Henry lay in bed and watched the lizard. He liked lizards. This one was small and greyish and soft-looking, and it had a fat tail. In the faint early morning light he could see it running quickly up the wall. When it reached the ceiling it just went on running – upside down, as if it had some kind of glue on its feet.

The two-roomed hut where Henry lived with his family was made of bark slabs. It had a floor of packed earth and window shutters you could close against the sun. But its shingle roof leaked when it rained, and the wind whistled between the bark slabs where the clay daub had cracked and fallen away. There were insects in the bark – spiders and bugs. Eliza screamed and jumped up and down when she saw them.

On her mattress just a few inches away from him, Eliza was still asleep. A bit further away Father was getting out of bed. He nodded good morning to Henry and went into the next room. A few minutes later Henry smelt the smoke of the cooking fire. There would be porridge for breakfast, and fried mutton chops.

Henry got up, dressed, and went past several tents to the outdoor hole that was the lavatory. They had to share it with everyone and it stank terribly. At least there weren’t many people up yet. He picked up two wooden buckets, walked all the way down to the creek to fill them with water, and lugged them back to the hut.

‘I’ll try for some more work in the town today,’ he told Father. ‘Perhaps that man will come back and I can hold his horse again.’

‘I’ll need you to work some time on the claim,’ Father said. ‘You can have the morning off, so long as you give me a hand in the afternoon.’ He sighed. ‘Eliza should be at school. So should you.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ Henry said. ‘You can count on me. I’ll be there, and I’ll bring something back for you. That’s a promise.’

Henry ran down York Street, carrying a message from the undertaker to an old lady whose husband had died. The undertaker had promised him a shilling, and when he passed the message on to the old lady she gave him a big slice of seed cake. Henry’s mouth watered. He ate half the cake, and put the other half in his pocket for later.

On the way back to the undertaker’s he caught a wandering horse and returned it to its owner. That earned him another shilling. Then, with two shillings in his pocket (and a lot of cake crumbs), he carried a rich lady’s baskets from a shop to her carriage. He peeked to see what she’d bought: two bottles of wine, a box of chocolates with a ribbon, a jar of oysters, an enormous leg of ham, and a box of eggs. Eggs! Henry had hardly ever seen an egg since he’d lived in Ballarat. Most amazing of all was a bunch of big purple grapes. He touched them to make sure they were real.

The baskets were heavy, but after he’d staggered down the road and put everything carefully into the lady’s very smart carriage, she only gave him sixpence. Henry tried not to look disappointed.

At midday he found an hour’s work with Mr Carmichael, the butcher, whose assistant was away sick. He wiped down the meat with vinegar to keep it fresh, and threw out some that was too rotten to be saved. He swept the floor and sprinkled it with fresh sawdust. The shop smelt bad and it was full of buzzing flies, but Henry didn’t mind. Money was money.

When he’d finished, he counted up what he’d earned. Four shillings and sixpence! That ought to please Father.

As he started to hurry down the street, heading back to the claim, he saw something that made him stop.

Outside the store several men were looking at something and laughing. Two of them were traps – straightaway Henry recognised Sergeant Nockles and Constable Thomas. What were they up to now? Then he saw that one of the other men had a black patch over one eye.

Henry stared at him. Surely that was the man who’d tried to jump Father’s claim! He must be a friend of the two traps. That made sense: they were all crooked.

Whatever the men were looking at made a quick scurrying movement. Henry moved closer to see.

Trapped in the circle of the men’s legs was a small, terrified kangaroo. It couldn’t be much more than a baby, Henry thought. A joey: that’s what a baby kangaroo was called. There was something wrong with one of its legs.

As Henry watched, Nockles prodded the joey with a stick. ‘Jump,’ he said. ‘Go on, show us what you can do.’ He prodded the little animal again, harder. ‘Jump, damn you.’

‘Hey!’ Henry said. ‘Stop it!’

‘Well now,’ said Sergeant Nockles in a jeering voice. ‘If it isn’t young Henry Hood, son of Robin.’

‘Why are you hurting that kangaroo?’ Henry asked. His voice sounded high and weak. ‘It hasn’t done anything to you.’

‘I shot its mother yesterday, and a very tasty stew she made,’ said Nockles, stroking his wispy beard. ‘We were hoping to get us some entertainment from this one before we put it in the pot as well.’ He gave the joey a kick. It cowered away, shivering.

