I have worked the factory floor and I have thrown bricks on building sites under the glare of the Australian sun. Sometimes, when I look at my soft city hands my mind does tend to wander ….

I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall, and the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all

And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle of the tramways and the ‘buses making hurry down the street, and the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting, comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.

And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me as they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste, with their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy, for townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.

And I somehow rather fancy that I’d like to change with Clancy, like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go, while he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal, but I doubt he’d suit the office, Clancy, of ‘The Overflow’.


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