y hand, had it thrashed by travelling "steamer"
(portable steam engine and machine), and carried the grain, a few bags
at a time, into the mill on his rickety dray.

He had lived alone for upwards of 15 years, and was known to those who
knew him as "Ratty Howlett".

Trav'lers and strangers failed to see anything uncommonly ratty about
him. It was known, or, at least, it was believed, without question, that
while at work he kept his horse saddled and bridled, and hung up to the
fence, or grazing about, with the saddle on--or, anyway, close handy
for a moment's notice--and whenever he caught sight, over the scrub and
through the quarter-mile break in it, of a traveller on the road, he
would jump on his horse and make after him. If it was a horseman
he usually pulled him up inside of a mile. Stories were told of
unsuccessful chases, misunderstandings, and complications arising out of
Howlett's mania for running down and bailing up travellers. Sometimes he
caught one every day for a week, sometimes not one for weeks--it was a
lonely track.

The explanation was simple, sufficient, and perfectly natural--from a
bushman's point of view. Ratty only wanted to have a yarn. He and the
traveller would camp in the shade for half an hour or so and yarn and
smoke. The old man would find out where the traveller came from, and
how long he'd been there, and where he was making for, and how long
he reckoned he'd be away; and ask if there had been any rain along the
traveller's back track, and how the country looked after the drought;
and he'd get the traveller's ideas on abstract questions--if he had any.
If it was a footman (swagman), and he was short of tobacco, old Howlett
always had half a stick ready for him. Sometimes, but very rarely, he'd
invite the swagman back to the hut for a pint of tea, or a bit of meat,
flour, tea, or sugar, to carry him along the track.

And, after the yarn by the road, they said, the old man would ride back,
refreshed, to his lonely selection, and work on into the night as long
as he could see his solitary old plough horse, or the scoop of his
long-handled shovel.

And so it was that I came to make his acquaintance--or, rather, that he
made mine. I was cantering easily along the track--I was making for the
north-west with a pack horse--when about a mile beyond the track to the
selection I heard, "Hi, Mister!" and saw a dust cloud following me. I
had heard of "Old Ratty Howlett" casually, and so was pr