Published: 19 May 2022

Marcus Finn couldn’t convince his mates to take revenge on Stan Bryce and being bloody minded he decided to do so without their assistance but found it almost impossible to find the man without his minions, or discover where he lived.

What would be a suitable revenge?

Bryce was much too strong for Finn to physically challenge.

Possibly he could sneak up behind Bryce and push him from a bridge as he crossed or-;

Eventually there wasn’t any other way than to take retribution except upon the man’s property.

He would firstly discover his home address and follow Bryce to his house, then while the man slept throw stones through the windows.

Or set fire to the house.

‘What if someone sees me?’

‘What if one of his stooges arrives at that very moment and catches me in the act?’

There were too many what-if’s, therefore Finn was back with attacking something Bryce may value and at some place where there was little chance of being discovered.

Not being too bright most of what Finn construed was absurd and childish, similar to schoolyard pranks and without doubt would lead back to the perpetrator.

There was another problem developing for Marcus Finn, that being he was an inherent coward. Marcus would, in a figure of speech, be the one to load the arrows while others fired them away. Marcus believed it to be a sign of leadership, not realising conformity from his younger associates was through fear of his erratic character. As for Dev, Jones and Fisk it was friendship that had developed from many years of association and when Finn asked them to jump they would ask why. Johnny Luck simply ignored him.

Eventually Finn decided if he couldn’t hit Bryce in person, he would his property and knowing Bryce had a skiff on the river at the end of Durham Street where the Yarra made its last loop before the city, he thought he could take issue with the boat instead.

It would be a cinch, firstly he thought of smashing the craft but that would be difficult with his bare hands, then he developed a plan, he would untether the skiff allowing it to float freely down the river and into the bay. Thus gone forever, or claimed as abandoned by another.

Finn had heard from one of his mates that Bryce was otherwise occupied at the top end of town, so it was time to activate his revenge. Following the walking path along the river from Jolimont it was at least a mile to where Bryce had his skiff, which was in a row of three others but easily recognizable by its dark blue colouring and the numbering seventy-three on its bow.

Along the path he encounters many taking the late afternoon air but none he believed would be associated with Bryce. Continuing on he become bolstered with bravado towards his clandestine but somewhat silly enterprise, even as much as whistling a little tune that he believed would help to mask his intent.

The skiff’s mooring was sheltered from the walking path by a stand of golden wattle trees, although further along from the mooring the terrain was clear and gradual to the water’s edge being open for anyone to see. On approaching Durham Street Finn crossed over and headed down the slight grading to the river until he was concealed from the path by the stand of wattle and there before him was Bryce’s skiff, tied to a small tree by a length of rope.

Finn looked about, there wasn’t anyone in sight.

Hesitation as he made a final scan of the bank and street but a couple taking the late afternoon air was coming from the direction of the city. They paused and appeared to be interested in a number of water birds dabbling about a reedy patch not far from where Finn was standing. Finn pretends to be watching some children at play on the opposite bank while waiting for the couple to continue on.

‘I should have left it until after dark,’ Finn realizes.

‘I’m here now,’ he thinks.

Time for action;

Again he glanced about – no one.

He gives a vengeful chuckle as he approaches the skiff but before furthering his activity he again takes notice of his isolation.

Another couple equally uninterested in what he was about came from the opposing direction.

The couple passes on and all was clear.

Marcus Finn wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box and with an evil laugh he stepped into the boat, almost tipping himself into the river. He settled and squatted lower to lessen his centre of gravity then commenced to undo the rope. Once undone Finn cheerfully flung the rope to the bank with an evil laugh, before realising he remained on board a craft that was now floating freely down the river and quickly heading into the midstream current.

“Oh shit!” he cried and thinks of jumping to the bank but by such time the skiff is too far from the bank and with the current definitely beyond his swimming ability. Looking about he noticed he had one more problem. There were no ores; Bryce had taken them with him to lessen the chance of someone steeling the skiff.

Now the boat was at centre current and floating fast and to make matters worse, Finn spied one of Bryce’s minions walking with his girl along the bank who appeared to be looking his way. Finn quickly ducked lower into the boat but was certain he had been spotted.

The man points towards the skiff and speaks to his girl.

