im and his pupil found
enough occupation to make their trips worth while; and Bob learned to
sink post holes, to ram a post home beyond the possibility of moving,
and to strain a wire fence scientifically. He was not a novice with an
axe, though Jim's mighty chopping made him feel a child; still, when it
was necessary to cut away a fallen tree, he could do his share manfully.
His hands blistered and grew horny callouses, even as his muscles
toughened and his shoulders widened; and all the time the appeal of the
wide, free country called to his heart and drew him closer and closer to
his new life.

"But he's too comfortable, you know," David Linton said to Jim one
night. "He's shaping as well as anyone could expect; but he won't always
have Billabong at his back."

Jim nodded wisely.

"I know," he said. "Been thinking of that. If you can spare me for a bit
we'll go over and lend ourselves as handy men to old Joe Howard."

His father whistled.

"He'll make you toe the mark," he said, laughing. "He won't have you
there as gentlemen boarders, you know."

"Don't want him to," said Jim.

So it came about that early on Monday morning Jim and Bob fixed swags
more or less scientifically to their saddles--Jim made his disciple
unstrap his three times before he consented to pass it--and rode away
from Billabong, amidst derisive good wishes from Norah and Tommy, who
kindly promised to feed them up on their return, prophesying that they
would certainly need it. They took a westerly direction across country,
and after two or three hours' riding came upon a small farm nestling at
the foot of a low range of hills.

"That's old Howard's," Jim said. "And there's the old chap himself,
fixing up his windmill. You wait a minute, Bob; I'll go over and see
him."

He gave Bob his bridle, and went across a small paddock near the house.
Howard, a hard-looking old man with a long, grey beard, was wrestling
with a home-made windmill--a queer erection, mainly composed of rough
spars with sails made from old wheat-sacks. He clambered to the ground
as Jim approached, and greeted him civilly.

"I thought you'd have forgotten me, Mr. Howard," said Jim.

"Too like your dad--an', anyhow, I know the horses," was the laconic
answer. "So you're back. Like Australia better'n fightin'?"

"Rather!" said Jim. "Fighting's a poor game, I think, when you hardly
ever see the other fellow. Want any hands, Mr. Howard?"

"No." The old man shook his he