This is a story -- about the only one -- of Job Falconer, Boss of the Talbragar sheep-station up country in New South Wales in the early Eighties -- when there were still runs in the Dingo-Scrubs out of the hands of the banks, and yet squatters who lived on their stations.
Job would never tell the story himself, at least not complete, and as his family grew up he would become as angry as it was in his easy-going nature to become if reference were made to the incident in his presence. But his wife -- little, plump, bright-eyed Gerty Falconer -- often told the story (in the mysterious voice which women use in speaking of private matters amongst themselves -- but with brightening eyes) to women friends over tea; and always to a new woman friend. And on such occasions she would be particularly tender towards the unconscious Job, and ruffle his thin, sandy hair in a way that embarrassed him in company -- made him look as sheepish as an old big-horned ram that has just been shorn and turned amongst the ewes. And the woman friend on parting would give Job's hand a squeeze which would surprise him mildly, and look at him as if she could love him.
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