The pace was exceptional, but it was evidently inexpedient to slacken speed. We flew down the main street, and turned northward, along a narrow track, perilously near to yawning shafts, across unsafe bridges, over race channels; along corduroy roads, or none at all, our headlong course was pursued. The sludge-invaded level of Meyer's Flat is passed. Bullock Creek is reached, all ignorant of reservoirs and weirs, and a relay of horses driven in from the bush is demanded.
A smart boy of fourteen had the fresh team, three in number, ready for us in the yard. He felt it necessary to warn us. They 'were not good starters, that was a fact.' The statement was strictly correct. One horse was badly collar-galled, one a rank jib. The leader certainly had a notion of bolting; his efforts in that direction were, however, neutralised by the masterly inactivity of his companions. After much pushing, persuasion, and profane language, we effected a departure.
That the pace was kept up afterwards may be believed. Sometimes the harness gave way, but as the shaft and outrigger horses were by this time well warmed, they did not object to again urge on their wild career.
We stopped at the 'Durham Ox Inn' that night, then a solitary lodge in the wilderness, a single building of brick, visible afar off on the sea-like plain, which stretched to the verge of the horizon. Woods Brothers and Kirk had at that time, if I mistake not, just concluded to purchase Pental Island from Ebden and Keene, but were debating as to price. The pasture seemed short and sparse, after the deep, rich western sward, but overtaking a 'mob' of Messrs. Booth and Argyle's cattle farther on, I felt satisfied as to its fattening qualities. Each cow, calf, steer, and yearling in the lot was positively heaped and cushioned with fat. They looked like stall-fed oxen. And this in June! I thought I saw then what the country could do. I was correct in my deduction, always supposing the important factor of rain not to be absent. Of this, in my inexperience, I took no heed. In my favoured district there was always a plentiful supply; sometimes, indeed, more than was agreeable or necessary.
Kerang was passed; Tragowel skirted; Mount Hope, then in the occupation of Messrs. Griffith and Greene, reared its granite mass a few miles to the south. As Sir Thomas Mitchell stood there, gazing over the illimitable prairie, rich with giant herbage and interspersed but with belts and copses of timber, planted by Nature's hand, the veteran explorer exclaimed with a burst of enthusiasm, 'Australia Felix! This is indeed Australia Felix!'
Steady stocking and an occasional dry season had somewhat modified the standard of the nutritive grasses and salsolaceous plants, at this point advantageously mingled. But that the country was superlative in a pastoral point of view may be gathered from the fact that, upon my first visit to the homestead a few weeks afterwards, I saw five thousand weaners – the whole crop of lambs for the previous year —shepherded in one flock. Very fine young sheep they were, and in excellent condition. Of course it was on a plain, but, unless the pasturage had been exceptional, no shepherd could have kept such a number together.
Later in the afternoon my Teutonic conductor, who had been going for the last twenty miles like the dark horseman in Burger's ballad, pulled up at Reedy Lake Head Station. There dwelt the resident partner and autocrat of his district, Mr. Theophilus Keene.
I saw a slight, fair man with an aquiline nose, a steady grey eye, and an abundant beard, who came out of a neat two-roomed slab hut and greeted me with polished courtesy. 'He was extremely glad to see me. He had looked forward to my coming this week in terms of a letter he had received from Messrs. Ryan and Hammond, but, indeed, had hardly expected that I would trust myself to their mail.'
Mr. Keene, whom I saw then for the first time, was probably verging on middle age, though active and youthful in appearance, above the middle height, yet not tall – of a figure inclined indeed to spareness. He impressed me with the idea that he was no commonplace individual.
He carried nothing of the bushman about his appearance, at home or in town, being careful and soigné as to his apparel, formal and somewhat courtly in his address. He scarcely gave one the idea of a dweller in the waste; yet the roughest experiences of overlanding squatter-life, of a leader of the rude station and road hands, had been his. He looked more like a dandy Civil Servant of the upper grades. Yet he was more than a pioneer and manager – an astute diplomatist, a clever correspondent, an accurate accountant. The books of the Reedy Lake Station were kept as neatly as those of a counting-house. The overseer's sheep-books, ration accounts, and road expenses were audited as correctly as if in an office. The great station-machine revolved easily, and, though unaided by inventions which have smoothed the path of latter-day pastoralists, was a striking illustration of successful administration.
This large and important sheep property, as it was held to be in those primeval times, had considerably over 150,000 sheep on its books. Reedy Lake stood for the whole, but Quambatook, Murrabit, Lake Boga, Liegar, Pental Island and other runs were also comprised within its boundaries. These were separate communities, and were, upon the subdivision of the property, sold as such. These were worked under the supervision of overseers and sub-managers, each of whom had to render account to Mr. Keene – a strict one, too – of every sheep counted out to the shepherds of the division in his charge.
Mr. Ebden, erstwhile Treasurer of Victoria and for some years a member of Parliament, was the senior partner. He had sagaciously secured Mr. Keene, then wasting his powers on the Lower Murray, by offering him a third share of the property, with the position of resident partner and General Manager. Mr. Ebden, residing in Melbourne, arranged the financial portion of the affairs, while Mr. Keene was the executive chief, with almost irresponsible powers, which he used unreservedly – no doubt about that.
This was the day, let it be premised, of 'shepherding,' pure and simple. There were, in that district at least, no wire fences, no great enclosures, no gates, no tanks. Improvements, both great and small, were looked upon as superfluous forms of expensiveness. To keep the shepherds in order, to provide them with rations and other necessaries, to see that they neither lost the sheep nor denied them reasonable range, – these were the chief duties of those in authority. And tolerably anxious and engrossing occupation they afforded.
