He was dressed in an old pair of dandy riding breeches of Jim's, which reached a short way below the knees, fitting closely, and a blue check shirt rolled up above the elbow showing his lean wiry forearm, seamed and scarred with spear wounds and bruises.

He addressed nobody, but kept his eyes wandering all over the room; at length he said, looking at the ceiling,-- "Cobbon thirsty this fellow: you got a drop of brandy ?" "Jerry," said Jim, having produced the brandy, "you make a light kangaroo." "All about plenty kangaroo," said Jerry.
"Yowi; but mine want it big one flying doe." "Ah-h-h! Mine make a light flying doe along a stockyard this morning; close by, along a fent, you see!" "That'll do," says Jim.

"We'll be up round the old stockyard after breakfast to-morrow.

You, Jerry, come with us." It was a fresh breezy autumn morning in April, when the four sallied forth, about nine o'clock, for their hunt.

The old stockyard stood in the bush, a hundred yards from the corner of the big paddock fence, and among low rolling ranges and gullies, thickly timbered with gum, cherry, and sheoak: a thousand parrots flew swiftly in flocks, whistling and screaming from tree to tree, while wattled-birds and numerous other honeyeaters clustered on the flowering basksias.