MID-DAY. A fierce, sweltering mid-day it was, too, in November. Joe, Eustace, Kearney, Tom Merton and Warabah had gone off down Station Creek early that morning to keep the cattle from boxing with a mob of bullocks—a thousand head—that had come over from New South Wales and were crossing Runnibede on their way to Bowen Downs. The drover in charge had sent one of his hands on ahead the evening before to ask the Governor’s permission to water the mob at Curlew Lagoon. To do this they had to travel seven miles off their route and to divide into two mabs.
"That travelling mob can’t be far off the lagoon now," the Governor remarked to mother, as he finished an early lunch, "so Ill jog off down and see what they look like."
“I'd like to go with you and see them, too, Edward," mother said, "but it’s so hot to-day, aud I’ve a lot to do this afternoon, and the sight of the country just now only makes one sad."
At other times she rode out with the Governor when there was something special to see, or a part of the run to visit that was new to her.
A good seat on a horse, and good hands had mother, with a lot more nerve than one would expect 42
