I GOT a lump in my throat, as well as a dry cry.

Six months work, I said to myself, for a pair of second hand elastic side boots. I assess the value at a shilling.

I worked it out that I would have to work 15 years for a 30 bob suit of clothes.

No good, I said to myself. If I stop here I die. I won't get enough to pay for a shroud.

Where was I to go, and what was I going to do?

My parents had left the old home and gone to live on a station miles away.

No, I wouldn't go home and complain. My father might give me a hiding and send me back.

I knew it was no use looking for work on any of the Monaro stations, because I was under school leaving age.

That night I went to bed early and I made up my mind I would make a bolt for the coast.

When the clock struck 12 I arose and packed my scanty belongings into a sugar bag.

The thought struck me that I had a relative in Candelo, but I said, no one wants a poor relation or even a bad dog.

My feet are hot and moving, so I must get going.

My destination was about 20 miles. I hadn't a feather to fly with and a scanty education seemed to me to be a load no mule could carry.

Never did I imagine that one day I would be selling the Yeadon farm and stock by public auction for close on £10,000.

To get to my destination meant passing the old home and school. I thought of my playmates.

I could imagine I could hear my mother when she was making scones and smearing them with a dash of Cocky's Joy, singing Onward Christian Soldiers.

I broke down and had a sorrowful weep, but I must keep going.

At this time there were four maintenance men on the mountain: Murphy, Went, Day and Knight.

This may seem a bit concocted, but I assure my reader it is correct. There was James Murphy, Billy Went, George Knight and Mack Day.

What great men they were! As loyal to their job as a wharf labourer is to his schooner of beer.