The Squatters of Wallaby Range — George Manville Fenn

“Better stay here, squire. Aren't the land good enough for you?” “Oh yes; the land's good enough, sir.” “Stop and take up a run close by. If you go yonder, the piggers'll eat you without salt.” Here followed a roar of laughter from the party of idlers who were busy doing nothing with all their might, as they lounged about the wharves and warehouses of Port Haven. Emigrants' guide-books said that Port Haven was a busy rising town well inside the Barrier Reef on the east coast of Northern Australia, and offered abundant opportunities for intending settlers. On this particular sunny morning Port Haven was certainly not “busy,” and if “rising,” it had not risen enough for much of it to be visible. There were a few wooden buildings of a very rough description; there was a warehouse or two; and an erection sporting a flagstaff and a ragged Union Jack, whose front edge looked as if the rats had been trying which tasted best, the red, white, or blue; and upon a rough board nailed over the door was painted in white letters, about as badly as possible, “Jennings' Hotel;” but the painter had given so much space to “Jennings',” that “Hotel” was rather squeezed, like the accommodation inside; and consequently from a distance, that is to say, from the deck of the ship Ann Eliza of London, Norman Bedford could only make out “Jennings' Hot,” and he drew his brother and cousin's attention to the fact -- the ‘el' being almost invisible. “Well, who cares?” cried his brother Raphael.