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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/3677-h.zip b/3677-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..dafc88b --- /dev/null +++ b/3677-h.zip diff --git a/3677-h/3677-h.htm b/3677-h/3677-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..be78966 --- /dev/null +++ b/3677-h/3677-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7837 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of On Our Selection, by Steele Rudd +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + font-size: small ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.footnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of On Our Selection, by Steele Rudd + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: On Our Selection + +Author: Steele Rudd + +Posting Date: June 20, 2009 [EBook #3677] +Release Date: January, 2003 +First Posted: July 16, 2001 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON OUR SELECTION *** + + + + +Produced by Col Choat. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +On Our Selection +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Steele Rudd (Arthur Hoey Davis) +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +PIONEERS OF AUSTRALIA! +</H3> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> + To You "Who Gave Our Country Birth;"<BR> + to the memory of You<BR> + whose names, whose giant enterprise, whose deeds of<BR> + fortitude and daring<BR> + were never engraved on tablet or tombstone;<BR> + to You who strove through the silences of the Bush-lands<BR> + and made them ours;<BR> + to You who delved and toiled in loneliness through<BR> + the years that have faded away;<BR> + to You who have no place in the history of our Country<BR> + so far as it is yet written;<BR> + to You who have done MOST for this Land;<BR> + to You for whom few, in the march of settlement, in the turmoil<BR> + of busy city life, now appear to care;<BR> + and to you particularly,<BR> + GOOD OLD DAD,<BR> + This Book is most affectionately dedicated.<BR> +<BR> +"STEELE RUDD." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS. +</H2> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="25%">CHAPTER I. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="75%"> +<A HREF="#chap01">STARTING THE SELECTION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER II. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap02">OUR FIRST HARVEST</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER III. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap03">BEFORE WE GOT THE DEEDS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER IV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap04">WHEN THE WOLF WAS AT THE DOOR</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER V. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap05">THE NIGHT WE WATCHED FOR WALLABIES</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER VI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap06">GOOD OLD BESS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER VII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap07">CRANKY JACK</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER VIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap08">A KANGAROO HUNT FROM SHINGLE HUT</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER IX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap09">DAVE'S SNAKEBITE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER X. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap10">DAD AND THE DONOVANS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap11">A SPLENDID YEAR FOR CORN</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap12">KATE'S WEDDING</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap13">THE SUMMER OLD BOB DIED</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XIV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap14">WHEN DAN CAME HOME</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap15">OUR CIRCUS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XVI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap16">WHEN JOE WAS IN CHARGE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XVII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap17">DAD'S "FORTUNE"</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XVIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap18">WE EMBARK IN THE BEAR INDUSTRY</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XIX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap19">NELL AND NED</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap20">THE COW WE BOUGHT</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XXI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap21">THE PARSON AND THE SCONE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XXII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap22">CALLAGHAN'S COLT</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XXIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap23">THE AGRICULTURAL REPORTER</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XXIV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap24">A LADY AT SHINGLE HUT</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XXV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap25">THE MAN WITH THE BEAR-SKIN CAP</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER XXVI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap26">CHRISTMAS</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +On Our Selection. +</H1> + +<BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter I. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Starting the Selection. +</H3> + +<P> +It's twenty years ago now since we settled on the Creek. Twenty years! +I remember well the day we came from Stanthorpe, on Jerome's +dray—eight of us, and all the things—beds, tubs, a bucket, the two +cedar chairs with the pine bottoms and backs that Dad put in them, some +pint-pots and old Crib. It was a scorching hot day, too—talk about +thirst! At every creek we came to we drank till it stopped running. +</P> + +<P> +Dad did n't travel up with us: he had gone some months before, to put +up the house and dig the waterhole. It was a slabbed house, with +shingled roof, and space enough for two rooms; but the partition was +n't up. The floor was earth; but Dad had a mixture of sand and fresh +cow-dung with which he used to keep it level. About once every month +he would put it on; and everyone had to keep outside that day till it +was dry. There were no locks on the doors: pegs were put in to keep +them fast at night; and the slabs were not very close together, for we +could easily see through them anybody coming on horseback. Joe and I +used to play at counting the stars through the cracks in the roof. +</P> + +<P> +The day after we arrived Dad took Mother and us out to see the paddock +and the flat on the other side of the gully that he was going to clear +for cultivation. There was no fence round the paddock, but he pointed +out on a tree the surveyor's marks, showing the boundary of our ground. +It must have been fine land, the way Dad talked about it! There was +very valuable timber on it, too, so he said; and he showed us a place, +among some rocks on a ridge, where he was sure gold would be found, but +we were n't to say anything about it. Joe and I went back that evening +and turned over every stone on the ridge, but we did n't find any gold. +</P> + +<P> +No mistake, it was a real wilderness—nothing but trees, "goannas," +dead timber, and bears; and the nearest house—Dwyer's—was three miles +away. I often wonder how the women stood it the first few years; and I +can remember how Mother, when she was alone, used to sit on a log, +where the lane is now, and cry for hours. Lonely! It WAS lonely. +</P> + +<P> +Dad soon talked about clearing a couple of acres and putting in +corn—all of us did, in fact—till the work commenced. It was a +delightful topic before we started,; but in two weeks the clusters of +fires that illumined the whooping bush in the night, and the crash upon +crash of the big trees as they fell, had lost all their poetry. +</P> + +<P> +We toiled and toiled clearing those four acres, where the haystacks are +now standing, till every tree and sapling that had grown there was +down. We thought then the worst was over; but how little we knew of +clearing land! Dad was never tired of calculating and telling us how +much the crop would fetch if the ground could only be got ready in time +to put it in; so we laboured the harder. +</P> + +<P> +With our combined male and female