"B.F. for Wearyville," interjected Bill as he got up. "And now, you puddin'-headed red flagger, if you'll sit down, I'll have a cut in." The bucolic M.P. collapsed in his seat, wiping the perspiration off his beetled brow with the aid of a navvy's red handkerchief.
"This gent, what is called M.P., is a worm. I'm a Union man--we're all Union men. Andy Fisher's a Union man, and so is Pearce, the chap that's defending Australia. But there's Union men and Union men. They're mainly good, but some are bad. That's one of the bad ones there. His name is Neverwork, and he never worked in his life. He's a blowhard, a gasbagger, a balloon full of curses and twaddle. This bloke thinks we're fools. He's kidded his Union on that he's a smart fellow--a sort of High Priest of Salvation. He's talked himself into a job, and he's drawing about five hundred a year out of another fellow's pockets. He's called a Socialist to-day, but he'd call himself a Jew, a nigger, a polecat to-morrow, if, by doing that, he'd get a hundred more. In short, mates, he's a politician--you know what that means. Now, Andy Fisher and Pearce don't shout like this thing here. They're men, they're Australians. They want us to fight side by side with the boys from the old country. That's why we're here. And we'll fight, and so much for a fat-headed M.P. that couldn't write his own name ten years ago. This chap's an insult to Australia."
"Hear, hear!" chorused all the Bushmen volunteers.
"Listen, boys! Listen!" roared the M.P. above the din; but they simply howled him down. In the middle of this row Claud rose up, and putting up his hand, asked for order. Again silence reigned.
"Well, gentlemen--I mean, boys," said Claud, fumbling with his eyeglass, "I wish to make a motion----"
"You're a new chum--sit down," roared Neverwork.
"And that's why I want to speak," said Claud, in such a quiet, cynical way that the M.P. almost choked. "I'm a new chum--yes. And I am, also, one of the boys. I'm in the Shearers' Union, too. I have been treated well here--don't cher know, and here are my good friends. And we're all going to fight, for what----"
"For financiers and Jews," roared the M.P.
"No, my apoplectic friend! We're going to fight for Australia--not Britain--and we're going to fight to prevent fools like you handing this land over to German or Yellow men. It's the proper thing, don't cher know. Now, gentlemen----"