this, because I remembered, long
ago, the Spencers, who were our neighbours when I was a boy, had the
walls of their bedroom covered with illustrations of the American Civil
War, cut from illustrated London papers, and I used to 'sneak' into
'mother's bedroom' with Fred Spencer whenever we got the chance, and
gloat over the prints. I gave him a blade of a pocket-knife once, for
taking me in there.

I saw very little of Spicer. He was a big, dark, dark-haired and
whiskered man. I had an idea that he wasn't a selector at all, only a
'dummy' for the squatter of the Cobborah run. You see, selectors were
allowed to take up land on runs, or pastoral leases. The squatters
kept them off as much as possible, by all manner of dodges and paltry
persecution. The squatter would get as much freehold as he could afford,
'select' as much land as the law allowed one man to take up, and then
employ dummies (dummy selectors) to take up bits of land that he fancied
about his run, and hold them for him.

Spicer seemed gloomy and unsociable. He was seldom at home. He was
generally supposed to be away shearin', or fencin', or workin' on
somebody's station. It turned out that the last six months he was away
it was on the evidence of a cask of beef and a hide with the brand cut
out, found in his camp on a fencing contract up-country, and which he
and his mates couldn't account for satisfactorily, while the squatter
could. Then the family lived mostly on bread and honey, or bread and
treacle, or bread and dripping, and tea. Every ounce of butter and every
egg was needed for the market, to keep them in flour, tea, and sugar.
Mary found that out, but couldn't help them much--except by 'stuffing'
the children with bread and meat or bread and jam whenever they came up
to our place--for Mrs Spicer was proud with the pride that lies down in
the end and turns its face to the wall and dies.

Once, when Mary asked Annie, the eldest girl at home, if she was
hungry, she denied it--but she looked it. A ragged mite she had with her
explained things. The little fellow said--

'Mother told Annie not to say we was hungry if yer asked; but if yer
give us anythink to eat, we was to take it an' say thenk yer, Mrs
Wilson.'

'I wouldn't 'a' told yer a lie; but I thought Jimmy would split on me,
Mrs Wilson,' said Annie. 'Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson.'

She was not a big woman. She was gaunt and flat-chested, and her face
was 'burnt to a brick', as they say out there