“I was shearing in them sheds in ’52 when old Shenty owned the run.  He was a rum old miser, he was, would skin two devils for one hide; believe he has gone to hell; hope so, at any rate.  He couldn’t read nor write much, but he could make money better’n any man I ever heard of.  Bought two runs on the Murray, and paid 180,000 pounds for ’em in one cheque.  He kept a lame schoolmaster to write his cheques and teach his children, gave him 40 pounds a year, the same as a shepherd.  Lived mostly on mutton all the year round; never killed no beef for the station, but now and then an old bullock past work, salted him down in the round swamp for a change o’ grub.  Never grew no cabbage or wegetables, only a paddock of potatoes.  Didn’t want no visitors, ’cos he was afraid they’d want to select some of his run.  Wanted everything to look as poor and miserable as possible.  He put on a clean shirt once a week, on Sabbath to keep it holy, and by way of being religious.  Kept no fine furniture in the house, only a big hardwood table, some stools, and candle boxes.  After supper old Mother Shenty scraped the potato skins off the table into her apron —­she always boiled the potatoes in their jackets—­and then Shenty lay down on it and smoked his pipe till bedtime, thinking of the best way to keep down expenses.  A parson came along one day lifting a subscription for a church, or school, or something.  He didn’t get anything out of old Shenty, only a pannikin of tea and some damper and mutton.  The old cove said:  ’Church nor school never gave me nothing, nor do me no good, and I could buy up a heap o’ parsons and schoolmasters if I wanted to, and they were worth buying.  Us squatters is the harrystockrisy out here.  The lords at home sends out their good-for-nothing sons to us, to get rich and be out of the way, and much good they does.  Why don’t you parsons make money by your eddication if it’s any good, instead of goin’ round beggin’?  You are all after the filthy lucre, wantin’ to live on other folks.’  I was holdin’ the parson’s horse, and when he got into the saddle, he turns to old Shenty, and says:  ’From rottenness you sprung, and to rottenness you’ll go.  Your money will drag you down to hell; you’ll want to throw it away, but it will burn into your soul for all eternity.’

“I am mortal hungry,” continued Bob, “and they don’t give no rations until about sundown, and we’ll have to wait six hours.  It’s hard lines.  I see there’s an orchard there now, and most likely a wegtable garden—­and cabbages.  I’d like some boiled beef and cabbage.  It wouldn’t be no harm to try and get somethin’ to eat, anyhow.  What do you say, Ned?  You was a swell cove once, and knows how to talk to the quality.  Go and try ’em.”

Ned went and talked to the “quality” so well that he brought back rations for three.