“Let your sheep go, my man,” said Gordon, in a tone which somehow arrested the attention of nearly all the shearers, “but don’t trouble yourself to catch another!”

“Why not?” said the delinquent, sulkily.

“You know very well why not!” replied Gordon, walking closely up to him, and looking straight at him with eyes that began to glitter, “you’ve had fair warning.  You’ve not chosen to take it.  Now you can go!”

“I suppose you’ll pay a man for the sheep he’s shorn?” growled out the ruffian.

“Not one shilling until after shearing.  You can come then if you like,” answered Gordon, with perfect distinctness.

The cowed bully looked savagely at him; but the tall powerful frame and steady eye were not inviting for personal arbitration of the matter in hand.  He put up his two pairs of shears, put on his coat, and walked out of the shed.  The time was passed when Red Bill or Terrible Dick (ruffians whom a sparse labour-market rendered necessary evils) would have flung down his shears upon the floor and told the manager that if he didn’t like that shearing he could shear his------sheep himself and be hanged to him; or, on refusal of instant payment, would have proposed to bury his shears in the intestines of his employer by way of adjusting the balance between Capital and Labour.  Many wild tales are told of woolshed rows.  I knew of one squatter stabbed mortally with that fatal and convenient weapon, a shear-blade.

The man thus summarily dealt with could, like most of his companions, shear very well if he took pains.  Keeping to a moderate number of sheep, his workmanship could be good.  But he must needs try and keep up with Billy May or Abraham Lawson, who can shear from 100 to 130 sheep per day, and do them beautifully.  So in “racing” he works hastily and badly, cuts the skin of his luckless sheep nearly as often as the wool, and leaves wool here and there on them, grievous and exasperating to behold.  So sentence of expulsion goes forth fully against him.  Having arrayed himself for the road he makes one more effort for a settlement and some money wherewith to pay for board and lodging on the road.  Only to have a mad carouse at the nearest township, however; after which he will tell a plausible story of his leaving the shed on account of Mr Gordon’s temper, and avail himself of the usual free hospitality of the bush to reach another shed.  He addresses Mr Gordon with an attempt at conciliation and deference.

“It seems very ’ard, sir, as a man can’t get the trifle of money coming to him, which I’ve worked ’ard for.”

“It’s very hard you won’t try and shear decently,” retorts Mr Gordon, by no means conciliated.  “Leave the shed!”

Ill-conditioned rascal as the shearer is, he has a mate or travelling-companion in whose breast exists some rough idea of fidelity.  He now takes up the dialogue.

“I suppose if Jim’s shearing don’t suit, mine won’t either.”