Mike Dixon

He reached the bar door and stood beneath the fan that
whirled overhead. Sunburnt faces looked out from beneath
broad-brimmed hats. The scene was totally different from Canberra.
There were no suits, ties or shoes. The order of the day
was bush shirts, denims and elastic–sided boots. It was like
being in a foreign country. Humphrey ran his eyes from table
to table. Which of the tough-looking men was Bill Maxwell? He
was about to go to the bar and ask when a hand tapped his
shoulder.
„Professor Hansen?‟
A tall, lanky figure stood beside him. They exchanged greet-
ings and Humphrey was led to a small table where a second
man was sitting. He rose and stretched out a hand.
„Tom O‟Brien …‟
Humphrey had difficulty putting an age to the two men.
Both were lean and leathery. They could be almost any age
from fifty to seventy-five. When they stood they had the ap-
pearance of men who spent long hours in the saddle. Bill got
some beers and the conversation turned to oral history.
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