Thus the great Reedy Lake Head Station, always mentioned with awe, north of the Loddon, was not calculated to strike the stranger with amazement on account of its buildings and constructions, formed on the edge of the fresh-water lake from which it took its name. The station comprised Mr. Keene's two-roomed hut aforesaid; also a larger one, where the overseers, young gentlemen, and strangers abode – known as The Barracks; the kitchen, a detached building; the men's huts, on the shore of the lake, at some considerable distance; an inexpensive, old-fashioned woolshed might be discerned among the 'old-man salt-bush' nearly a mile away; a hundred acre horse-paddock, surrounded by a two-railed sapling fence; a stock-yard —voilà tout; there was, of course, a store. These were all the buildings thought necessary for the management of £150,000 worth of sheep in that day. How different would be the appearance of such a property now!
The special errand upon which I had journeyed thus far was to inspect and, upon approval, to accept an offer in writing, which I carried with me, of the Murrabit Station, one of the subdivisions of the Reedy Lake property, having upon it sixteen thousand sheep and no improvements whatever, except the shepherds' huts and a hundred hurdles. The price was £24,000 – one-third equal to cash, the remainder by bills extending over three years.
The tide of investment had set in strongly in the direction of sheep properties, near or across the Murray. I had followed the fashion for the purpose, presumably, of making the usual fortune more rapidly than through the old-fashioned medium of cattle. To this end it was arranged that Mr. Keene and I, with one of the overseers whom I had known previously, should on the morrow ride over and inspect the Murrabit country and stock, lying some twenty miles distant from Reedy Lake.
It is held to be bad form in Bushland to mount an intending purchaser badly. It is unnecessary to say that it was not done in this case. No detail was omitted to produce a state of cheerful self-complacency, suited to the distinguished rôle of guest and buyer. When Mr. Keene's famous pony Billy, an animal whose fame was heralded in two colonies, and from the Loddon to the Murrumbidgee, was led forth, I felt I was indeed the favoured guest. He certainly was 'the horse you don't see now,' or, if so, very very rarely. Neat as to forehand, with a round rib and powerful quarter, fast, easy, and up to weight, he was difficult to match. The area from Kerang northwards was known as 'salt-bush' country. But little grass showed except on the edges of watercourses. Bare patches of red sandy loam between the salsolaceous plants did not lead the early explorers to consider it first-rate pasturage. Varieties, however, were plentiful, from the 'old-man salt-bush,' seven to ten feet high, to the dwarf-growing but fattening plants on the plain. The cotton-bush, too, known to indicate first-class fattening country, was plentiful. Perhaps the best testimony to the quality of the herbage, however, and which I was sufficiently experienced to appreciate, was the uniform high health and condition of every flock of sheep that we saw. Nothing could be finer than their general appearance, as indeed is always the case in reasonably-stocked salt-bush country; no foot-rot, no fluke, and, absit omen, no sheep-scab. This dire disease was then, unhappily, common in Western Victoria. It had been a fair season. Everything was fit to bear inspection. The wether flock looked like donkeys for size, the breeding ewes were fit for market, the weaners precociously fat and well-grown. Nothing could look better than the whole array.
Besides the salt-bush country, plains chiefly, and a large dry lake, there was an important section of the run known as 'The Reed-beds,' which I was anxious to visit. This tract lay between Lake Boga, a large fresh-water lake on one side, the Murrabit, an anabranch, and the south bank of the Murray. In order to ride over this it was arranged that we should camp at the hut of a shepherd, known as 'Towney,' on Pental Island, thence explore the reed-beds and see the remaining sheep on the morrow.
Pental Island, formed by the Murrabit, a deep wide stream, which leaves the main river channel and re-enters lower down, we found to be a long, narrow strip of land, having sound salt-bush ridges in the centre, with reed-beds on either side. Crossing by a rude but sufficient bridge, we discovered Mr. 'Towney' living an Alexander Selkirk sort of life, monarch of all he surveyed, and with full charge of some ten or twelve thousand sheep turned loose. The bridge being closed with hurdles, they could not get away. His only duty was to see that no enterprising dingo swam over from Murray Downs on the opposite side and ravaged the flock.
The night was cloudless and starlit, lovely in all aspects, as are chiefly those of the Riverina – an absolutely perfect winter climate. The strange surroundings, the calm river, the untroubled hush of the scene, the chops, damper, and tea, all freshly prepared by Towney, were enjoyable enough. After a talk by the fire, for the night air was cool, and a smoke, we lay down on rugs and blankets and slept till dawn. Our entertainer was dejected because he had not a Murray cod to offer us. 'If we had only come last week.' 'Tis ever thus.
That day's ride showed me the reed-beds in the light of sound, green, quickly-fattening pastures. At one angle of the Murrabit, on my run – for my run, indeed, it was destined to be – there were two flocks of sheep, five thousand in all, of which the shepherds and hut-keeper inhabited the same hut. It was managed thus. One flock was camped on the northern side of the bridge, one on the other. The hut-keeper, long disestablished, but then considered an indispensable functionary, cooked for both shepherds. £30 a year with rations was the wage for the shepherds; £25 for the hut-keeper.
Then there was a frontage of, perhaps, a mile and a half to the southern end of Lake Boga. This noble fresh-water lake, having shelving, sandy shores, is filled by the rising of the Murray. On the bluff, to the right of the road to Swan Hill, was a curious non-Australian cottage, built by Moravian missionaries, and situated upon a reserve granted to them by the Government of Victoria. These worthy personages, becoming discouraged at the slow conversion of the heathen, or deeming the locale unsuitable, sold their right and interest to Messrs. Ebden and Keene. I decided to place the head station close by, and there, I suppose, it is at the present day.
