I never expected such fanfare upon my return to the billet. Lights blazed and fiddles played as the shearer removed his sweat-brimmed hat, then took to wiping down his teeth with a piece of rag. “Come on now, boy,” he said, shaking out the rag, “there’s a time to be had.”
The shearer’s steps fell jauntily, his heels tapping over the stone path. “Help me get set up with this picture-box,” he said, “now be careful, there’s a pretty penny to be made with this piece of tackle.”
I held up the picture-box as he unfurled the wooden legs and straightened them with their brass pintle fasteners.
“Listen up,” he said, curling his hand around the back of his ear, “sounds like quite a crowd.” He grinned, showing the fine job he’d made of cleaning his teeth. “Now try not to look like it’s the gallows
