But Dad must have seen something in it, or he would n't have stood feasting his eyes on the wooded waste after he had knocked off work of an evening.

In all his wanderings--and Dad had been almost everywhere; swimming flooded creeks and rivers, humping his swag from one end of Australia to the other; at all games going except bank-managing and bushranging--he had seen no place timbered like Shingle Hut.
"Why," he used to say, "it's a fortune in itself.

Hold on till the country gets populated, and firewood is scarce, there'll be money in it then--mark my words!" Poor Dad! I wonder how long he expected to live?
At the back of Shingle Hut was a tract of Government land--mostly mountains--marked on the map as the Great Dividing Range.

Splendid country, Dad considered it--BEAUTIFUL country--and part of a grand scheme he had in his head.

I defy you to find a man more full of schemes than Dad was.
The day had been hot.