Henry felt as if he was boiling up. ‘Leave him alone,’ he said.

Nockles ignored him. He kicked the joey again. The other men laughed, and Constable Thomas slapped Nockles on the back as if he’d just done something very clever.

‘He said to leave it alone,’ said another voice. ‘Are you deaf?’

Henry turned his head. The red-haired Irish boy was standing beside him.

‘Mind your lip,’ Nockles said. He narrowed his small eyes. ‘I’ve seen you around, haven’t I? Your mother runs a pie shop.’

‘That’s right,’ said the Irish boy. ‘You’ll know me next time you see me, so.’

‘That won’t be soon,’ sneered Nockles. ‘Your mother’s pies aren’t fit for dogs. I’d sooner have me a bit of juicy kangaroo to eat.’ He looked at the joey and licked his lips. ‘Yum, yum.’

The joey gazed up at Henry with big dark brown eyes. Help me, the eyes seemed to say.

In a flash Henry had an idea. ‘He’s much too small to eat,’ he said. ‘I’ll buy him from you.’

‘We-e-ell now, here’s a turn-up,’ Nockles said, turning to his companions. ‘What do you think, mates? How much is this fine animal worth?’

‘I’ll give you four shillings and sixpence,’ Henry said. He took all the coins from his pocket and held them out.

Nockles glanced at the money. ‘Five shillings or nothing,’ he said. ‘What a shame. Seems like I’ll be getting my kangaroo supper after all.’

‘No you won’t,’ said the Irish boy, pushing his way into the circle. ‘Here’s another sixpence, and we have an agreement. The roo is ours.’

‘Damned sure it is,’ Henry added.

‘Well, thank’ee both,’ Nockles said sarcastically, taking the money. ‘Come along, mates, the show’s over and the Eureka Hotel’s open.’ He jabbed a finger at Henry. ‘But you boys had better keep out of my way.’

‘Oh, we will,’ said the Irish boy. He stuck a finger in the air as the traps moved off down the street, and then turned to Henry. ‘What’s your name? Mine’s Frank. Frank Shanahan.’

‘Henry Bird,’ said Henry. He looked sideways at Frank. Maybe he was decent enough after all. It was a pity he was Irish.

Very carefully, Henry picked up the joey. It lay in his arms, trembling. Its left leg hung down.

‘I’d say his leg’s broke,’ said Frank. ‘That means he’ll be on the way out anyway. Should we take him to Mr Carmichael, do you think? There might be enough of him to make a nice fur cap. I could do with a new cap.’

‘No!’ Henry said, horrified that Frank would even think of taking the little animal to the butcher. ‘You’re worse than the traps, you are.’

Frank grinned. ‘You came in like the tide, didn’t you? I was only joking.’ He scratched the joey’s head. ‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’

The joey waved its small forepaws. It butted its head on Henry’s chest and tried to make its way into his coat.

‘Would you look at that?’ said Frank. ‘He thinks you’re his mammy. When they’re babies, kangaroos live in a pocket on their mother’s stomach. Did you know that, now?’

‘Course I did.’ Henry didn’t, but he wasn’t going to admit it. This Irish boy was too big for his boots, a real know-it-all. He undid the buttons on his coat, tucked the joey inside, and did up the buttons again. Luckily his coat was too big for him – it was an old one of Father’s. The joey lay there quietly, just its head poking out. Henry could feel it shivering.

‘What shall we do now?’ he asked. ‘Do you know anything about kangaroos?’

‘Not much,’ Frank said. ‘But I know somebody who does. He lives out Eureka way, and he’s a wizard with animals. His name’s Happy Jack.’

‘Oh, him,’ said Henry. ‘Do you know him? He’s mad, isn’t he?’

‘Jack?’ Frank looked shocked. ‘He’s not mad, not a bit. He’s the smartest person I know, and a good artist. Jack and me, we’re covies.’

‘Happy Jack can’t be his real name. What’s his real name?’

Frank shrugged. ‘Nobody knows.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’s a mystery, that’s why not. He talks like a judge and looks like a navvy. He can act as old as your grandfather, but he’s only a few years older than me. My mother gives him a feed most days, and because he don’t have any money he pays her with drawings.’

Suddenly Henry remembered why he’d come in to the town: to earn the money his father needed so badly. And what had he done? He’d given it all away for a joey with a damaged leg.

He sighed, and stroked the joey’s long, soft ears. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and see Happy Jack.’