raising his hat, while a look of amusement
played on his face.

He rode away, and shouted to his men to keep the flock strictly within
bounds and make good travelling.

"Right you are, boss," they answered; and returning to my side he told me
his name was George Ledwood, and made some remarks about the great
drought and so on, while we rode in the best places to keep out of the
dust and in the shade. I asked questions such as whence came the sheep?
whither were they bound? and how long had they been on the road? And
having exhausted these orthodox remarks, we fell a-talking in dead
earnest without the least restraint. I listened with interest to stories
of weeks and weeks spent beneath the sun and stars while crossing widths
of saltbush country, mulga and myall scrubs, of encounters with blacks in
Queensland, and was favoured with a graphic description of a big strike
among the shearers when the narrator had been boss-of-the-board out
beyond Bourke. He spoke as though well educated, and a gentleman--as
drovers often are. Why, then, was he on the road? I put him down as a
scapegrace, for he had all the winning pleasant manner of a
ne'er-do-well.

At noon--a nice, blazing, dusty noon--we halted within a mile of Caddagat
for lunch. I could have easily ridden home for mine, but preferred to
have it with the drovers for fun. The men boiled the billy and made the
tea, which we drank out of tin pots, with tinned fish and damper off tin
plates as the completion of the menu, Mr Ledwood and I at a little
distance from the men. Tea boiled in a billy at a bush fire has a
deliciously aromatic flavour, and I enjoyed my birthday lunch immensely.
Leaving the cook to collect the things and put them in the spring-cart,
we continued on our way, lazily lolling on our horses and chewing
gum-leaves as we went.

When the last of the sheep got off the Caddagat run it was nearing two
o'clock.

Mr Ledwood and I shook hands at parting, each expressing a wish that we
might meet again some day.

I turned and rode homewards. I looked back and saw the drover gazing
after me. I waved my hand; he raised his hat and smiled, displaying his
teeth, a gleam of white in his sun-browned face. I kissed my hand to him;
he bowed low; I whistled to my dog; he resumed his way behind the
crawling sheep; I cantered home quickly and dismounted at the front gate
at 2.30 p.m., a dusty, heated, tired girl.

Grannie came out to question me regarding the sex, age