forces and the aid of a sapling lever +we rolled the thundering big logs together in the face of Hell's own +fires; and when there were no logs to roll it was tramp, tramp the day +through, gathering armfuls of sticks, while the clothes clung to our +backs with a muddy perspiration. Sometimes Dan and Dave would sit in +the shade beside the billy of water and gaze at the small patch that +had taken so long to do; then they would turn hopelessly to what was +before them and ask Dad (who would never take a spell) what was the use +of thinking of ever getting such a place cleared? And when Dave wanted +to know why Dad did n't take up a place on the plain, where there were +no trees to grub and plenty of water, Dad would cough as if something +was sticking in his throat, and then curse terribly about the squatters +and political jobbery. He would soon cool down, though, and get hopeful +again. +</P> + +<P> +"Look at the Dwyers," he'd say; "from ten acres of wheat they got +seventy pounds last year, besides feed for the fowls; they've got corn +in now, and there's only the two." +</P> + +<P> +It was n't only burning off! Whenever there came a short drought the +waterhole was sure to run dry; then it was take turns to carry water +from the springs—about two miles. We had no draught horse, and if we +had there was neither water-cask, trolly, nor dray; so we humped +it—and talk about a drag! By the time you returned, if you had n't +drained the bucket, in spite of the big drink you'd take before leaving +the springs, more than half would certainly be spilt through the vessel +bumping against your leg every time you stumbled in the long grass. +Somehow, none of us liked carrying water. We would sooner keep the +fires going all day without dinner than do a trip to the springs. +</P> + +<P> +One hot, thirsty day it was Joe's turn with the bucket, and he managed +to get back without spilling very much. We were all pleased because +there was enough left after the tea had been made to give each a drink. +Dinner was nearly over; Dan had finished, and was taking it easy on the +sofa, when Joe said: +</P> + +<P> +"I say, Dad, what's a nater-dog like?" Dad told him: "Yellow, sharp +ears and bushy tail." +</P> + +<P> +"Those muster bin some then thet I seen—I do n't know 'bout the bushy +tail—all th' hair had comed off." "Where'd y' see them, Joe?" we +asked. "Down 'n th' springs floating about—dead." +</P> + +<P> +Then everyone seemed to think hard and look at the tea. I did n't want +any more. Dan jumped off the sofa and went outside; and Dad looked +after Mother. +</P> + +<P> +At last the four acres—excepting the biggest of the iron-bark trees +and about fifty stumps—were pretty well cleared; and then came a +problem that could n't be worked-out on a draught-board. I have +already said that we had n't any draught horses; indeed, the only thing +on the selection like a horse was an old "tuppy" mare that Dad used to +straddle. The date of her foaling went further back than Dad's, I +believe; and she was shaped something like an alderman. We found her +one day in about eighteen inches of mud, with both eyes picked out by +the crows, and her hide bearing evidence that a feathery tribe had made +a roost of her carcase. Plainly, there was no chance of breaking up +the ground with her help. We had no plough, either; how then was the +corn to be put in? That was the question. +</P> + +<P> +Dan and Dave sat outside in the corner of the chimney, both scratching +the ground with a chip and not saying anything. Dad and Mother sat +inside talking it over. Sometimes Dad would get up and walk round the +room shaking his head; then he would kick old Crib for lying under the +table. At last Mother struck something which brightened him up, and he +called Dave. +</P> + +<P> +"Catch Topsy and—" He paused because he remembered the old mare was +dead. +</P> + +<P> +"Run over and ask Mister Dwyer to lend me three hoes." +</P> + +<P> +Dave went; Dwyer lent the hoes; and the problem was solved. That was +how we started. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter II. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Our First Harvest +</H3> + +<P> +If there is anything worse than burr-cutting or breaking stones, it's +putting corn in with a hoe. +</P> + +<P> +We had just finished. The girls were sowing the last of the grain when +Fred Dwyer appeared on the scene. Dad stopped and talked with him +while we (Dan, Dave and myself) sat on our hoe-handles, like kangaroos +on their tails, and killed flies. Terrible were the flies, +particularly when you had sore legs or the blight. +</P> + +<P> +Dwyer was a big man with long, brown arms and red, bushy whiskers. +</P> + +<P> +"You must find it slow work with a hoe?" he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Well-yes-pretty," replied Dad (just as if he was n't quite sure). +</P> + +<P> +After a while Dwyer walked over the "cultivation", and looked at it +hard, then scraped a hole with the heel of his boot, spat, and said he +did n't think the corn would ever come up. Dan slid off his perch at +this, and Dave let the flies eat his leg nearly off without seeming to +feel it; but Dad argued it out. +</P> + +<P> +"Orright, orright," said Dwyer; "I hope it do." +</P> + +<P> +Then Dad went on to speak of places he knew of where they preferred +hoes to a plough for putting corn in with; but Dwyer only laughed and +shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"D—n him!" Dad muttered, when he had gone; "what rot! WON'T COME UP!" +</P> + +<P> +Dan, who was still thinking hard, at last straightened himself up and +said HE did n't think it was any use either. Then Dad lost his temper. +</P> + +<P> +"No USE?" he yelled, "you whelp, what do you know about it?" +</P> + +<P> +Dan answered quietly: "On'y this, that it's nothing but tomfoolery, +this hoe business." +</P> + +<P> +"How would you do it then?" Dad roared, and Dan hung his head and tried +to button his buttonless shirt wrist-band while he thought. +</P> + +<P> +"With a plough," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +Something in Dad's throat prevented him saying what he wished, so he +rushed at Dan with the hoe, but—was too slow. +</P> + +<P> +Dan slept outside that night. +</P> + +<P> +No sooner was the grain sown than it rained. How it rained! for +weeks! And in the midst of it all the corn came up—every grain-and +proved Dwyer a bad prophet. Dad was in high spirits and promised each +of us something—new boots all round. +</P> + +<P> +The corn continued to grow—so did our hopes, but a lot faster. +Pulling the suckers and "heeling it up" with hoes was but child's +play—we liked it. Our thoughts were all on the boots; 'twas months +months since we had pulled on a pair. Every night, in bed, we decided +twenty times over whether they would be lace-ups or bluchers, and Dave +had a bottle of "goanna" oil ready to keep his soft with. +</P> + +<P> +Dad now talked of going up country—as Mother put it, "to keep the wolf +from the door"—while the four acres of corn ripened. He went, and +returned on the day Tom and Bill were born—twins. Maybe his absence +did keep the wolf from the door, but it did n't keep the dingoes from +the fowl-house! +</P> + +<P> +Once the corn ripened it did n't take long to pull it, but Dad had to +put on his considering-cap when we came to the question of getting it +in. To hump it in bags seemed inevitable till Dwyer asked Dad to give +him a hand to put up a milking-yard. Then Dad's chance came, and he +seized it. +</P> + +<P> +Dwyer, in return for Dad's labour, carted in the corn and took it to +the railway-station when it was shelled. Yes, when it WAS shelled! We +had to shell it with our hands, and what a time we had! For the first +half-hour we did n't mind it at all, and shelled cob after cob as +though we liked it; but next day, talk about blisters! we could n't +close our hands for them, and our faces had to go without a wash for a +fortnight. +</P> + +<P> +Fifteen bags we got off the four acres, and the storekeeper undertook +to sell it. Corn was then at 12 shillings and 14 shillings per +bushel, and Dad expected a big cheque. +</P> + +<P> +Every day for nearly three weeks he trudged over to the store (five +miles) and I went with him. Each time the storekeeper would shake his +head and say "No word yet." +</P> + +<P> +Dad could n't understand. At last word did come. The storekeeper was +busy serving a customer when we went in, so he told Dad to "hold on a +bit". +</P> + +<P> +Dad felt very pleased—so did I. +</P> + +<P> +The customer left. The storekeeper looked at Dad and twirled a piece +of string round his first finger, then said—"Twelve pounds your corn +cleared, Mr. Rudd; but, of course" (going to a desk) "there's that +account of yours which I have credited with the amount of the +cheque—that brings it down now to just three pound, as you will see by +the account." +</P> + +<P> +Dad was speechless, and looked sick. +</P> + +<P> +He went home and sat on a block and stared into the fire with his chin +resting in his hands, till Mother laid her hand upon his shoulder and +asked him kindly what was the matter. Then he drew the storekeeper's +bill from his pocket, and handed it to her, and she too sat down and +gazed into the fire. +</P> + +<P> +That was OUR first harvest. