they kept pictures in Sydney, and she told him, the Art Gallery.
"Well some of these days I'm goin' down ter Sydney," he continued, "an' I'll collar thet one 'cos it's a good likerness of ther 'orses—you'd know their 'ide on a gum-tree—an' that mean mongrel never paid me ther five bob."
Between his closed teeth he hissed a bush tune for some miles, but ceased to look at the sky, and remarked, "No sign er rain! No lambin' this season; soon as they're dropt we'll 'ave ter knock 'em all on ther 'ead!" He shouted an oath of hatred at the crows following after the tottering sheep that made in a straggling line for the water. "Look at 'em!" he said. "Scoffin' out ther eyes!" He pointed to where the crows hovered over the bogged sheep. "They putty well lives on eyes! 'Blanky bush Chinkies!' I call 'em. No one carn't tell 'em apart!"
There was silence again, except for a remark that he could spit all the blanky rain they had had in the last nine months.
Away to the left along a side track his eyes travelled searchingly, as they came to a gate. He stood in the buggy and looked again.
"Promised ther 'Konk' t' leave 'im 'ave furst squint
