And you'll just mind--the lot of you--that it's my orders to stockwhip blacks off the place, and that if any Unionist delegates show their faces through the sliprails they're not allowed to stop five minutes inside the paddock fence.' 'Right you are, Boss,' responded Ninnis, and there was a change of grouping, and McKeith strode out to the yard to look into some other matter, all without sending a glance to his wife.
Presently Moongarr Bill came up, chuckling mysteriously, 'Say, Boss, I believe there's one of them dashed organising chaps coming down now from the top sliprails.' And as he spoke, a man rode to the fence, harmless enough looking, of the ordinary bush type.
He was about to get off his horse in the assured manner of a bushman claiming the usual hospitality, but McKeith--big and grimly menacing--advanced and held up his hand.
'No, wait a bit.

Don't unsaddle.

I'd like first to know your business.' 'I'm an Organiser,' said the man defiantly, 'and I'm not ashamed of my job.

Trades Unions are lawful combinations, and I've come to have a talk with your men....' He ran on with professional volubility.

'My object in going round your district is to bring about a peaceful compromise between employers and employed--Do you see.... ?' 'Stop,' thundered McKeith.