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter III. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Before We Got The Deeds +</H3> + +<P> +Our selection adjoined a sheep-run on the Darling Downs, and boasted of +few and scant improvements, though things had gradually got a little +better than when we started. A verandahless four-roomed slab-hut now +standing out from a forest of box-trees, a stock-yard, and six acres +under barley were the only evidence of settlement. A few horses—not +ours—sometimes grazed about; and occasionally a mob of cattle—also +not ours—cows with young calves, steers, and an old bull or two, would +stroll around, chew the best legs of any trousers that might be hanging +on the log reserved as a clothes-line, then leave in the night and be +seen no more for months—some of them never. +</P> + +<P> +And yet we were always out of meat! +</P> + +<P> +Dad was up the country earning a few pounds—the corn drove him up when +it did n't bring what he expected. All we got out of it was a bag of +flour—I do n't know what the storekeeper got. Before he left we put +in the barley. Somehow, Dad did n't believe in sowing any more crops, +he seemed to lose heart; but Mother talked it over with him, and when +reminded that he would soon be entitled to the deeds he brightened up +again and worked. How he worked! +</P> + +<P> +We had no plough, so old Anderson turned over the six acres for us, and +Dad gave him a pound an acre—at least he was to send him the first six +pounds got up country. Dad sowed the seed; then he, Dan and Dave yoked +themselves to a large dry bramble each and harrowed it in. From the +way they sweated it must have been hard work. Sometimes they would sit +down in the middle of the paddock and "spell" but Dad would say +something about getting the deeds and they'd start again. +</P> + +<P> +A cockatoo-fence was round the barley; and wire-posts, a long distance +apart, round the grass-paddock. We were to get the wire to put in when +Dad sent the money; and apply for the deeds when he came back. Things +would be different then, according to Dad, and the farm would be worked +properly. We would break up fifty acres, build a barn, buy a reaper, +ploughs, cornsheller, get cows and good horses, and start two or three +ploughs. Meanwhile, if we (Dan, Dave and I) minded the barley he was +sure there'd be something got out of it. +</P> + +<P> +Dad had been away about six weeks. Travellers were passing by every +day, and there was n't one that did n't want a little of something or +other. Mother used to ask them if they had met Dad? None ever did +until an old grey man came along and said he knew Dad well—he had +camped with him one night and shared a damper. Mother was very pleased +and brought him in. We had a kangaroo-rat (stewed) for dinner that day. +The girls did n't want to lay it on the table at first, but Mother said +he would n't know what it was. The traveller was very hungry and liked +it, and when passing his plate the second time for more, said it was +n't often he got any poultry. +</P> + +<P> +He tramped on again, and the girls were very glad he did n't know it +was a rat. But Dave was n't so sure that he did n't know a rat from a +rooster, and reckoned he had n't met Dad at all. +</P> + +<P> +The seventh week Dad came back. He arrived at night, and the lot of us +had to get up to find the hammer to knock the peg out of the door and +let him in. He brought home three pounds—not enough to get the wire +with, but he also brought a horse and saddle. He did n't say if he +bought them. It was a bay mare, a grand animal for a journey—so Dad +said—and only wanted condition. Emelina, he called her. No mistake, +she was a quiet mare! We put her where there was good feed, but she +was n't one that fattened on grass. Birds took kindly to her—crows +mostly—and she could n't go anywhere but a flock of them accompanied +her. Even when Dad used to ride her (Dan or Dave never rode her) they +used to follow, and would fly on ahead to wait in a tree and "caw" when +he was passing beneath. +</P> + +<P> +One morning when Dan was digging potatoes for dinner—splendid potatoes +they were, too, Dad said; he had only once tasted sweeter ones, but +they were grown in a cemetery—he found the kangaroos had been in the +barley. We knew what THAT meant, and that night made fires round it, +thinking to frighten them off, but did n't—mobs of them were in at +daybreak. Dad swore from the house at them, but they took no notice; +and when he ran down, they just hopped over the fence and sat looking +at him. Poor Dad! I do n't know if he was knocked up or if he did n't +know any more, but he stopped swearing and sat on a stump looking at a +patch of barley they had destroyed, and shaking his head. Perhaps he +was thinking if he only had a dog! We did have one until he got a +bait. Old Crib! He was lying under the table at supper-time when he +took the first fit, and what a fright we got! He must have reared +before stiffening out, because he capsized the table into Mother's lap, +and everything on it smashed except the tin-plates and the pints. The +lamp fell on Dad, too, and the melted fat scalded his arm. Dad dragged +Crib out and cut off his tail and ears, but he might as well have taken +off his head. +</P> + +<P> +Dad stood with his back to the fire while Mother was putting a stitch +in his trousers. "There's nothing for it but to watch them at night," +he was saying, when old Anderson appeared and asked "if I could have +those few pounds." Dad asked Mother if she had any money in the house? +Of course she had n't. Then he told Anderson he would let him have it +when he got the deeds. Anderson left, and Dad sat on the edge of the +sofa and seemed to be counting the grains on a corn-cob that he lifted +from the floor, while Mother sat looking at a kangaroo-tail on the +table and did n't notice the cat drag it off. At last Dad said, "Ah, +well!—it won't be long now, Ellen, before we have the deeds!" +</P> + +<P> +We took it in turns to watch the barley. Dan and the two girls watched +the first half of the night, and Dad, Dave and I the second. Dad +always slept in his clothes, and he used to think some nights that the +others came in before time. It was terrible going out, half awake, to +tramp round that paddock from fire to fire, from hour to hour, shouting +and yelling. And how we used to long for daybreak! Whenever we sat +down quietly together for a few minutes we would hear the dull THUD! +THUD! THUD!—the kangaroo's footstep. +</P> + +<P> +At last we each carried a kerosene tin, slung like a kettle-drum, and +belted it with a waddy—Dad's idea. He himself manipulated an old bell +that he had found on a bullock's grave, and made a splendid noise with +it. +</P> + +<P> +It was a hard struggle, but we succeeded in saving the bulk of the +barley, and cut it down with a scythe and three reaping-hooks. The +girls helped to bind it, and Jimmy Mulcahy carted it in return for +three days' binding Dad put in for him. The stack was n't built +twenty-four hours when a score of somebody's crawling cattle ate their +way up to their tails in it. We took the hint and put a sapling fence +round it. +</P> + +<P> +Again Dad decided to go up country for a while. He caught Emelina +after breakfast, rolled up a blanket, told us to watch the stack, and +started. The crows followed. +</P> + +<P> +We were having dinner. Dave said, "Listen!" We listened, and it +seemed as though all the crows and other feathered demons of the wide +bush were engaged in a mighty scrimmage. "Dad's back!" Dan said, and +rushed out in the lead of a stampede. +</P> + +<P> +Emelina was back, anyway, with the swag on, but Dad was n't. We caught +her, and Dave pointed to white spots all over the saddle, and +said—"Hanged if they have n't been ridin' her!"