“Fuck I’m in for it now,” Finn panicked as he lay prostrate in the warm water puddled at the bottom of the skiff, occasionally lifting his head high enough to spy if he had been discovered.

Bryce’s minion remained pointing towards Finn and the lad’s ginger hair was a dead giveaway. “Shit,” Finn growled once more as the small craft approached the bridge at Hoddle Street, he swore again as it passed beneath, leaving him to concern towards the product of his folly. Once the skiff was clear of the bridge its supports diverted the current towards the south bank. Coming close to the bank, Finn thinks of jumping but as quickly the current changed and the small craft is once again towards midstream with increasing speed. All the lad could do was sit tight and hope.

Brian Fisk wished to visit a friend who lived on High Street in Armadale being a good six miles from the city and had talked Dev in jumping a train with him. There was a number steam services up during the morning and down in the afternoon, also a goods train with passenger carriages but that was express for part of the way. The last of the return passenger services departed the Armadale station for the city at exactly five o’clock.

The boys often rode the trains and never bought a ticket, avoiding the inspectors by taking a middle carriage, as the inspectors always started from one of the ends while working their way along the carriages. If an inspector was spied on the platform they would simply get off and wait for the next service, always accessing or departing the platform from its ends away from the gates and the ticket collector.

Graham Hobson, Fisk’s friend lived close to the Armadale station while his father was employed by Herbert Thompson, who had a business in High Street making boilers for steam engines. Thompson and an associate Edward Holmes had been working on a new project for some years and one they hoped would revolutionize transport in the city.

Thompson’s contraption was to be Melbourne’s first steam car, although fitting the steam engine to the carriage had not as yet been perfected but their endeavor continued, even with a local identity Harry Tarrant being well advanced in designing a kerosene fueled vehicle. Tarrant’s first attempt was a failure and for his next attempt he imported an engine from Benz in Germany with more success.

Herbert Thompson’s concept had been formulated long before Karl Benz launched his automobile but such initiative was also developing in Britain and America at the same time and like Benz their designs were more towards fueling with gasoline and not steam as was Thompson’s conception. A chemist James Young in Derbyshire back in forty-eight notices a natural seepage of petroleum which he distilled for lamp oil but its usage in motors took another half century more to become apparent.

Who invented anything is always disputable and if credit should be give for the automobile engine then possibly it could go to James Watt, as from his invention it was only a matter of time before the steam engine went from stationery, to rails to road and running on petroleum. Then again didn’t the early Greeks understand the principle and power of steam? It only took someone to invent iron and how to create a pressure boiler to instigate the principle for steam engines and the combustion chamber and sparking for gasoline.

After meeting up with Graham, he took them to Thompson’s factory to visit with his father Anthony.

“What are you doing down here son,” Anthony asked on spying his son and the boys casually strolling across the factory’s yard, hands deep in pockets, kicking up loose gravel as they progressed, while appearing carefree to the world.

“I want to show my mates Mr. Thompson’s new contraption.”

“You will need to ask Mr. Thompson’s permission first, he is up front in his office but if he is busy don’t disturb him.”

“Come on,” Graham lead the way and seeing he often ran errands for Thompson he thought there wouldn’t be a problem to gain permission to see his contraption.

The boys found the man busy scrutinizing a set of drawings for a new steam engine.

“Mr. Thompson,” Graham called through the office door disturbing him from puzzlement over the set of drawings.

“Good afternoon Graham. Who are your friends?” he asks appreciating a distraction from his work.

Graham introduced the two.

“So what can I do for you?”

“I was hoping to show my mates your new contraption.”

“Contraption,” Thompson cheerfully repeats as he removes his spectacles and placed them carefully on the many drawings spread across his work bench, “I have some spare time, come I’ll show you,” There was nothing the man enjoyed more than showing off his design and with a happy smile, he directed the boys to a small shed behind the main factory.

He guides them in with a warning not to touch anything.

“What is it?” Dev asked noting in his opinion it was nothing but a buggy.

“I call it Thompson’s Steamer,”

“How do you attach the horse?” Fisk asks noticing the lack of hitching shafts.

Thompson laughs; “no horse lad it has an engine, like what Graham’s father works on but will need to be much smaller.” He points to the front of the vehicle; “you see that space? That is where the engine will be fitted.”

“How do you steer it?” Fisk asks.

“You do so by that leaver between the two seats.”

