Excerpt from For Such Is Life
To anyone used to the roar and rush of city life, this Australian farmstead would have seemed Oppressively quiet. Nothing stirred about the place. N ot a bird fluttered in the trees. The servants lay about in the shadow, and panted or smoked, but no one was in the humour for speech.
Abram Fowey rested his back against the trunk of the tree, and appeared to be watching the blue wreath of smoke curling up from the bowl of his pipe. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. Coat and vest he had none. His thin duck trousers were tucked inside a pair of tall Wellington boots. His wideawake hat was tilted low on the back of his head.
Suddenly he started to his feet and took the pipe out of his mouth.
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