—meaning the crows. +</P> + +<P> +Mother got anxious, and sent Dan to see what had happened. Dan found +Dad, with his shirt off, at a pub on the main road, wanting to fight +the publican for a hundred pounds, but could n't persuade him to come +home. Two men brought him home that night on a sheep-hurdle, and he +gave up the idea of going away. +</P> + +<P> +After all, the barley turned out well—there was a good price that +year, and we were able to run two wires round the paddock. +</P> + +<P> +One day a bulky Government letter came. Dad looked surprised and +pleased, and how his hand trembled as he broke the seal! "THE DEEDS!" +he said, and all of us gathered round to look at them. Dave thought +they were like the inside of a bear-skin covered with writing. +</P> + +<P> +Dad said he would ride to town at once, and went for Emelina. +</P> + +<P> +"Could n't y' find her, Dad?" Dan said, seeing him return without the +mare. +</P> + +<P> +Dad cleared his throat, but did n't answer. Mother asked him. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I FOUND her," he said slowly, "DEAD." +</P> + +<P> +The crows had got her at last. +</P> + +<P> +He wrapped the deeds in a piece of rag and walked. +</P> + +<P> +There was nothing, scarcely, that he did n't send out from town, and +Jimmy Mulcahy and old Anderson many and many times after that borrowed +our dray. +</P> + +<P> +Now Dad regularly curses the deeds every mail-day, and wishes to Heaven +he had never got them. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter IV. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +When the Wolf was at the Door. +</H3> + +<P> +There had been a long stretch of dry weather, and we were cleaning out +the waterhole. Dad was down the hole shovelling up the dirt; Joe +squatted on the brink catching flies and letting them go again without +their wings—a favourite amusement of his; while Dan and Dave cut a +drain to turn the water that ran off the ridge into the hole—when it +rained. Dad was feeling dry, and told Joe to fetch him a drink. +</P> + +<P> +Joe said: "See first if this cove can fly with only one wing." Then he +went, but returned and said: "There's no water in the bucket—Mother +used the last drop to boil th' punkins," and renewed the fly-catching. +Dad tried to spit, and was going to say something when Mother, half-way +between the house and the waterhole, cried out that the grass paddock +was all on fire. "So it is, Dad!" said Joe, slowly but surely +dragging the head off a fly with finger and thumb. +</P> + +<P> +Dad scrambled out of the hole and looked. "Good God!" was all he said. +How he ran! All of us rushed after him except Joe—he could n't run +very well, because the day before he had ridden fifteen miles on a poor +horse, bare-back. When near the fire Dad stopped running to break a +green bush. He hit upon a tough one. Dad was in a hurry. The bush was +n't. Dad swore and tugged with all his might. Then the bush broke and +Dad fell heavily upon his back and swore again. +</P> + +<P> +To save the cockatoo fence that was round the cultivation was what was +troubling Dad. Right and left we fought the fire with boughs. Hot! +It was hellish hot! Whenever there was a lull in the wind we worked. +Like a wind-mill Dad's bough moved—and how he rushed for another when +one was used up! Once we had the fire almost under control; but the +wind rose again, and away went the flames higher and faster than ever. +</P> + +<P> +"It's no use," said Dad at last, placing his hand on his head, and +throwing down his bough. We did the same, then stood and watched the +fence go. After supper we went out again and saw it still burning. Joe +asked Dad if he did n't think it was a splendid sight? Dad did n't +answer him—he did n't seem conversational that night. +</P> + +<P> +We decided to put the fence up again. Dan had sharpened the axe with a +broken file, and he and Dad were about to start when Mother asked them +what was to be done about flour? She said she had shaken the bag to +get enough to make scones for that morning's breakfast, and unless some +was got somewhere there would be no bread for dinner. +</P> + +<P> +Dad reflected, while Dan felt the edge on the axe with his thumb. +</P> + +<P> +Dad said, "Won't Missus Dwyer let you have a dishful until we get some?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," Mother answered; "I can't ask her until we send back what we owe +them." +</P> + +<P> +Dad reflected again. "The Andersons, then?" he said. +</P> + +<P> +Mother shook her head and asked what good there was it sending to them +when they, only that morning, had sent to her for some? +</P> + +<P> +"Well, we must do the best we can at present," Dad answered, "and I'll +go to the store this evening and see what is to be done." +</P> + +<P> +Putting the fence up again in the hurry that Dad was in was the very +devil! He felled the saplings—and such saplings!—TREES many of them +were—while we, "all of a muck of sweat," dragged them into line. Dad +worked like a horse himself, and expected us to do the same. "Never +mind staring about you," he'd say, if he caught us looking at the sun +to see if it were coming dinner-time—"there's no time to lose if we +want to get the fence up and a crop in." +</P> + +<P> +Dan worked nearly as hard as Dad until he dropped the butt-end of a +heavy sapling on his foot, which made him hop about on one leg and say +that he was sick and tired of the dashed fence. Then he argued with +Dad, and declared that it would be far better to put a wire-fence up at +once, and be done with it, instead of wasting time over a thing that +would only be burnt down again. "How long," he said, "will it take to +get the posts? Not a week," and he hit the ground disgustedly with a +piece of stick he had in his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Confound it!" Dad said, "have n't you got any sense, boy? What earthly +use would a wire-fence be without any wire in it?" +</P> + +<P> +Then we knocked off and went to dinner. +</P> + +<P> +No one appeared in any humour to talk at the table. Mother sat +silently at the end and poured out the tea while Dad, at the head, +served the pumpkin and divided what cold meat there was. Mother would +n't have any meat—one of us would have to go without if she had taken +any. +</P> + +<P> +I don't know if it was on account of Dan arguing with him, or if it was +because there was no bread for dinner, that Dad was in a bad temper; +anyway, he swore at Joe for coming to the table with dirty hands. Joe +cried and said that he could n't wash them when Dave, as soon as he had +washed his, had thrown the water out. Then Dad scowled at Dave, and +Joe passed his plate along for more pumpkin. +</P> + +<P> +Dinner was almost over when Dan, still looking hungry, grinned and +asked Dave if he was n't going to have some BREAD? Whereupon Dad +jumped up in a tearing passion. "D—n your insolence!" he said to Dan, +"make a jest of it, would you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Who's jestin'?" Dan answered and grinned again. +</P> + +<P> +"Go!" said Dad, furiously, pointing to the door, "leave my roof, you +thankless dog!" +</P> + +<P> +Dan went that night. +</P> + +<P> +It was only upon Dad promising faithfully to reduce his account within +two months that the storekeeper let us have another bag of flour on +credit. And what a change that bag of flour wrought! How cheerful the +place became all at once! And how enthusiastically Dad spoke of the +farm and the prospects of the coming season! +</P> + +<P> +Four months had gone by. The fence had been up some time and ten acres +of wheat put in; but there had been no rain, and not a grain had come +up, or was likely to. +</P> + +<P> +Nothing had been heard of Dan since his departure. Dad spoke about him +to Mother. "The scamp!" he said, "to leave me just when I wanted +help—after all the years I've slaved to feed him and clothe him, see +what thanks I get! but, mark my word, he'll be glad to come back yet." +But Mother would never say anything against Dan. +</P> + +<P> +The weather continued dry. The wheat did n't come up, and Dad became +despondent again. +</P> + +<P> +The storekeeper called every week and reminded Dad of his promise. "I +would give it you willingly," Dad would say, "if I had it, Mr. Rice; +but what can I do? You can't knock blood out of a stone." +</P> + +<P> +We ran short of tea, and Dad thought to buy more with the money +Anderson owed him for some fencing he had done; but when he asked for +it, Anderson was very sorry he had n't got it just then, but promised +to let him have it as soon as he could sell his chaff. When Mother +heard Anderson could n't pay, she DID cry, and said there was n't a bit +of