“Look here, all of you!  You know very well that I’m not bound to find you in fine weather.  Still I am aware that the season has been against you.  You have shorn pretty well, so far, though I’ve had to make examples, and am quite ready to make more.  What I am willing to do is this:  to every man who works on till the finish and shears to my satisfaction, I will make a fair allowance in the ration account.  That is, I will make no charge for the beef.  Does that suit you?” There was a chorus of “All right sir, we’re satisfied.  Mr Gordon always does the fair thing.” &c.  And work was immediately resumed with alacrity.

The clerk of the weather, too gracious even in these regions as far as the absence of rain is concerned, was steadily propitious.  Cloudless skies and a gradually ascending thermometer alone were the signs that spring was changing into summer.  The splendid herbage ripened and dried; patches of bare earth began to be discernible amid the late thick-swarded pastures, dust to rise and cloud-pillars of sand to float and eddy—­the desert genii of the Arab.  But the work went on at a high rate of speed, outpacing the fast-coming summer; and before any serious disasters arose, the last flock was “on the battens,” and, amid ironical congratulations, the “cobbler,” or last sheep was seized, and stripped of his rather dense and difficult fleece.  In ten minutes the vast woolshed, lately echoing with the ceaseless click of the shears, the jests, the songs, the oaths of the rude congregation, was silent and deserted.  The floors were swept, the pens closed, the sheep on their way to a distant paddock.  Not a soul remains about the building but the pressers, who stay to work at the rapidly lessening piles of fleeces in the bins, or a meditative teamster who sits musing on a wool-bale, absorbed in a calculation as to when his load will be made up.

It is sundown, a rather later time of closing than usual, but rendered necessary by the possibility of the “grand finale.”  The younger men troop over to the hut, larking like schoolboys.  Abraham Lawson throws a poncho over his broad shoulders, lights his pipe, and strides along, towering above the rest, erect and stately as a guardsman.  Considerably more so than you or I, reader, would have been, had we shorn 130 sheep, as he has done to-day.  Billy May has shorn 142, and he puts his hand on the five-foot paling fence of the yard and vaults over it like a deer, preparatory to a swim in the creek.  At dinner you will see them all with fresh Crimeans and Jerseys, clean, comfortable, and in grand spirits.  Next morning is settling-day.  The book-keeping departments at Anabanco being severely correct, all is in readiness.  Each man’s tally or number of sheep shorn has been entered daily to his credit.  His private and personal investments at the store have been as duly debited.  The shearers, as a corporation, have been charged with the multifarious items of their rather copious mess-bill.  This sum total is divided by the number of the shearers, the extract being the amount for which each man is liable.  This sum varies in its weekly proportion at different sheds.  With an extravagant cook, or cooks, the weekly bill is often alarming.  When the men and their functionary study economy it may be kept very reasonably low.