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 head. "They want too much money nowadays,
an' they're too darned partickler about their tucker. Meat three times
a day, whether you've killed it or not. An' puddin'. Cock 'em up with
puddin'--a fat lot of it I ever saw where I was raised. An' off to the
township on Saturday afternoon, an' lucky if they get back in time for
milkin' nex' mornin'. No--the workin' man ain't what 'e was, an' the new
kind'll make precious little of Australia!"
"That's about right, I'm afraid," said Jim, listening sympathetically to
this oration.
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