It would have been as easy to seduce the Bishop of Brisbane into a bet as Harry Heathcote.

He had never even drank a nobbler with one of the Brownbies.

To their thinking, he was a proud, stuck-up, unsocial young cub, whom to rob was a pleasure, and to ruin would be a delight.
The old man at Boolabong was now almost obsolete.

Property, that he could keep in his grasp, there was in truth none.

He was the tenant of the run under the Crown, and his sons would not turn him out of the house.