It was one of the old mail tracks once, but new coach lines had knocked away all the traffic.

Some of the old inns had been good big houses, well kept and looked after then.

Now lots of them were empty, with broken windows and everything in ruins; others were just good enough to let to people who would live in them, and make a living by cultivating a bit and selling grog on the sly.

Where we pulled up was one of these places, and the people were just what you might expect.
First of all there was the man of the house, Jonathan Barnes, a tall, slouching, flash-looking native; he'd been a little in the horse-racing line, a little in the prize-fighting line--enough to have his nose broken, and was fond of talking about 'pugs' as he'd known intimate--a little in the farming and carrying line, a little in every line that meant a good deal of gassing, drinking, and idling, and mighty little hard work.

He'd a decent, industrious little wife, about forty times too good for him, and the girls, Bella and Maddie, worked well, or else he'd have been walking about the country with a swag on his back.