So it was, just at the start.

We drafted out all the worst and weediest of the cattle, besides all the old cows, and when we counted the mob out we had nearly eleven hundred first-rate store cattle; lots of fine young bullocks and heifers, more than half fat--altogether a prime well-bred mob that no squatter or dealer could fault in any way if the price was right.

We could afford to sell them for a shade under market price for cash.

Ready money, of course, we were bound to have.
Just as we were starting there was a fine roan bull came running up with a small mob.
'Cut him out, and beat him back,' says father; 'we don't want to be bothered with the likes of him.' 'Why, I'm dashed if that ain't Hood's imported bull,' says Billy the Boy, a Monaro native that we had with us.

'I know him well.