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There's Stewart of Kooltopa; he don't demean his self with little things; he goes in for big things, an' gits there; an' he's got the heart to make a proper use o' what money travels his road. Comes-out a Christian. Then there's Smythe: his mind's so much took-up with the tuppenny-thruppenny things that he can't see the big thing when it's starin' him in the face.
"Bob Stirling," replied the African explorer. "I worked on Kooltopa, many years ago, but I don't suppose you remember me." "I'm not sure. However, I'll find a nice comfortable week's work for you, at all events. Collins, I give you credit. You should have gone into politics. You'd have made a d d good diplomatist." "I'm glad you think so, Mr. Stewart. But the main body of the story has to come.
In a few days more, Alf was able to yoke and unyoke a few quiet bullocks; then he and Bob started for Kooltopa together. Arrived at their destination, Stewart and Alf each paid Bob, as already hinted; and Bob, having urgent business in Mossgeil, hurried away to transact it. He had just completed the deal when I met him." Here I paused to light my pipe.
Or, to put it in another way: the life of stock in Riverina was as cheap as the life of the common person in the novels of R. L. Stevenson, Rider Haggard, Rudyard Kipling, and some other modern classics. Kooltopa, being the best of land, and lightly stocked, was an exception; and thither flocked nearly all the uncircumcised of Riverina, with their homeless bullocks and horses.
He paused, in evident discomfort, flicked a roley-poley with his whip, and continued. "You know, I had him on Kooltopa for a couple of months, bringing in pine logs, when Barker's sawing-plant was there. Well, without going into details Capable fellow, too; fine combination of a cultivated man and an experienced rough-and-ready bushman.
"That dog would have broke his heart if he'd been parted from me. Tell you how I lost him. Last winter, when I was loaded-out for Kenilworth where I met Cooper you might remember it was dry, and frosty, and miserable, and the country as bare as a stockyard; and mostly everybody loafing on Kooltopa.
My soul went forth in a paean of joy, for, exactly as the perfect circle of a flying scrawl bespoke Giotto, this action bespoke Stewart of Kooltopa, now masquerading under a pair of strange horses. Here was my opportunity. Figuratively, I would put Alf in a basket, with a note pinned to his bib, and leave him on Stewart's door-step.
I'll tell you what I saw in the Miamia Paddock, on Kooltopa, during the autumn and winter of '83 that is, from six to nine months before the date of this discursive, yet faithful, record. '83 was a bad year.
Thinking over these things makes me feel devilish small in my own eyes, but all the more confident, knowing that not a sparrow falls to the ground without Oh, d n it! look where the sun has got to! Good-bye! I mightn't see you again. I've sold Kooltopa." "Surely not!" "Ay. Crowded-out. Going to Queensland. They'll tell you about it at Poondoo. Good-bye." "Good-bye, Mr. Stewart."
"And what's what's become of Kooltopa?" asked the boundary man, panting under his effort at self-control. "Old times are changed, old manners gone; a stranger fills the Stewart's throne," I replied, with real sadness. "Kooltopa's sold to a Melbourne company, and is going to be worked for all it's worth.
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