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"A dam across that bottle neck," he said to himself, "will flood that flat. Reg'lar reservoy. Millpond. Git a twenty-foot fall here easy, maybe more. Calc'late that'll run about any mill folks'll want to build.
Then Baxter queried indifferently: "Same ole lay?" "Not me," replied the deep, low voice. "Every man to his work. My work's mullockin' in a reservoy, with a new-chum weaver from Leeds for a mate, an' a scoop that's nyther make nor form, an' the ten worst bullocks ever was yoked." "Well, Bob," said I; "though you gave me a fright, I must congratulate you. I heard you were dead."
Eighteen solid years clean throwed away!" "Well, I am after somebody. I'm after ole M'Gregor at least, I'll be after him as soon 's I git this reservoy off o' my mind. Daresay I'll git you to understand by-'n'-by.
Grand grass there, an' most o' the road down. I come with some fats as fur as Wilcannia; an' a drover took charge o' them there; an' my orders was to come on to Mondunbarra. I been here goin' on for three weeks, rasslin' with that reservoy, an' cursin' M'Gregor an' Smythe for bein' man-eaters, an' myself for bein' a born fool." "Then why don't you leave?" asked Thompson.
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