Sarah Thornhill. Kate Grenville

WHEELER was the gloomiest soul in the world but even so the Ferryman’s Arms was full every day. The country opening up to the north, men taking their flocks and herds to the good country there.

      Which is how it came about that Archibald Campbell and John Daunt stood in our parlour next day. The inn full up, George was explaining, but these two gentlemen on their way to Sydney, needed lodgings for the night.

      Gentlemen, you see. You didn’t turn gentlemen away.

      They were youngish fellers, Archibald Campbell a cheerful chap, broad face, blond beard and hair the colour of honey. A man like a rosy cake.

      John Daunt was a different make of man altogether. Stood leaning backwards and sideways a little, as if not sure of his welcome. He was no oil painting. An awkwardly-put-together feller, as if his arms and legs not out of the same set. No older than Jack, but his hair thinning, you could see he was set to go bald.

      Pa had come off Star and hurt his wrist and his foot, so he couldn’t get up to greet them.

      Good-day to you sirs, he said. Very welcome here in my house and owing to my recent mishap I’m sorry I’m not able to stand for you.