sugar in the house, nor enough cotton to mend the children's bits of +clothes. +</P> + +<P> +We could n't very well go without tea, so Dad showed Mother how to make +a new kind. He roasted a slice of bread on the fire till it was like a +black coal, then poured the boiling water over it and let it "draw" +well. Dad said it had a capital flavour—HE liked it. +</P> + +<P> +Dave's only pair of pants were pretty well worn off him; Joe had n't a +decent coat for Sunday; Dad himself wore a pair of boots with soles +tied on with wire; and Mother fell sick. Dad did all he could—waited +on her, and talked hopefully of the fortune which would come to us some +day; but once, when talking to Dave, he broke down, and said he did +n't, in the name of the Almighty God, know what he would do! Dave +could n't say anything—he moped about, too, and home somehow did n't +seem like home at all. +</P> + +<P> +When Mother was sick and Dad's time was mostly taken up nursing her; +when there was nothing, scarcely, in the house; when, in fact, the wolf +was at the very door;—Dan came home with a pocket full of money and +swag full of greasy clothes. How Dad shook him by the hand and +welcomed him back! And how Dan talked of "tallies", "belly-wool", and +"ringers" and implored Dad, over and over again, to go shearing, or +rolling up, or branding—ANYTHING rather than work and starve on the +selection. +</P> + +<P> +That's fifteen years ago, and Dad is still on the farm. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter V. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Night We Watched For Wallabies. +</H3> + +<P> +It had been a bleak July day, and as night came on a bitter westerly +howled through the trees. Cold! was n't it cold! The pigs in the sty, +hungry and half-fed (we wanted for ourselves the few pumpkins that had +survived the drought) fought savagely with each other for shelter, and +squealed all the time like—well, like pigs. The cows and calves left +the place to seek shelter away in the mountains; while the draught +horses, their hair standing up like barbed-wire, leaned sadly over the +fence and gazed up at the green lucerne. Joe went about shivering in +an old coat of Dad's with only one sleeve to it—a calf had fancied the +other one day that Dad hung it on a post as a mark to go by while +ploughing. +</P> + +<P> +"My! it'll be a stinger to-night," Dad remarked to Mrs. Brown—who sat, +cold-looking, on the sofa—as he staggered inside with an immense log +for the fire. A log! Nearer a whole tree! But wood was nothing in +Dad's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Brown had been at our place five or six days. Old Brown called +occasionally to see her, so we knew they could n't have quarrelled. +Sometimes she did a little house-work, but more often she did n't. We +talked it over together, but could n't make it out. Joe asked Mother, +but she had no idea—so she said. We were full up, as Dave put it, of +Mrs. Brown, and wished her out of the place. She had taken to ordering +us about, as though she had something to do with us. +</P> + +<P> +After supper we sat round the fire—as near to it as we could without +burning ourselves—Mrs. Brown and all, and listened to the wind +whistling outside. Ah, it was pleasant beside the fire listening to +the wind! When Dad had warmed himself back and front he turned to us +and said: +</P> + +<P> +"Now, boys, we must go directly and light some fires and keep those +wallabies back." +</P> + +<P> +That was a shock to us, and we looked at him to see if he were really +in earnest. He was, and as serious as a judge. +</P> + +<P> +"TO-NIGHT!" Dave answered, surprisedly—"why to-night any more than +last night or the night before? Thought you had decided to let them +rip?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but we might as well keep them off a bit longer." +</P> + +<P> +"But there's no wheat there for them to get now. So what's the good of +watching them? There's no sense in THAT." +</P> + +<P> +Dad was immovable. +</P> + +<P> +"Anyway"—whined Joe—"I'M not going—not a night like this—not when I +ain't got boots." +</P> + +<P> +That vexed Dad. "Hold your tongue, sir!" he said—"you'll do as you're +told." +</P> + +<P> +But Dave had n't finished. "I've been following that harrow since +sunrise this morning," he said, "and now you want me to go chasing +wallabies about in the dark, a night like this, and for nothing else +but to keep them from eating the ground. It's always the way here, the +more one does the more he's wanted to do," and he commenced to cry. +Mrs. Brown had something to say. SHE agreed with Dad and thought we +ought to go, as the wheat might spring up again. +</P> + +<P> +"Pshah!" Dave blurted out between his sobs, while we thought of telling +her to shut her mouth. +</P> + +<P> +Slowly and reluctantly we left that roaring fireside to accompany Dad +that bitter night. It WAS a night!—dark as pitch, silent, forlorn and +forbidding, and colder than the busiest morgue. And just to keep +wallabies from eating nothing! They HAD eaten all the wheat—every +blade of it—and the grass as well. What they would start on +next—ourselves or the cart-harness—was n't quite clear. +</P> + +<P> +We stumbled along in the dark one behind the other, with our hands +stuffed into our trousers. Dad was in the lead, and poor Joe, +bare-shinned and bootless, in the rear. Now and again he tramped on a +Bathurst-burr, and, in sitting down to extract the prickle, would +receive a cluster of them elsewhere. When he escaped the burr it was +only to knock his shin against a log or leave a toe-nail or two +clinging to a stone. Joe howled, but the wind howled louder, and blew +and blew. +</P> + +<P> +Dave, in pausing to wait on Joe, would mutter: +</P> + +<P> +"To HELL with everything! Whatever he wants bringing us out a night +like this, I'm DAMNED if I know!" +</P> + +<P> +Dad could n't see very well in the dark, and on this night could n't +see at all, so he walked up against one of the old draught horses that +had fallen asleep gazing at the lucerne. And what a fright they both +got! The old horse took it worse than Dad—who only tumbled down—for +he plunged as though the devil had grabbed him, and fell over the +fence, twisting every leg he had in the wires. How the brute +struggled! We stood and listened to him. After kicking panels of the +fence down and smashing every wire in it, he got loose and made off, +taking most of it with him. +</P> + +<P> +"That's one wallaby on the wheat, anyway," Dave muttered, and we +giggled. WE understood Dave; but Dad did n't open his mouth. +</P> + +<P> +We lost no time lighting the fires. Then we walked through the "wheat" +and wallabies! May Satan reprove me if I exaggerate their number by +one solitary pair of ears—but from the row and scatter they made there +were a MILLION. +</P> + +<P> +Dad told Joe, at last, he could go to sleep if he liked, at the fire. +Joe went to sleep—HOW, I don't know. Then Dad sat beside him, and for +long intervals would stare silently into the darkness. Sometimes a +string of the vermin would hop past close to the fire, and another time +a curlew would come near and screech its ghostly wail, but he never +noticed them. Yet he seemed to be listening. +</P> + +<P> +We mooched around from fire to fire, hour after hour, and when we +wearied of heaving fire-sticks at the enemy we sat on our heels and +cursed the wind, and the winter, and the night-birds alternately. It +was a lonely, wretched occupation. +</P> + +<P> +Now and again Dad would leave his fire to ask us if we could hear a +noise. We could n't, except that of wallabies and mopokes. Then he +would go back and listen again. He was restless, and, somehow, his +heart was n't in the wallabies at all. Dave could n't make him out. +</P> + +<P> +The night wore on. By-and-by there was a sharp rattle of wires, then a +rustling noise, and Sal appeared in the glare of the fire. "DAD!" she +said. That was all. Without a word, Dad bounced up and went back to +the house with her. +</P> + +<P> +"Something's up!" Dave said, and, half-anxious, half-afraid, we gazed +into the fire and thought and thought. Then we stared, nervously, into +the night, and listened for Dad's return, but heard only the wind and +the mopoke. +</P> + +<P> +At dawn he appeared again, with a broad smile on his face, and told us +that mother had got another baby—a fine little chap. Then we knew why +Mrs. Brown had been staying at our place. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter VI. