to decline the Emperorship of all
South Africa--which I should make his job.... But you'd better add on
that I'm a Socialist too, Rosamond, because I've become one, as you
know. I think the working man is in a shamefully unjust position, and
that the capitalists are no better than slave-drivers.'

'Oh, not out here, my word!' exclaimed a Leichardt'stonian who happened
to be one of the old squattocracy. 'The landowners and the capitalists
are not slave-drivers, they are slave-driven. We've got to pay what the
Trades' Union organisers tell us--or else go without stockmen or
shearers. Fact is, our Labour War is only just beginning; and I can
tell you, Sir, that before a year is out the so-called bloated
capitalist and the sheep and cattle station owner will sing either
pretty big or very small.'

'I don't think it will be very small--on MY station,' murmured McKeith.
'But it's quite true about the Labour War. They're organising, as they
call it, already all along the Leura.'

The Governor asked to have the Labour situation explained from the
squatters' point of view; and for a few minutes McKeith forgot to look
at Lady Bridget. He was on his own ground and knew what he was talking
about.

'It's this way,' he began. 'You see, though, I'm cattle--and I'm the
furthest squatter out my way. But there are a few sheep stations down
the river, and there isn't an unlimited supply of either cattle-hands
or shearers, so we've got to look sharp about hiring them. Now, last
year, we--of course I'm classing myself with the sheep-owners, for we
all stand together--hired our shearers for seventeen shillings and
sixpence a day. Then, up come the Union organisers, form a Union of the
men and say to them: "You've got to pay ten shillings down to the Union
and sign a contract that you won't shear under twenty shillings a day."
The Organiser pockets the ten shillings, and makes three pounds a week
and his expenses besides, so it pays HIM pretty well. Well then, the
shearers go to the squatters. "All right," say they, "we'll shear your
sheep, but it's going to be twenty shillings instead of seventeen and
six." The squatters grumble, but they've got to have their sheep shorn,
and they pay the twenty shillings. Next year, I'm told, the word is to
go round that it's to be twenty-two and sixpence. Well sir, we're to
see what's to happen then!'

The Labour talk lacked local picturesqueness. Sir Luke preferred the
Blacks, and started the quest