The old swagman has a few scattered memories of deaths averted or not; a faithful dog, Blue; a vision of green pastures: whether he foresees a respite in the here and now or hereafter is indeterminable, as is the nature of his final peaceful sleep. About most of his wanderings, which constitute most of the book, there is however no ambiguity: he wants, as he tells Blue repeatedly, only another unfettered tomorrow like all his todays, the two of them hunched over a billy with some tea and some sugar and a small piece of damper to share. The repetition does not amplify, the voice does not resonate; more basic still, it is not consistently the voice of a man talking to a companion (""Sheddin' bits of harness, he started to bolt across Jud's as yet unfenced wheatlands"") or of this particular man. The one occurrence that can be called a plot development is the separation of the two -- they're run down by a speeding mailman and Blue is left for dead -- and their reunion; coming past the midpoint, it's too late to galvanize interest however dramatically apt. All said, not a saga or an epic but a slow dissolve.