ther threw her arms round it and
cried, "Oh, Joe! My child! my child!"

It was several days before Joe felt better. When he did, Bluey and he
went down the gully together, and, after a while, Joe came back--like
Butler--alone.

Chapter XVII.

Dad's "Fortune."

Dad used to say that Shingle Hut was the finest selection on Darling
Downs; but WE never could see anything fine about it--except the
weather in drought time, or Dad's old saddle mare. SHE was very fine.
The house was built in a gully so that the bailiffs (I suppose) or the
blacks--who were mostly dead--could n't locate it. An old wire-fence,
slanting all directions, staggered past the front door. At the rear,
its foot almost in the back door, sloped a barren ridge, formerly a
squatter's sheep-yard. For the rest there were sky, wallaby-scrub,
gum-trees, and some acres of cultivation. But Dad must have seen
something in it, or he would n't have stood feasting his eyes on the
wooded waste after he had knocked off work of an evening. In all his
wanderings--and Dad had been almost everywhere; swimming flooded creeks
and rivers, humping his swag from one end of Australia to the other; at
all games going except bank-managing and bushranging--he had seen no
place timbered like Shingle Hut.

"Why," he used to say, "it's a fortune in itself. Hold on till the
country gets populated, and firewood is scarce, there'll be money in it
then--mark my words!"

Poor Dad! I wonder how long he expected to live?

At the back of Shingle Hut was a tract of Government land--mostly
mountains--marked on the map as the Great Dividing Range. Splendid
country, Dad considered it--BEAUTIFUL country--and part of a grand
scheme he had in his head. I defy you to find a man more full of
schemes than Dad was.

The day had been hot. Inside, the mosquitoes were bad; and, after
supper, Dad and Dave were outside, lying on some bags. They had been
grubbing that day, and were tired. The night was nearly dark. Dad lay
upon his back, watching the stars; Dave upon his stomach, his head
resting on his arms. Both silent. One of the draught-horses cropped
the couch-grass round about them. Now and again a flying-fox circled
noiselessly overhead, and "MOPOKE!--MOPOKE!" came dismally from the
ridge and from out the lonely-looking gully. A star fell, lighting up
a portion of the sky, but Dad did not remark it. In a while he said:

"How old are you, Dave?" Dave made a mental