t-pot in one hand and biting
at a junk of brownie in the other.

"Shed of forty hands. Shearers rush the pens and yank out sheep and
throw them like demons; grip them with their knees, take up machines,
jerk the strings; and with a rattling whirring roar the great
machine-shed starts for the day.

"'Go it, you----tigers!' yells a tar-boy. 'Wool away!' 'Tar!' 'Sheep
Ho!' We rush through with a whirring roar till breakfast time.

"We seize our tin plate from the pile, knife and fork from the
candle-box, and crowd round the camp-oven to jab out lean chops, dry as
chips, boiled in fat. Chops or curry-and-rice. There is some growling
and cursing. We slip into our places without removing our hats. There's
no time to hunt for mislaid hats when the whistle goes. Row of hat
brims, level, drawn over eyes, or thrust back--according to characters
or temperaments. Thrust back denotes a lucky absence of brains, I fancy.
Row of forks going up, or jabbing, or poised, loaded, waiting for last
mouthful to be bolted.

"We pick up, sweep, tar, sew wounds, catch sheep that break from the
pens, jump down and pick up those that can't rise at the bottom of
the shoots, 'bring-my-combs-from-the-grinder-will-yer,' laugh at dirty
jokes, and swear--and, in short, are the 'will-yer' slaves, body and
soul, of seven, six, five, or four shearers, according to the distance
from the rolling tables.

"The shearer on the board at the shed is a demon. He gets so much a
hundred; we, 25s. a week. He is not supposed, by the rules of the shed,
the Union, and humanity, to take a sheep out of the pen AFTER the bell
goes (smoke-ho, meals, or knock-off), but his watch is hanging on the
post, and he times himself to get so many sheep out of the pen BEFORE
the bell goes, and ONE MORE--the 'bell-sheep'--as it is ringing. We have
to take the last fleece to the table and leave our board clean. We go
through the day of eight hours in runs of about an hour and 20 minutes
between smoke-ho's--from 6 to 6. If the shearers shore 200 instead of
100, they'd get 2 Pounds a day instead of 1 Pound, and we'd have twice
as much work to do for our 25s. per week. But the shearers are racing
each other for tallies. And it's no use kicking. There is no God here
and no Unionism (though we all have tickets). But what am I growling
about? I've worked from 6 to 6 with no smoke-ho's for half the wages,
and food we wouldn't give the sheep-ho dog. It's the bush growl, born of
heat, flies