The Last Lemurian: A Westralian Romance

There had been three years of drought, more or less severe, over that portion of South Australia where Curriewildie Station was situated; and what with the stock dying off in thousands for want of food and water, and the damage done to fences and such buildings as an outlying station boasts by bush fires, the revenue returns sent in by the manager to the owner were not exhilarating reading. She, poor old lady, was a resident in England, and had been so during the ten years which had elapsed since her husband, the original owner of the station, had died. There had been some heavy amounts sent home before the drought set in, and that, perhaps, was the reason why she took it into her head that we who were employed on the property were robbing her. Any way, that is what we thought, when one day, without a word of warning, a young, fresh-faced Englishman arrived at the head station with all the necessary documentary evidence to prove to us--that is, Tom Smiles, the manager, and myself, the overseer--that he had been sent out by Mrs. Halliday to take immediate possession from us and send us about our business.

I was having a camp, as we term it in Australia--siesta, I believe is the proper word, and with my altered position, from that of a hardworking and not too well paid overseer to a millionaire, it behoves me to be careful and guard against too free a use of the bush vernacular. But that is rather anticipating, for at present, so far as this story is concerned, I am still the hard-working, ill-paid station overseer.