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Good Old Bess. +</H3> + +<P> +Supper was over at Shingle Hut, and we were all seated round the +fire—all except Joe. He was mousing. He stood on the sofa with one +ear to the wall in a listening attitude, and brandished a table-fork. +There were mice—mobs of them—between the slabs and the paper—layers +of newspapers that had been pasted one on the other for years until +they were an inch thick; and whenever Joe located a mouse he drove the +fork into the wall and pinned it—or reckoned he did. +</P> + +<P> +Dad sat pensively at one corner of the fire-place—Dave at the other +with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his palms. +</P> + +<P> +"Think you could ride a race, Dave?" asked Dad. +</P> + +<P> +"Yairs," answered Dave, without taking his eyes off the fire, or his +chin from his palms—"could, I suppose, if I'd a pair o' lighter boots +'n these." +</P> + +<P> +Again they reflected. +</P> + +<P> +Joe triumphantly held up the mutilated form of a murdered mouse and +invited the household to "Look!" No one heeded him. +</P> + +<P> +"Would your Mother's go on you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Might," and Dave spat into the fire. +</P> + +<P> +"Anyway," Dad went on, "we must have a go at this handicap with the old +mare; it's worth trying for, and, believe me, now! she'll surprise a +few of their flash hacks, will Bess." +</P> + +<P> +"Yairs, she can go all right." And Dave spat again into the fire. +</P> + +<P> +"GO! I've never known anything to keep up with her. Why, bless my +soul, seventeen years ago, when old Redwood owned her, there was n't a +horse in the district could come within coo-ee of her. All she wants +is a few feeds of corn and a gallop or two, and mark my words she'll +show some of them the way." +</P> + +<P> +Some horse-races were being promoted by the shanty-keeper at the +Overhaul—seven miles from our selection. They were the first of the +kind held in the district, and the stake for the principal event was +five pounds. It was n't because Dad was a racing man or subject to +turf hallucinations in any way that he thought of preparing Bess for +the meeting. We sadly needed those five pounds, and, as Dad put it, if +the mare could only win, it would be an easier and much quicker way of +making a bit of money than waiting for a crop to grow. +</P> + +<P> +Bess was hobbled and put into a two-acre paddock near the house. We +put her there because of her wisdom. She was a chestnut, full of +villainy, an absolutely incorrigible old rogue. If at any time she was +wanted when in the grass paddock, it required the lot of us from Dad +down to yard her, as well as the dogs, and every other dog in the +neighbourhood. Not that she had any brumby element in her—she would +have been easier to yard if she had—but she would drive steadily +enough, alone or with other horses, until she saw the yard, when she +would turn and deliberately walk away. If we walked to head her she +beat us by half a length; if we ran she ran, and stopped when we +stopped. That was the aggravating part of her! When it was only to go +to the store or the post-office that we wanted her, we could have +walked there and back a dozen times before we could run her down; but, +somehow, we generally preferred to work hard catching her rather than +walk. +</P> + +<P> +When we had spent half the day hunting for the curry-comb, which we did +n't find, Dad began to rub Bess down with a corn-cob—a shelled +one—and trim her up a bit. He pulled her tail and cut the hair off +her heels with a knife; then he gave her some corn to eat, and told Joe +he was to have a bundle of thistles cut for her every night. Now and +again, while grooming her, Dad would step back a few paces and look +upon her with pride. +</P> + +<P> +"There's great breeding in the old mare," he would say, "great +breeding; look at the shoulder on her, and the loin she has; and where +did ever you see a horse with the same nostril? Believe me, she'll +surprise a few of them!" +</P> + +<P> +We began to regard Bess with profound respect; hitherto we had been +accustomed to pelt her with potatoes and blue-metal. +</P> + +<P> +The only thing likely to prejudice her chance in the race, Dad +reckoned, was a small sore on her back about the size of a foal's foot. +She had had that sore for upwards of ten years to our knowledge, but +Dad hoped to have it cured before the race came off with a +never-failing remedy he had discovered—burnt leather and fat. +</P> + +<P> +Every day, along with Dad, we would stand on the fence near the house +to watch Dave gallop Bess from the bottom of the lane to the +barn—about a mile. We could always see him start, but immediately +after he would disappear down a big gully, and we would see nothing +more of the gallop till he came to within a hundred yards of us. And +would n't Bess bend to it once she got up the hill, and fly past with +Dave in the stirrups watching her shadow!—when there was one: she was +a little too fine to throw a shadow always. And when Dave and Bess had +got back and Joe had led her round the yard a few times, Dad would rub +the corn-cob over her again and apply more burnt-leather and fat to her +back. +</P> + +<P> +On the morning preceding the race Dad decided to send Bess over three +miles to improve her wind. Dave took her to the crossing at the +creek—supposed to be three miles from Shingle Hut, but it might have +been four or it might have been five, and there was a stony ridge on +the way. +</P> + +<P> +We mounted the fence and waited. Tommy Wilkie came along riding a +plough-horse. He waited too. +</P> + +<P> +"Ought to be coming now," Dad observed, and Wilkie got excited. He +said he would go and wait in the gully and race Dave home. "Race him +home!" Dad chuckled, as Tommy cantered off, "he'll never see the way +Bess goes." Then we all laughed. +</P> + +<P> +Just as someone cried "Here he is!" Dave turned the corner into the +lane, and Joe fell off the fence and pulled Dad with him. Dad damned +him and scrambled up again as fast as he could. After a while Tommy +Wilkie hove in sight amid a cloud of dust. Then came Dave at scarcely +faster than a trot, and flogging all he knew with a piece of greenhide +plough-rein. Bess was all-out and floundering. There was about two +hundred yards yet to cover. Dave kept at her—THUD! THUD! Slower and +slower she came. "Damn the fellow!" Dad said; "what's he beating her +for?" "Stop it, you fool!" he shouted. But Dave sat down on her for +the final effort and applied the hide faster and faster. Dad crunched +his teeth. Once—twice—three times Bess changed her stride, then +struck a branch-root of a tree that projected a few inches above +ground, and over she went—CRASH! Dave fell on his head and lay spread +out, motionless. We picked him up and carried him inside, and when +Mother saw blood on him she fainted straight off without waiting to +know if it were his own or not. Both looked as good as dead; but Dad, +with a bucket of water, soon brought them round again. +</P> + +<P> +It was scarcely dawn when we began preparing for a start to the races. +Dave, after spending fully an hour trying in vain to pull on Mother's +elastic-side boots, decided to ride in his own heavy bluchers. We went +with Dad in the dray. Mother would n't go; she said she did n't want +to see her son get killed, and warned Dad that if anything happened the +blame would for ever be on his head. +</P> + +<P> +We arrived at the Overhaul in good time. Dad took the horse out of the +dray and tied him to a tree. Dave led Bess about, and we stood and +watched the shanty-keeper unpacking gingerbeer. Joe asked Dad for +sixpence to buy some, but Dad had n't any small change. We remained in +front of the booth through most of the day, and ran after any corks +that popped out and handed them in again to the shanty-keeper. He did +n't offer us anything—not a thing! +</P> + +<P> +"Saddle up for the Overhaul Handicap!" was at last sung out, and Dad, +saddle on arm, advanced to where Dave was walking Bess about. They +saddled up and Dave mounted, looking as pale as death. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't like ridin' in these boots a bit," he said, with a quiver in +his voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Wot's up with 'em?" Dad asked. +</P> + +<P> +"They're too big altogether." