"Monaro--my people live in Monaro."

"Hoo will ye get to Monaro gin ye sell the horrse?"

"Coach and rail. Too sick to care about ridin'," said the drover, while
a wan smile flitted over his yellow-grey features. "I've rode him far
enough. I've rode that horse a thousand miles. I wouldn't sell him, only
I'm a bit hard up. Sellin' him now to get the money to go home."

"Hoo auld is he?"

"Seven."

"Is he a guid horrse on a camp?" asked M'Gregor.

"No better camp-horse in Queensland," said the drover. "You can chuck
the reins on his neck, an' he'll cut out a beast by himself."

M'Gregor's action in this matter puzzled us. We spent our time crawling
after sheep, and a camp-horse would be about as much use to us as
side-pockets to a pig. We had expected Sandy to rush the fellow off the
place at once, and we couldn't understand how it was that he took
so much interest in him. Perhaps the fever-racked drover and the old
camp-horse appealed to him in a way incomprehensible to us. We had never
been on the Queensland cattle-camps, nor shaken and shivered with the
fever, nor lived the roving life of the overlanders. M'Gregor had done
all this, and his heart (I can see it all now) went out to the man who
brought the old days back to him.

"Ah, weel," he said, "we hae'na muckle use for a camp-horrse here, ye
ken; wi'oot some of these lads wad like to try theer han' cuttin'
oot the milkers' cawves frae their mithers." And the old man laughed
contemptuously, while we felt humbled in the sight of the man from far
back. "An' what'll ye be wantin' for him?" asked M'Gregor.

"Reckon he's worth fifteen notes," said the drover.

This fairly staggered us. Our estimates had varied between thirty
shillings and a fiver. We thought the negotiations would close abruptly;
but M'Gregor, after a little more examination, agreed to give the price,
provided the saddle and bridle, both grand specimens of ancient art,
were given in. This was agreed to, and the drover was sent off to get
his meals in the hut before leaving by the coach.

"The mon is verra harrd up, an' it's a sair thing that Queensland
fever," was the only remark M'Gregor made. But we knew now that there
was a soft spot in his heart somewhere.

Next morning the drover got a crisp-looking cheque. He said no word
while the cheque was being written, but, as he was going away, the horse
happened to be in the yard, and he went over to the old comrade that had
carried him so ma