From a
nail in the low ceiling a mosquito-net bag was suspended, and the
buzzing flies around proclaimed that it held meat. The walls were
papered with many a copy of "The Illustrated Sydney News", and
"The Town and Country Journal"; there was a month-old "Daily Telegraph"
lying on the chair, where the owner had laid it down.
A study in brown the stockman was, brown, dull eyes; brown,
dusty-looking hair; brown skin, sundried and shrivelled; brown,
unkempt beard; brown trousers of corduroy, and brown coat.
His pipe was black, however--a clay, that looked as if it had
been smoked for twenty years.
"Wouldn't you like to be nearer the homestead?" Meg asked. "Isn't
it lonely?"
"Not ter mention," the brown man said to his pipe or his beard.
"What do you do with yourself when you're, not outside?" asked
Pip.
"Smoke," said the man.
"But on Sundays, and all through the evenings?"
"Smoke," he said.
"On Cwismas day," Baby said, pressing to see this strange man;
"zen what does you do?"
"Smoke" he said.
Judy wanted to know how long he'd lived in the little place, and
everyone was stricken dumb to hear he had been there most of the time
for seven years.
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