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, take 'em off then!" +</P> + +<P> +Dave jumped down and pulled them off-leaving his socks on. +</P> + +<P> +More than a dozen horses went out, and when the starter said "Off!" did +n't they go! Our eyes at once followed Bess. Dave was at her right +from the jump—the very opposite to what Dad had told him. In the +first furlong she put fully twenty yards of daylight between herself +and the field—she came after the field. At the back of the course you +could see the whole of Kyle's selection and two of Jerry Keefe's +hay-stacks between her and the others. We did n't follow her any +further. +</P> + +<P> +After the race was won and they had cheered the winner, Dad was n't to +be found anywhere. +</P> + +<P> +Dave sat on the grass quite exhausted. "Ain't y' goin' to pull the +saddle off?" Joe asked. +</P> + +<P> +"No," he said. "I AIN'T. You don't want everyone to see her back, do +you?" +</P> + +<P> +Joe wished he had sixpence. +</P> + +<P> +About an hour afterwards Dad came staggering along arm-in-arm with +another man—an old fencing-mate of his, so he made out. +</P> + +<P> +"Thur yar," he said, taking off his hat and striking Bess on the rump +with it; "besh bred mare in the worl'." +</P> + +<P> +The fencing-mate looked at her, but did n't say anything; he could n't. +</P> + +<P> +"Eh?" Dad went on; "say sh'ain't? L'ere-ever y' name is—betcher pound +sh'is." +</P> + +<P> +Then a jeering and laughing crowd gathered round, and Dave wished he +had n't come to the races. +</P> + +<P> +"She ain't well," said a tall man to Dad—"short in her gallops." Then +a short, bulky individual without whiskers shoved his face up into +Dad's and asked him if Bess was a mare or a cow. Dad became excited, +and only that old Anderson came forward and took him away there must +have been a row. +</P> + +<P> +Anderson put him in the dray and drove it home to Shingle Hut. +</P> + +<P> +Dad reckons now that there is nothing in horse-racing, and declares it +a fraud. He says, further, that an honest man, by training and racing +a horse, is only helping to feed and fatten the rogues and vagabonds +that live on the sport. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter VII. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Cranky Jack. +</H3> + +<P> +It was early in the day. Traveller after traveller was trudging by +Shingle Hut. One who carried no swag halted at the rails and came in. +He asked Dad for a job. "I dunno," Dad answered—"What wages would you +want?" The man said he would n't want any. Dad engaged him at once. +</P> + +<P> +And SUCH a man! Tall, bony, heavy-jawed, shaven with a reaping-hook, +apparently. He had a thick crop of black hair—shaggy, unkempt, and +full of grease, grass, and fragments of dry gum-leaves. On his head +were two old felt hats—one sewn inside the other. On his back a shirt +made from a piece of blue blanket, with white cotton stitches striding +up and down it like lines of fencing. His trousers were gloom itself; +they were a problem, and bore reliable evidence of his industry. No +ordinary person would consider himself out of work while in them. And +the new-comer was no ordinary person. He seemed to have all the woe of +the world upon him; he was as sad and weird-looking as a widow out in +the wet. +</P> + +<P> +In the yard was a large heap of firewood—remarkable truth!—which Dad +told him to chop up. He began. And how he worked! The axe rang +again—particularly when it left the handle—and pieces of wood +scattered everywhere. Dad watched him chopping for a while, then went +with Dave to pull corn. +</P> + +<P> +For hours the man chopped away without once looking at the sun. Mother +came out. Joy! She had never seen so much wood cut before. She was +delighted. She made a cup of tea and took it to the man, and +apologised for having no sugar to put in it. He paid no attention to +her; he worked harder. Mother waited, holding the tea in her hand. A +lump of wood nearly as big as a shingle flew up and shaved her left +ear. She put the tea on the ground and went in search of eggs for +dinner. (We were out of meat—the kangaroo-dog was lame. He had got +"ripped" the last time we killed.) +</P> + +<P> +The tea remained on the ground. Chips fell into it. The dog saw it. +He limped towards it eagerly, and dipped the point of his nose in it. +It burnt him. An aged rooster strutted along and looked sideways at +it. HE distrusted it and went away. It attracted the pig—a sow with +nine young ones. She waddled up, and poked the cup over with her nose; +then she sat down on it, while the family joyously gathered round the +saucer. Still the man chopped on. +</P> + +<P> +Mother returned—without any eggs. She rescued the crockery from the +pigs and turned curiously to the man. She said, "Why, you've let them +take the tea!" No answer. She wondered. +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly, and for the fiftieth time, the axe flew off. The man held +the handle and stared at the woodheap. Mother watched him. He removed +his hats, and looked inside them. He remained looking inside them. +</P> + +<P> +Mother watched him more closely. His lips moved. He said, "LISTEN TO +THEM! THEY'RE COMING! I KNEW THEY'D FOLLOW!" +</P> + +<P> +"Who?" asked Mother, trembling slightly. +</P> + +<P> +"THEY'RE IN THE WOOD!" he went on. "Ha, ha! I've got them. They'll +never get out; NEVER GET OUT!" +</P> + +<P> +Mother fled, screaming. She ran inside and called the children. Sal +assisted her. They trooped in like wallabies—all but Joe. He was +away earning money. He was getting a shilling a week from Maloney, for +chasing cockatoos from the corn. +</P> + +<P> +They closed and barricaded the doors, and Sal took down the gun, which +Mother made her hide beneath the bed. They sat listening, anxiously +and intently. The wind began to rise. A lump of soot fell from the +chimney into the fireplace—where there was no fire. Mother shuddered. +Some more fell. Mother jumped to her feet. So did Sal. They looked +at each other in dismay. The children began to cry. The chain for +hanging the kettle on started swinging to and fro. Mother's knees gave +way. The chain continued swinging. A pair of bare legs came down into +the fireplace—they were curled round the chain. Mother collapsed. +Sal screamed, and ran to the door, but could n't open it. The legs +left the chain and dangled in the air. Sal called "Murder!" +</P> + +<P> +Her cry was answered. It was Joe, who had been over at Maloney's +making his fortune. He came to the rescue. He dropped out of the +chimney and shook himself. Sal stared at him. He was calm and covered +from head to foot with soot and dirt. He looked round and said, +"Thought yuz could keep me out, did'n'y'?" Sal could only look at him. +"I saw yuz all run in," he was saying, when Sal thought of Mother, and +sprang to her. Sal shook her, and slapped her, and threw water on her +till she sat up and stared about. Then Joe stared. +</P> + +<P> +Dad came in for dinner—which, of course, was n't ready. Mother began +to cry, and asked him what he meant by keeping a madman on the place, +and told him she KNEW he wanted to have them all murdered. Dad did n't +understand. Sal explained. Then he went out and told the man to +"Clear!" The man simply said, "No." +</P> + +<P> +"Go on, now!" Dad said, pointing to the rails. The man smiled at the +wood-heap as he worked. Dad waited. "Ain't y' going?" he repeated. +</P> + +<P> +"Leave me alone when I'm chopping wood for the missus," the man +answered; then smiled and muttered to himself. Dad left him alone and +went inside wondering. +</P> + +<P> +Next day Mother and Dad were talking at the barn. Mother, bare-headed, +was holding some eggs in her apron. Dad was leaning on a hoe. +</P> + +<P> +"I am AFRAID of him," Mother said; "it's not right you should keep him +about the place. No one's safe with such a man. Some day he'll take +it in his head to kill us all, and then—" +</P> + +<P> +"Tut, tut, woman; poor old Jack! he's harmless as a baby." +</P> + +<P> +"All right," (sullenly); "you'll see!" +</P> + +<P> +Dad laughed and went away with the hoe on his shoulder to cut burr. +</P> + +<P> +Middle of summer. Dad and Dave in the paddock mowing lucerne. Jack +sinking post-holes for a milking-yard close to the house. Joe at +intervals stealing behind him to prick him with straws through a rent +in the rear of his patched moleskins. Little Bill—in readiness to +run—standing off, enjoying the sport. +</P> + +<P> +Inside the house sat Mother and Sal, sewing and talking of Maloney's +new baby. +</P> + +<P> +"Dear me," said Mother; "it's the tiniest mite of a thing I ever saw; +why, bless me, anyone of y' at its age would have made three of—" +</P> + +<P> +"MIND, Mother!" Sal shrieked, jumping up on the sofa. Mother screamed +and mounted the table. Both gasped for breath, and leaning cautiously +over peeped down at a big black snake which had glided in at the front +door. Then, pale and scared-looking, they stared across at each other. +</P> + +<P> +The snake crawled over to the safe and drank up some milk which had +been spilt on the floor. Mother saw its full length and groaned. The +snake wriggled to the leg of the table. +</P> + +<P> +"Look out!" cried Sal, gathering up her skirts and dancing about on the +sofa. +</P> + +<P> +Mother squealed hysterically. +</P> + +<P> +Joe appeared. He laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"You wretch!" Mother yelled. "Run!