Then he grinned, and volunteered a remark.

"Make that feller plenty tired walk home again," he said.

And this was his only conversation during a two-hundred-mile journey.
At night they usually managed to reach a station, where the man in charge would greet them effusively, and beg them to turn their horses out and stay a week--or a year or two, just as long as they liked.

They met all sorts at these stations, from English swells to bushmen of the roughest.

Sometimes they camped out, putting hobbles on the horses, and spreading their blankets under the buggy on a bed of long grass gathered by Frying Pan.
As they got further out, the road became less and less defined, stations fewer, and everything rougher.