On The Wallaby, The Diary of a Queensland Swagman by Edward S. Sorenson

We had already dropped into our special places, as mates generally do on the track. George Boyce was horse-hunter. I was cook. At each new camp George made the fire; I filled the billies and put them on. When mosquitoes were bad, each gathered cowdung or corkwood for his own side; and whenever either woke up at night it was his duty to go round the fires quietly and to notice which way the bells were. Some mates shirk this duty on cold nights. When he has been chilled--or stung--into wakefullness, the shirker surreptitiously rouses the other fellow, and pretends to be dead asleep himself.

I had not suspected George of any tricks like that until we were close to Barundah. It was Saturday night, and we were camped by the river, on a low, narrow level between the water and a precipitous ridge. We had collected a good supply of firing before turning in. As a rule, we had to attend to the fires about twice each during the night; but on this occasion I got up five times, and each time I noticed that the heaps had not changed since my previous visit. On one or two occasions I had a feeling that I had been disturbed by something more than the kick of a mosquito; but the reproachful tone of George's matutinal greeting disarmed me. "By cripes," he said, "you slept good last night; I was up half a dozen times."