“It looks complicated,” Dev admitted as he takes a closer look at the wheels, cogs and driving chain, none of which made sense to his understanding of the world and how things turned.

“When can we go for a ride?” Fitch asks more from humor than from expectation.

Again the man laughs. “That will be some time I’m afraid as I haven’t quite perfected the engine as yet, making it small and powerful enough to fit the space has been a little difficult. I suppose I could get one from Europe but where would the fun be in that?”

“When you do Mr. Thompson, how fast will it go?” Dev asks.

“That is a good question lad, how long is a length of string? Faster that the fastest horse I should think and without needing to intermittingly stop and rest. Enough of mechanics for now I have work to do.”

After visiting the factory and back home, Graham’s mother invited them in for sandwiches. “I know Brian but who is your little friend,” she says referring to Dev.

“Little?” Graham protests on Dev’s behalf, as none of the young men could be considered little and least of all Dev, who was a good two inches taller than them both.

“You know what I mean, would you boys like some beef and chutney sandwiches?”

“I’m Dev, Devon Gooding Mrs. Hobson,” the lad politely introduces himself.

“And what do you do Devon?” she asked as she made the sandwiches.

“At present I’m looking for work, Mrs. Hobson,” he answers not wishing to appear idle.

Dev was salivation at the thought of roast beef, as it had been so long since he had beef he could hardly remember. It was, he recalled, the time when his mother’s cousin Lucy came down from Ararat for Christmas, bringing with her almost a quarter side of beef. Now it was soup bones before they went to the butcher’s dog and chicken when Dev’s prowling was fortunate.

There were two sandwiches each and although Dev could have eagerly devoured them both, he begged the woman to wrap his second in newsprint for later, as it was his intention to take it home for his mother.

The woman saw through his design and carefully chose her words not to embarrass the lad, “no you have it now and I will make you a couple more to take with you for your tea.”

It was almost dark and Marcus was growing concerned. He had been drifting with the current since late afternoon and all the while the skiff kept close to midstream. On the occasion someone would wave a greeting from the shore, or call from the many small coastal vessels along the river but he dared not ask for help although concerning deeply towards the outcome to his little venture. What would Bryce do when he found his skiff gone? Had he been recognized by Bryce’s mate as he walked along the riverbank, or worse still, would the river’s current take him out across the bay, to the heads and the open ocean to be lost forever in Bass Strait, possibly taken by some hungry shark, or his bones discovered bleached white from the relentless sun while floating in mid ocean?

As darkness drew about, the skiff reached the mouth to the Yarra where the hook of land to the south directed the small craft into Hobson Bay. Passing Station Pier it was almost ran down by a vessel as it made way towards the river. All across the stretch of land lights twinkled and the smell of cooking came to him. Marcus felt his belly rumble but there would be no meal that night. He could see the silhouetted outline of people taking the early night air along the beach but they could not see him against the darkening sky. There were also a number of lads swimming off Albert Park, even with the knowledge sharks often fed just after dusk but in those prudish days it was illegal to swim at the city beaches between sunup and sunset.

Now Marcus was drifting along the beach towards St. Kilda but at some distance from the shore and without knowledge of the depth below and too far to wade to safety. All he could hope was for the incoming tide to take him to the sand. It was then he heard a thumping against the hull of the skiff, reaching into the water he discovered a short flat length of a board, good enough to be used as a paddle.

The paddle worked but not directly and the skiff remained following the shoreline, then the wind picked up and with it the surf, slowly pushing the skiff towards the beach. Eventually it hit bottom and Marcus jumped out, pulling the skiff as far out of the water as possible. He was at last safe but miles from home and the Yarra. He looked about and saw no one.

What could he do?

He stood pondering his position for a minute before deciding to hoof it and leave Bryce’s skiff where it came ashore.

Tom Hadley was an associate of Stan Bryce and had been walking with his girlfriend along the Yarra when he noticed the skiff floating past. At first he took little notice but the irrational behavior of the lad within the boat caught his attention. On his way home he called in on Bryce with what he had witnessed.

“Are you sure it was my skiff?” Bryce asks.

“Had to be, I checked the tree where you tie it and no skiff.”

“Shit someone must have untied the rope?”

“There was someone in it and when he noticed I was watching he ducked low as if not to be recognized.”

