The moon rose away out on the edge of a smoky plain, seen through a sort of tunnel or arch in the fringe of mulga behind which we were camped—Jack Mitchell and I. The timber proper was just behind us, very thick and very dark. The moon looked like a big new copper boiler set on edge on the horizon of the plain, with the top turned towards us and a lot of old rags and straw burning inside.
We had tramped twenty-five miles on a dry stretch on a hot day—swagmen know what that means. We reached the water about two hours “after dark “—swagmen know what that means. We didn’t sit down at once and rest—we hadn’t rested for the last ten miles. We knew that if we sat down we wouldn’t want to get up again in a hurry—that, if we did, our leg-sinews, especially those of our calves, would “draw” like red-hot wire’s. You see, we hadn’t been long on the track this time—it was only our third day out. Swagmen will understand.
We got the billy boiled first, and some leaves laid down for our beds and the swags rolled out. We thanked the Lord that we had some cooked meat and a few johnny-cakes left, for we didn’t feel equal to cooking. We put the billy of tea and our tucker-bags between the heads of our beds, and the pipes and tobacco in the crown of an old hat, where we could reach them without having to get up. Then we lay down on our stomachs and had a feed. We didn’t eat much—we were too tired for that—but we drank a lot of tea. We gave our calves time to tone down a bit; then we lit up and began to answer each other. It got to be pretty comfortable, so long as we kept those unfortunate legs of ours straight and didn’t move round much.
We cursed society because we weren’t rich men, and then we felt better and conversation drifted lazily round various subjects and ended in that of smoking.