Explore "Reedy Lake Station" by Rolf Boldrewood on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The Post-office clock in Bourke Street, Melbourne, is about to strike six, in the month of June 1858. At this 'everlastingly early hour A. M. in the morning' (as remarked by Mr. Chuckster), I am the box-passenger of Cobb's coach, _en route_ for Bendigo. The team of greys stand motionless, save for a faint attempt to paw on the part of the near-side leader. The first stroke vibrates on high. Mr. Jackson, with an exclamation, tightens his 'lines. ' The six greys plunge at their collars, and we are off.
There was no Spencer Street terminus in those days. We were truly thankful to King Cobb. I, for one, was glad to get over a hundred miles of indifferent road in a day-winter weather, too. We did not grumble so comprehensively as latter-day travellers.