Sally Odgers.

Pelham was not your everyday average swagman. For a start, he was young, about thirteen. If you looked hard in a good strong light you could see down growing on his upper lip. He had blue eyes, the same dark blue as Willow Pattern china.

Your average swaggie is a tough old codger with a few teeth missing and bristles on his chin. His skin is like ancient leather and his clothes are greyish brownish, held together with string. His eyes are faded like very old jeans.

Your average swaggie is not complete without a battered hat that looks as if a horse sat on it and forgot to get up. The brim has more cracks than a building site and there are corks dangling round to confuse the flies. Pel's hat had a sprightly look about it, fresh from the stall at Paddy's Market.

Swaggie boots are peeling leather, and the laces never match. The swag starts out as an Army blanket, then gets rained on a few dozen times. It's rolled up like a Swiss roll and hung with billy cans, pots and the odd bag of flour. It smells a bit peculiar. Pel's boots were soft black ones, the sort the RAAFies wear. And his swag smelled rather like fabric softener.

Your average swaggie has a healthy disrespect for full-time work. Not that he's lazy, as such, but he's a wanderer. He sees the world at his pace, on his terms. Pel had to keep to a schedule, which is something your average swaggie never does.

And now comes the final clincher. That great accessory. That glorious companion, that mentor and protector- the dog! Your typical swaggie dog is lean and mean and yellow. He carries his tail in a low half-hoop and scratches rather a lot. He cocks his leg whenever he sees a tree. Pel's dog was a clean, clever, capable canine who knew exactly what was what. His name was Tobor. It really suited him.

So there you have it; you just met Pel and Tobor. The swagboy and the swag-dog, off on the road to some really wild adventures. Trouble is, as Pel found out, you've got to wake up before you can make a start.