The men have been sitting or standing about the office for half-an-hour when Mr Jack Bowles rushes out, and shouts “William May!” That young person, excessively clean, attired in a quiet tweed suit, with his hair cut very correctly short, advances with an air of calm intrepidity, and faces Mr Gordon.  Gordon, now seated at a long table, wearing a judicial expression of countenance.

“Well, May, here’s your account":—­

So many sheep, at 1 pound per 100... xxxx pounds
Cook, so many weeks................. xxxx pounds
Shearing store account.............. xxxx pounds
Private store account............... xxxx pounds
——­
Total............................... xxxx pounds
——­

“Is the tally of your sheep right?” “Oh!  I daresay it’s all right, Mr Gordon, I made it so and so; about ten less.”

“Well, well!  Ours is correct, no doubt.  Now I want to make up a good subscription for the hospital this year.  How much will you give?  You’ve done pretty well, I think.”

“Put me down a pound, sir.”

“Very well, that’s fair enough.  If every one gives what they can afford, you men will always have a place to go to when you’re hurt or laid up.  So I put your name down, and you’ll see it in the published list.  Now about the shearing, May.  I consider that you’ve done your work very well, and behaved very well all through.  You’re a fast shearer, but you shear closely, and don’t knock your sheep about.  I therefore do not charge you for any part of your meat bill, and I pay you at the rate of half-a-crown a hundred for all your sheep, over and above your agreement.  Will that do?”

“Very well, indeed, and I’m much obliged to you, Mr Gordon.”

“Well, good-bye May!  Always call when you’re passing, and if any work is going on you’ll get your share.  Here’s your cheque.  Send in Lawson!” Exit May, in high spirits, having cleared about three pounds per week, during the whole term of shearing, and having lived a far from unpleasant life, indeed akin to that of a fighting cock, from the commencement to the end of that period.

Lawson’s interview may be described as having very similar results.  He, also, was a first-class shearer, though not so artistic as the gifted Billy.  Jack Windsor’s saucy blue eyes twinkled merrily as he returned to his companions, and incontinently leaped on the back of his wild-eyed colt.  After these three worthies came a shearer named Jackson; he belonged to quite a different class; he could shear very well if he pleased, but had a rooted disbelief that honesty was the best policy, and a fixed determination to shear as many sheep as he could get the manager to pass.  By dint of close watching, constant reprimand, and occasional “raddling” (marking badly-shorn sheep and refusing to count them) Mr Gordon had managed to tone him down to average respectability of execution.  Still he was always uneasily aware that whenever his eye was not upon him, Jackson was doing what he ought not to do with might and main.  Gordon had, indeed, kept him on from sheer necessity, but he intended none the less to mark his opinion of him.