h. So an end had come
to Bill's farming, naturally.

His present life could only be described as nomadic; and it seemed
to be the only life he cared for. He was an excellent boundary-rider,
shrewd, capable, and far-seeing. As such he would work for
weeks, and even, occasionally, for months at a stretch, utterly
alone, save for his dog, and apparently quite content. Then,
without apparent reason, and certainly without any kind of warning,
he would make tracks for the nearest township, and be seen no more
outside its "hotel" till every penny he could lay hands upon was
transferred to the publican's till. Then, if his employer cared to
allow him to resume work, he would go back to his boundary-riding
as contented and efficient as ever. If the employer had so much as
a word of criticism for his conduct, Bill would be off into the
bush like a wild creature, and that particular boss would see him
no more. He never argued. He simply fled. His life was as purely
nomadic as that of any Bedouin, and he had not spoken to a woman
for years. Outside public-houses, he never thought of drinking
anything but water and tea, generally tea, of which beverage he
consumed several quarts every day of his life. He was a keen
hunter, and at his worst had never been known to sell his horse or
his dog, both good of their kind; though there had been occasions
upon which he had sold everything else he possessed, and then
knocked a man down for refusing to purchase the ragged coat he was
wearing.

This man had reared Jess by hand, with the aid of a cracked tea-pot;
and the kangaroo-hound bitch knew him better than any one else
did. For her, he was the only human being who counted, seriously;
and it was said that she had come near to killing a certain
publican who had attempted to "go through" Bill's pockets when he
was drunk. She accompanied Bill everywhere, and, whatever his
occupation or condition, was never far from his side. She was a big
strong hound, and her flanks bore many honourable scars attesting
to her experience of the marsupial at bay.

Bill had probably never been guilty of wilful meanness or cruelty
in his life; though, upon occasion, he could display a certain
rough brutality. His normal attitude of mind was one of careless,
kindly good-humour. From Finn's point of view, he was an extremely
good sort of fellow, of a type new and strange to the Wolfhound;
one of whom nothing could be predicted with any certainty. Six
months