His legs were long and straight; he wore tight-fitting white moleskin trousers, a coloured Crimean shirt, and a battered felt hat.
Miss Grant felt almost sorry for this big, simple-looking bushman, who came strolling past their hiding-place, his eyes fixed on the sheep, and his hands mechanically occupied in cutting up tobacco.

Behind him gambolled a half-grown collie pup, evidently a relative of the dogs in charge of the sheep.
They brought the sheep up to a little corner of land formed by a sharp bend of the creek, then stopped, squatting on their haunches as sentinels, and the sheep, fatigued with their long, fast run, settled in under the trees to get out of the sun.

Behind the sheep, Hugh caught a glimpse of two horsemen coming slowly up the road towards the house.
"Look! Here's Mick's nephews," he whispered, "come to take the sheep away.

By George, we'll bag the whole lot! Sit quiet: don't make a sound." The crisis approached.

Miss Grant, with strained attention, saw Red Mick strike a match, and light his pipe.