Such Is Life

but I may remark that I was at that time a Government official, of the ninth class; paid rather according to my grade than my merit, and not by any means in proportion to the loafing I had to do. Candidly, I was only a Deputy-Assistant-Sub-Inspector, but with the reversion of the Assistant-Sub-Inspectorship itself when it should please Atropos to snip the thread of my superior officer.
The repast being concluded, the drivers went into committee on the subject of grass⁠—a vital question in ’83, as you may remember.
“It’s this way,” said Mosey imperatively, and deftly weaving into his address the thin red line of puissant adjective; “You dunno what you’re doin’ when you’re foolin’ with this run. She’s hair-trigger at the best o’ times, an’ she’s on full cock this year. Best watched station on the track. It’s risk whatever way you take it. We’re middlin’ safe to be collared in the selection, an’ we’re jist as safe to be collared in the ram-paddick. Choice between the divil an’ the dam. An’ there’s too big a township o’ wagons together. Two’s enough, an’ three’s a glutton, for sich a season as this.”
“I think Cooper and I had better push on to the ram-paddock,” suggested Thompson. “You three can work on the selection. Division of labour’s the secret of success, they say.”
“Secret of England’s greatness,” mused Dixon. “I forgit what the (irrelevant expletive) that is.”
“The true secret of England’s greatness lies in her dependencies,  Mr. Dixon,” replied Willoughby handsomely; and straightway the serene, appreciative expression of the bullock driver’s face, rightly interpreted, showed that his mind was engaged in a Graeco-Roman conflict with the polysyllable, the latter being uppermost.
“Well, no,” said Mosey, replying to Thompson; “no use separatin’ now; it’s on’y spreadin’ the risk; we should ’a’ separated yesterday. I wouldn’t misdoubt the selection, on’y Cunningham told me the other day, Magomery’s shiftin’ somebody to live there. If that’s so, it’s up a tree, straight. The ram-paddick’s always a risk⁠—too near the station.”
“The hut on the selection was empty a week ago,” I remarked. “I know it, for I camped there one night.”
“Good grass?” inquired a chorus of voices.
“About the best I’ve had this season.”
“We’ll chance the selection,” said Mosey decidedly. “Somebody can ride on ahead, an’ see the coast clear. But they won’t watch a bit of a paddick in the thick o’ the shearin’, when there’s nobody livin’ in it.”
“Squatters hed orter fine grass f’r wool teams, an’ glad o’ the chance,” observed Price, with unprintable emphasis.
“Lot of sense in that remark,” commented Mosey, with a similar potency of adjective.
“Well, this is about the last place God made,” growled Cooper, the crimson thread of kinship running conspicuously through his observation, notwithstanding its narrow provinciality.
“Roll up, Port Phillipers! the Sydney man’s goin’ to strike a match!” retorted Mosey. “I wonder what fetched a feller like you onto bad startin’-ground. I swear we didn’t want no lessons.”
Cooper was too lazy to reply; and we smoked dreamily, while my kangaroo dog silently abstracted a boiled leg of mutton from Price’s tuckerbox, and carried it out of sight. By-and-by, all eyes converged on a shapeless streak which had moved into sight in the restless, glassy glitter of the plain, about a mile away.
“Warrigal Alf going out on the lower track,” remarked Thompson, at length. “He was coming behind Baxter and Donovan yesterday, but he stopped opposite the station, talking to Montgomery and Martin, and the other fellows lost the run of him. I wonder where he camped last night? He ought to be able to tell us where the safest grass is, considering he’s had a load in from the station. But to tell you the truth, I’m in favour of the ram-paddock. If we’re caught there, we’ll most likely only get insulted⁠—and we can stand a lot of that⁠—but if we’re caught in the selection, it’s about seven years. Then we can make the Lignum Swamp tomorrow from the ram-paddock, and we can’t make it from the selection. So I think we better be moving; it’ll be dark enough before we unyoke. I’ve worked on that ram-paddock so often that I seem to have a sort of title to it.”
“But there’s lots o’ changes since you was here last,” said Mosey. “Magomery he’s beginnin’ to think he’s got a sort o’ title to the ram-paddick now, considerin’ it’s all purchased. Tell you what I’ll do: I’ll slip over in two minits on Valiparaiser, an’ consult with Alf. Me an’ him’s as thick as thieves.”
“I’ll go with you, Mosey,” said I. “I’ve got some messages for him. Keep an eye on my dog, Steve.”
Mosey untied the fine upstanding grey horse from the rear of his wagon; I hitched Bunyip to a tree, and mounted Fancy, and we cantered away together across the plain; the ponderous empty wagon⁠—Sydney-side pattern⁠—with eight bullocks in yoke and twelve travelling loose, coming more clearly into detail through the vibrating translucence of the lower atmosphere. Alf didn’t deign to stop. I noticed a sinister smile on his sad, stern face as Mosey gaily accosted him.
“An’ how’s the world usin’ you, Alf? Got red o’ Pilot, I notice. Ever see sich a suck-in? Best at a distance, ain’t he? Tell you what I come over for, Alf: They say things is middlin’ hot here on Runnymede; an’ we’re in a (sheol) of a (adjective) stink about what to do with our frames tonight. Our wagons is over there on the other track, among the pines. Where did you stop las’ night? Your carrion’s as full as ticks.”
“I had them in the selection; took them out this morning after they lay down.”
“Good shot!”
“Why, I don’t see how it concerns you.”
“The selection’s reasonable safe⁠—ain’t it?”
“Please yourself about that.”
“Is the ram-paddick safe?”
“No.”
“Is there enough water in the tank at the selection?”
“How do I know? There was enough for me.”
“I say, Alf,” said I: “Styles, of Karowra, told me to let you know, if possible, that you were right about the boring rods; and