“Did you recognize him?” Bryce asks.

“In my reckoning from his ginger hair, it was that crazy kid from the Smith-street lot – Marcus Finn.”

“I’ve already warned the little scrote, I’ll have his nuts for this.”

After checking his mooring site and finding his skiff missing, Bryce past word around there would be a reward for anyone who found his missing craft, also a second reward for the whereabouts of Marcus Finn but oddly no one had seen Marcus, not even Dev, or John Luck for some days. Marcus had most defiantly gone to ground in fright.

Eventually the skiff was found and brought back to its mooring on the river, costing Bryce ten shillings, an amount he would take out of Finn in punishment once the lad came out of hiding. It was also concerning that the lad was becoming more than a nuisance and possibly a more drastic approach may be necessary. Eradication was Bryce’s suggestion when speaking with his inner circle but issued more in jest, then he further suggested Marcus Finn could be kidnapped and taken to some settlement too far for him to walk back, while believing the kid too dimwitted to find direction to return.

“Have you heard?” John Luck asked Dev as they met up with Brian Fisk outside Flinders Street railway terminal while keeping distance from the foot traffic as folk hurry to and from the platforms.

“Heard what?”

“Marcus,”

“What has he done now,” Dev questions.

“He stole Bryce’s boat and it ended up on the beach at Albert Park.” Luck appeared to be enjoying his telling.

“Why would he be so stupid to do that?” Dev asks.

“Who knows, possibly to punish Bryce but it was a silly way to get revenge and now Bryce is offering a reward to find him.” Luck says.

“Where is Marcus now?” Dev asks.

“I hear he is down the coast at the fishing village of Frankston,” Luck offers.

“How would he get there?” Fisk asks.

“I don’t know, possibly jumped a ferry and is hiding out from Bryce until the heat is off,” Luck suggests.

Dev laughs.

“What do you think?” Fisk questions Dev.

“I don’t. I did warn him not to mess the big boys,” Dev says.

“What will Bryce do to him?” asks Luck.

“He threatened to cut Marcus’ nuts off.” Dev recalls.

“Would he do that?” Luck asks.

“He may, I heard he cut someone’s ear off for a laugh,” Dev recollects.

“I heard he rooted one of the St. Kilda boys up the arse,” Fisk nervously reveals.

“You reckon Bryce would do that?”

“It is said he learned it from a Turk, as they did it to the Greek Partisan when they caught them,” Fisk expresses with a measure of confidence.

“Fisky’, why would they do that?” Dev questions in a discrediting tone.

“To humiliate them I guess, to take away their masculinity.” Fisk gives a grubby chortle then continues; “if it was Jonesy he’d probably love being fucked up the arse.”

Dev was about to comment but believed enough had been said on the matter of Douglas Jones’ habits. “So with Finn away, who is running the show?” he asks.

“I think we should cool it until he returns; besides we don’t want to get Bryce cranky.” Luck suggests with a shudder while almost feeling such invasion penetrating into his privacy. He then shares, “it must hurt.”

“What are you on about?” Fisk growls.

“Getting a wallop up the arse, it must hurt.”

“I wouldn’t know. Why not ask Jones, as he said it is no worse than taking a solid dump after being bunged up for a week.”

“I dunno what about you Gooding?”

“It’s not my idea of entertainment,” Dev says as his thoughts returned to that day on the docks. Did it hurt? He thought a little but it was the rough treatment he remembered and the foul breath upon his cheek and the denigration he felt once it was over.

“My arse is an outlet not an intake and of that I’m certain,” Luck strongly asserts as the subject turned to rumbling bellies and the need to roll some unexpected drunk for the pittance in his pockets.

“Have you any coin Dev?” Fisk asks.

“Not even a farthing,” Dev shoves his hand in his pocket, “only this?” he passes a strange dark coin with a hole through its middle to Fisk.

“What’s this?” Fisk quizzically asks.

“I haven’t a clue, it was given to me in Chinatown by a kitchen hand; I reckon it must be Chow money.”

“What is it worth,” Fisk bit the coin hoping it was gold.

“You would probably need a wheelbarrow full to get a meal.”

Fisk passed back the coin, “no thanks it’s probably been in a Chow’s ear, as I hear they hide them there,”

“Who told you that?” Dev displays doubt in his friend’s suggestion.

