It is hot, and two shearers' cats―a black and a white one―sit in one of the upper bunks with their little red tongues out, panting like dogs. These cats live well during shearing, and take their chances the rest of the year just as shed rouseabouts have to do. They seem glad to see the traveller come; he makes things more homelike. They curl and sidle affectionately round the table-legs, and the legs of the men, and purr, and carry their masts up, and regard the cooking with feline interest and approval, and look as cheerful as cats can―and as contented. God knows how many tired, dusty, and sockless ankles they rub against in their time.
Now and then a man takes his tucker-bags and goes down to the station for a bit of flour, or meat, or tea, or sugar, choosing the time when the manager is likely to be out on the run. The cook here is a 'good cook,' from a traveller's point of view; too good to keep his place long.
Occasionally someone gets some water in an old kerosene tin and washes a shirt or pair of trousers, and a pair or two of socks―or foot-rags―(Prince Alfreds they call them). That is, he soaks some of the stiffness out of these articles.
Three times a day the black billies and cloudy nose-bags are placed on the table. The men eat in a casual kind of way, as though it were only a custom of theirs, a matter of form―a habit which could be left off if it were worth while.
The Exception is heard to remark to no one in particular that he'll give all he has for a square meal.
'An' ye'd get it cheap, begod!' says a big Irish
