That night they packed. There was a new lodger downstairs who proved
very helpful. He had come from the Never-Never Land to knock down a
cheque in Sydney; in the ordinary course of things he would have been
blind to the world till the cheques were all spent. The night of his
arrival, when he was only softened by a few drinks after six months'
abstinence, the Salvation Army had got him. He had saved his soul, his
liver and his money at the same time. And he was bursting with
information.
"You take the train to Cook's Wall, chum," he said, spitting on his
hands and trying the strength of the good leather straps. He had tapped
the billy and the mugs with a wise finger, giving them advice about
soaking their boots in linseed oil for a few days.
"Yous ought to buy your tea and baccy and flour in Sydney. It's dear and
poor the further yous get," he told them. And--
"Cook's Wall is the rail-head, chum," he said. "It's in the Lower
Warrilow. There's a bit o' manganese down there, and they're clearing
land. Plenty of work waiting. Lot of new squatters--small squatters
without two fardens to rub together and make a chink. Them assisted lot.
They're always glad of help, clearing scrub. They get a loand off of the
Gov'ment for tools and seeds and stock, but they've got to clear the
land--within three years, I think it is.
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