The Reverend John Flynn, a man of simple tastes, was always recognisable in the outback, dressed in a suit, driving an old ute and puffing on a pipe.

When I went to bed that night I found that I could not get to sleep. At five o'clock I got up and took a hot bath. I climbed back into bed and lighted one of the Chinese-made Great Wall cigars my hosts had thoughtfully provided, and sat puffing on the cigar and making notes about the events of the momentous week.

Jeffrey Glassberg is a butterflier, which means that he not only watches butterflies through binoculars, he also keeps records of how many he sees, takes photographs […]

I'm Robert Rampart Junior, said a nine-year-old gangler, and we want it pretty blamed quick.