“My mum, she won’t put thrippences’ in the Christmas pudding as she says they’ve been in Chinamen’s ears,” Fisk says.

“Who has money to waste in pudding,” Dev discredits.

“You get it back, that is if you don’t swallow it,” Fisk assures.

“And if you do swallow it?” Dev asks.

“Then you crap in the bushes for a day or two until you retrieve it.”

“That’s disgusting,” Dev complains.

“Christmas pud: Who has that kind of luxury?” Luck admits.

“They must have big ears to hold this coin,” Dev says as he returns his so named lucky coin to his pocket.

“Anyway,” Luck simply announces as he becomes bored with the conversation.

“Okay it is agreed,” Dev says.

“What is?” Fisk asks.

“We lay low for a while and see what happens.”

“What other choice have we?” Fisk agrees.

A month had past and still no sign of Marcus Finn, as for the Smith-street push it had all but disbanded. The lads still met for entertainment but not as a push and in most would be Dev Gooding, Jones and Fisk, also Luck if the mood pleased him. As for their usual activity, a few pockets were picked and shops pilfered but little more. Dev did return to where he stole the chicken but the dog with the mad eyes had gone, replaced by one that meant business and with no amount of coxing could he befriend the animal.

Early afternoon found the lads congregating on the grassy slope in front of the library with little more to do but hang around and dream of other places.

“I’m still broke and hungry,” Luck admits, “how about going over to your place and raid the pantry,” he suggests to Fisk.

“Last time I did so with you Dev my old man gave me a walloping; besides mum will be home.”

“Oh well back to rolling some drunk,” Luck sighs as he notices a fruit seller attending his stall across the street, “come on make a distraction while I nick a couple of apples.”

“I’ve work to do,” Dev says.

“Got a job?” Luck questions.

“It is only delivering washing for mum also Jack wants me to run an errand while he is snoring his stupid head off.”

“Is Jack still working nights?” Luck asks as he crosses the street towards the fruit stall but quickly diverts as the fruiter tags his progress.

“He would prefer days, he says nights interfere with his love life.”

“Love life, what’s that?” Fisk huffs.

“Something that others are having and we are not,” Luck suggests.

“Except for Jonesy’,” Fish laughs.

Jack by that time had a little fortune, with the summer there was more building activity and a greater need for bricks, so his hours increased and with Christmas approaching, was given a slight rise in wages. In those depressed days wages were kept as low as possible but David Mitchell was a fair man and could see how his workers suffered.

Also with the warmer weather children played more outdoors and clothes became frequently soiled, therefore Ilene’s washing load increased. Eventually with a measure of luck, Ilene found she could help a neighbor who was within a week of being evicted but like most things in such times Ilene’s charity only delayed what would be inevitable.

The week before Christmas fresh news arrive on the whereabouts of Marcus Finn. It was from a chance meeting of Dev with Joseph Clark the youngest of the Smith-street lot, informing Finn had returned but was hiding out at Fisk’s house.

“How did you find that out?” Dev asks.

“Brian Howe who lives on Fisk’s street told me,”

“If Howe knows, then I would think Bryce would also know,”

“Probably,”

“Strange,” Dev says.

“What is?”

“I only saw Fisk the other day and he didn’t say anything about Finn staying there.” Dev thought of visiting Fisk to see for himself but under the circumstances, the less he associated with Finn the safer it would be from Stan Bryce.

“It’s supposed to be a secrete,”

“Some secret if everybody knows,” Dev huffed at the thought.

“Who’s taking over the push?” the young lad asks.

“Do you want the job Clarkie’?”

“Not likely, not with Bryce around and baying for blood,”

“There’s your answer,”

“What answer?”

“No one,”

When he received the news Bryce was casing the business premises of a shoemaker at the top end of Queensbury Street in North Melbourne. His sphere of influence stretched from Fitzroy east through North Melbourne to the rail yards, including the new Queen Victoria Market, built on the unused portion of the Melbourne Cemetery.

The reward of five shillings for the whereabouts of Marcus Finn was half that he offered for finding his boat but enough to make many a young lad without loyalty towards Finn become enthusiastic. Bryce had already received a number of false directions by larrikins, attempting to find favor or earn a few shillings but they quickly came to nothing, even so having his skiff back had been more important than finding Finn and he was becoming cool on further punishing the lad.

