In the Land of the Long White Cloud

reassuring: her husband only drank with men he liked. So the tour of the farm earlier must have gone well. “And I have to admit,” George continued in a measured tone, “that I’m a little concerned.”
    “Concerned?” grumbled Howard. “How do you mean? There’s plenty of wool here for your business. You certainly don’t need to worry about that. And if you don’t like what I’ve got…just as well, you don’t need to pretend with me. Then I’ll just look for another buyer.” He emptied his glass in one go and poured himself another.
    George arched his eyebrows in confusion. “Why should I reject your product, Mr. O’Keefe? On the contrary, I’m very interested in working together. Precisely because of my concern. You see, I’ve visited several farms now, and it seems to me that a few sheep breeders are striving for a monopoly, Gerald Warden of Kiward Station first and foremost.”
    “You can say that again!” O’Keefe replied, working himself up and taking another slug. “Those fellows want the whole market for themselves…only the best price for the best wool…even what they call themselves: sheep barons! Delusions of grandeur, that lot.”
    Howard reached for the whiskey.
    George nodded and sipped from his glass. “I would put it more mildly, but in principle, you’re not wrong. And it’s very astute of you to mention prices—Warden and the other top producers are driving them high. Of course, they’re also raising the expectations of quality,but as far as I’m concerned…well, my negotiating position would naturally be stronger if there were more variety.”
    “So you’ll be buying more from smaller breeders?” Howard asked hungrily. His eyes shone with interest but also with suspicion. What trader would knowingly buy lower-quality wool?
    “I would like to, Mr. O’Keefe. But the quality has likewise to match. If you ask me, the little farms are stuck in a vicious circle that must be broken. You know it yourself—you don’t have much land, and you have too many rather low-quality animals; the yields are quantitatively acceptable but qualitatively poor. So there’s not enough revenue left over to buy better livestock and increase the quality of the results long term.”
    O’Keefe nodded avidly. “You’re completely right there. That’s what I’ve been trying to make these bankers in Christchurch understand for years. I would need a loan.”
    George shook his head. “You need first-class breeding material. And it’s not just you, but other small farms as well. An injection of money can help, but it’s not always the answer. Imagine you buy a prize-winning ram and the next winter he dies on you.”
    George’s real fear was that a loan for Howard would more likely be gambled away in the pub than invested in a ram, but he had thought over his arguments at some length.
    “Well, that’s exactly the ri…risk,” said Howard, who was gradually losing full command of his tongue.
    “A risk you cannot afford, O’Keefe. You have a family. You can’t risk someone chasing you out of house and home. No, my proposal looks a little different. I’m considering having my company, Greenwood Enterprises, acquire a stock of first-class sheep and then offering them to the breeders on loan. As for reimbursement, we can work out an agreement. You would care for the animals, and return them in good health a year later—a year during which a ram mates with all the ewes in your flock or a purebred ewe delivers two lambs to you, which provide the foundation for a new flock. Would you be interested in such an arrangement?”
    Howard grinned. “And Warden will start to look shabby when he suddenly finds farmers all around him with purebreds.” He raised his glass as though to toast George.
    George nodded at him seriously. “Well, Mr. Warden won’t starve as a result. But you and I will have better business opportunities ahead. Agreed?” He held out his hand to Helen’s husband.
    Helen saw from the window that Howard took it. She had not heard what they said, but Howard had rarely looked so pleased. And George had that old clever-as-a-fox look on his face, winking in her direction no less. Yesterday she had reproached herself, but now she wished she had kissed him.

    George was very pleased with himself when he left Kiward Station the next day to ride back to Christchurch. Not even the dirty looks of that impertinent stable boy James McKenzie could spoil his mood. The fellow had