said the man. "And there's no 'Mister' about me.
What shall I call you two?"

"This is Vaughan," said Stobart, pointing to his friend. "My name's
Stobart."

"Stobart! Stobart!" said Peter in surprise. "Anything to do with Boss
Stobart?"

Sax had never heard his father's nickname, so he answered in a puzzled
tone, "Boss Stobart?"

"Yes, bless you. Boss Stobart. And a fine man too. The best drover
that ever crossed a horse in this country. Don't I know it too? We
punched cattle together for ten years, did the Boss and me."

Sax's face beamed with delight. "That's my father," he said proudly.

Peter's big hand shot out in greeting. "So you're Boss Stobart's son,
are you? Well, well, you seem a fine lad, and you've sure got a fine
father." He also shook hands with Vaughan, and added: "So we're to be
mates, are we? You leave things to me. I'll let you know about it
when I've fixed things up."

Peter was busy all morning and the boys had time to look around the
township. It seemed very small to them in comparison with the vast
plains which stretched away on all sides of it. They felt sure that if
once they got away out of sight of the scattered houses, they would
never be able to find them again, for Hergott Springs is only a very
tiny spot on the face of the desert. They watched the train go back
the way it had come the day before, and then walked up to the end of
the station yard to see the wrecked water-tank. Flocks of goats
wandered about the township, picking up and eating bits of rubbish,
just like stray dogs. They found that this was why the mutton they had
eaten for tea and breakfast was so tough; for, because sheep cannot
thrive in that part of the country, goats are kept and killed for meat.

Camels interested them very much. These tall, awkward, smelly, grey
beasts stalked along with such dignity that it was almost impossible to
believe them capable of the hard work they do. Through following a
string of camels, tied together from nose-line to tail, the boys came
to a collection of buildings outside the town proper. This was Afghan
Town, where the black-skinned camel-drivers lived. They watched some
camels kneeling down in the sand and being loaded with bags of flour
and sugar, chests of tea, and cases of jam and tinned meat. These
bulky packages were roped to the saddle till it appeared as if the poor
beast underneath would never be able to get up. But, one after the
other, they