It was late afternoon and Bryce was in conversation with a shoemaker in Errol Street, espousing the man’s need for protection, mainly from his lot but that part of the deal was cleverly disguised. Unfortunately the shopkeeper was either too dimwitted to understand Bryce’s offer, or was playing him without intention towards obligation.

As Bryce departed the business a cheeky young lad of no more than twelve approached him, tugging his coat from behind.

“Hey Brycey’,” the lad loudly spoke turning Bryce’s head as the last he wished for was others knowing he was about, especially by name.

“Keep it down kid or I’ll give you a thumping,”

The kid comes closer, “you still looking for Marcus Finn?” he quietly asks ignoring Bryce’s threat.

“What’s it to you?”

“Is there still a reward?”

“Could be?”

“How much?”

“That depends on what you have to say?”

“I can tell you where he is for ten shillings,” the kid hopefully holds out a grubby hand for his reward.

“Five or I’ll give you a thick ear and not until his whereabouts is proven.”

“Fair deal,” the kid admits.

“Then out with it, where is he?” Bryce impatiently demands.

“He is staying with Brian Fisk over in Collingwood.”

“Is that fact?”

“Yea but during the day he has been hanging around Banana Alley on Flinders Street.

“Right-o piss off and if the information is correct, you will get your reward.

The kid hesitates.

“Get going, you’ll get your money if the information is good and not before.”

“Got any chewing ‘bacca?”

“How old are you kid?”

“Old enough,”

“Get out of here or you will get my boot up your arse.”

Bryce called it a day and armed with the information on Finn he returned to his house in North Fitzroy. He would have his revenge and by week’s end Finn would get more than he bargained for. Bryce at first thought of doing the lad in but had decided a good thumping would be more an example to his mates than rubbing him out. Then again he may do nothing, as retaliation would only bring attention towards his push and their developing protection business, besides it was possible he could use the kid at a later time.

Late in the afternoon Bryce fixed himself a drink and relaxed back mulling over the best way to handle the North Melbourne shoemaker. He had already created a measure of fear in the man, now it would be up to his minions to carry through his guarded threats before he returned to sign the shopkeeper up for protection.

‘I don’t think the shoemaker understands what was asked of him,’ he thinks.

‘Possibly he may need a little encouragement.’

‘Not too rough at first, the dead dog through the window often brings them around, especially when it is their own animal,’ the thought humors him.

“Marcus Finn,” he quietly says and gave a soft head laugh.

‘How can I punish the little scrote without doing too much damage?’

‘I need to show him and his mates he can’t mix with the big boys and get away with it.’

‘I think I’ll let him suffer for a few days first.’

Bryce made a second drink and returned to his chair, ‘now that Gooding kid, he has guts, I could use him,’

‘Good looking young fellow as well,’

There was a confident knock to the door, ‘yes use him in more ways than one,’ Bryce thinks as he paid attention to the intrusion.

It was Tom Hadley.

“Tom, come in make yourself a drink,”

“Not at the moment thank you Stan, how did you go in North Melbourne?” he asks.

“I’ve laid down the groundwork but obviously he doesn’t understand, possibly I was a little too subtle.”

“How did you express it?”

“The usual way but I think this one is going to fight us,”

“He may go to the police,” Hadley says.

“Let him, he hasn’t anything to go on, except for some guarded suggestion that could have any meaning. I made sure of that.”

Bryce tops up his drink, “are you sure you wouldn’t like a scotch?”

“Too early for me Stan but you go ahead.”

“Yes our shoemaker needs a little encouragement, now it’s up to you to do the rest.”

“I’ll send in Nelson and Mick O’Brien,”

“Good,”

“Lenny Worth,” Hadley mentions the name of one of their push.

“What about Worth?”

“I think he should be watched,”

“Why?”

“I can’t put a finger on it as yet.”

“You don’t Like Lenny do you Tom?” Bryce suggests.

“What do you want to do about the Finn kid?” Hadley asks while ignoring Bryce’s question on Lenny Worth.

“I haven’t decided as yet.”

“He needs rubbing out or he will always be a problem, like an itch you just can’t reach.”

“Don’t know. Possibly you are correct. I’ll think about it.”

Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

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