All these men get
colonial experience, but it does not make them saintly or rich. Here
and there, all over the endless plains, they at last lie down and
die, the dingoes hold inquests over them, and, literally, they go to
the dogs, because they took the wrong turn in life and would not come
back.
In 1868 Nosey and his two mates were approaching a station on the
Lachlan. Since sunrise they had travelled ten miles without
breakfast, and were both hungry and weary. They put down their swags
in the shade of a small grove of timber within sight of the station
buildings. Bob Castles said:
"I was shearing in them sheds in '52 when old Shenty owned the run.
He was a rum old miser, he was, would skin two devils for one hide;
believe he has gone to hell; hope so, at any rate. He couldn't read
nor write much, but he could make money better'n any man I ever heard
of. Bought two runs on the Murray, and paid 180,000 pounds for 'em
in one cheque. He kept a lame schoolmaster to write his cheques and
teach his children, gave him 40 pounds a year, the same as a
shepherd. Lived mostly on mutton all the year round; never killed no
beef for the station, but now and then an old bullock past work,
salted him down in the round swamp for a change o' grub. Never grew
no cabbage or wegetables, only a paddock of potatoes. Didn't want no
visitors, 'cos he was afraid they'd want to select some of his run.
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