—RUN, and fetch your father!" +</P> + +<P> +Joe went and brought Jack. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh-h, my God!"—Mother moaned, as Jack stood at the door, staring +strangely at her. "Kill it!—why don't he kill it?" +</P> + +<P> +Jack did n't move, but talked to himself. Mother shuddered. +</P> + +<P> +The reptile crawled to the bedroom door. Then for the first time the +man's eyes rested upon it. It glided into the bedroom, and Mother and +Sal ran off for Dad. +</P> + +<P> +Jack fixed his eyes on the snake and continued muttering to himself. +Several times it made an attempt to mount the dressing-table. Finally +it succeeded. Suddenly Jack's demeanour changed. He threw off his +ragged hat and talked wildly. A fearful expression filled his ugly +features. His voice altered. +</P> + +<P> +"You're the Devil!" he said; "THE DEVIL! THE DEVIL! The missus +brought you—ah-h-h!" +</P> + +<P> +The snake's head passed behind the looking-glass. Jack drew nearer, +clenching his fists and gesticulating. As he did he came full before +the looking-glass and saw, perhaps for the first time in his life, his +own image. An unearthly howl came from him. "ME FATHER!" he shouted, +and bolted from the house. +</P> + +<P> +Dad came in with the long-handled shovel, swung it about the room, and +smashed pieces off the cradle, and tore the bed-curtains down, and made +a great noise altogether. Finally, he killed the snake and put it on +the fire; and Joe and the cat watched it wriggle on the hot coals. +</P> + +<P> +Meanwhile, Jack, bare-headed, rushed across the yard. He ran over +little Bill, and tumbled through the wire-fence on to the broad of his +back. He roared like a wild beast, clutched at space, spat, and kicked +his heels in the air. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me up!—-AH-H-H!—let go me throat!" he hissed. +</P> + +<P> +The dog ran over and barked at him. He found his feet again, and, +making off, ran through the wheat, glancing back over his shoulder as +he tore along. He crossed into the grass paddock, and running to a big +tree dodged round and round it. Then from tree to tree he went, and +that evening at sundown, when Joe was bringing the cows home, Jack was +still flying from "his father". +</P> + +<P> +After supper. +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder now what the old fool saw in that snake to send him off his +head like that?" Dad said, gazing wonderingly into the fire. "He sees +plenty of them, goodness knows." +</P> + +<P> +"That was n't it. It was n't the snake at all," Mother said; "there +was madness in the man's eyes all the while. I saw it the moment he +came to the door." She appealed to Sal. +</P> + +<P> +"Nonsense!" said Dad; "NONSENSE!" and he tried to laugh. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, of course it's NONSENSE," Mother went on; "everything I say is +nonsense. It won't be nonsense when you come home some day and find us +all on the floor with our throats cut." +</P> + +<P> +"Pshaw!" Dad answered; "what's the use of talking like that?" Then to +Dave: "Go out and see if he's in the barn!" +</P> + +<P> +Dave fidgetted. He did n't like the idea. Joe giggled. +</P> + +<P> +"Surely you're not FRIGHTENED?" Dad shouted. +</P> + +<P> +Dave coloured up. +</P> + +<P> +"No—don't think so," he said; and, after a pause, "YOU go and see." +</P> + +<P> +It was Dad's turn to feel uneasy. He pretended to straighten the fire, +and coughed several times. "Perhaps it's just as well," he said, "to +let him be to-night." +</P> + +<P> +Of course, Dad was n't afraid; he SAID he was n't, but he drove the +pegs in the doors and windows before going to bed that night. +</P> + +<P> +Next morning, Dad said to Dave and Joe, "Come 'long, and we'll see +where he's got to." +</P> + +<P> +In a gully at the back of the grass-paddock they found him. He was +ploughing—sitting astride the highest limb of a fallen tree, and, in a +hoarse voice and strange, calling out—"Gee, Captain!—come here, +Tidy!—WA-AY!" +</P> + +<P> +"Blowed if I know," Dad muttered, coming to a standstill. "Wonder if +he is clean mad?" +</P> + +<P> +Dave was speechless, and Joe began to tremble. +</P> + +<P> +They listened. And as the man's voice rang out in the quiet gully and +the echoes rumbled round the ridge and the affrighted birds flew up, +the place felt eerie somehow. +</P> + +<P> +"It's no use bein' afraid of him," Dad went on. "We must go and bounce +him, that's all." But there was a tremor in Dad's voice which Dave did +n't like. +</P> + +<P> +"See if he knows us, anyway."—and Dad shouted, "HEY-Y!" +</P> + +<P> +Jack looked up and immediately scrambled from the limb. That was +enough for Dave. He turned and made tracks. So did Dad and Joe. They +ran. No one could have run harder. Terror overcame Joe. He squealed +and grabbed hold of Dad's shirt, which was ballooning in the wind. +</P> + +<P> +"Let go!" Dad gasped. "DAMN Y', let me GO! "—trying to shake him +off. But Joe had great faith in his parent, and clung to him closely. +</P> + +<P> +When they had covered a hundred yards or so, Dave glanced back, and +seeing that Jack was n't pursuing them, stopped and chuckled at the +others. +</P> + +<P> +"Eh?" Dad said, completely winded—"Eh?" Then to Dave, when he got +some breath: +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you ARE an ass of a fellow. (PUFF!). What th' DEVIL did y' RUN +f'?" +</P> + +<P> +"Wot did I run f'? What did YOU run f'?" +</P> + +<P> +"Bah!" and Dad boldly led the way back. +</P> + +<P> +"Now look here (turning fiercely upon Joe), don't you come catching +hold of me again, or if y' DO I'll knock y'r d—d head off!...Clear +home altogether, and get under the bed if y're as frightened as THAT." +</P> + +<P> +Joe slunk behind. +</P> + +<P> +But when Dad DID approach Jack, which was n't until he had talked a +great deal to him across a big log, the latter did n't show any desire +to take life, but allowed himself to be escorted home and locked in the +barn quietly enough. +</P> + +<P> +Dad kept Jack confined in the barn several days, and if anyone +approached the door or the cracks he would ask: +</P> + +<P> +"Is me father there yet?" +</P> + +<P> +"Your father's dead and buried long ago, man," Dad used to tell him. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he would say, "but he's alive again. The missus keeps him in +there"—indicating the house. +</P> + +<P> +And sometimes when Dad was not about Joe would put his mouth to a crack +and say: +</P> + +<P> +"Here's y'r FATHER, Jack!" Then, like a caged beast, the man would +howl and tramp up and down, his eyes starting out of his head, while +Joe would bolt inside and tell Mother that "Jack's getting out,", and +nearly send her to her grave. +</P> + +<P> +But one day Jack DID get out, and, while Mother and Sal were ironing +came to the door with the axe on his shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +They dropped the irons and shrank into a corner and cowered +piteously—too scared even to cry out. +</P> + +<P> +He took no notice of them, but, moving stealthily on tip-toes, +approached the bedroom door and peeped in. He paused just a moment to +grip the axe with both hands. Then with a howl and a bound he entered +the room and shattered the looking-glass into fragments. +</P> + +<P> +He bent down and looked closely at the pieces. +</P> + +<P> +"He's dead now," he said calmly, and walked out. Then he went to work +at the post-holes again, just as though nothing had happened. +</P> + +<P> +Fifteen years have passed since then, and the man is still at Shingle +Hut. He was the best horse Dad ever had. He slaved from daylight till +dark; keeps no Sunday; knows no companion; lives chiefly on meat and +machine oil; domiciles in the barn; and has never asked for a rise in +his wages. His name we never knew. We call him "Jack." The neighbours +called him "CRANKY Jack." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap08"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter VIII. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A Kangaroo-Hunt from Shingle Hut. +</H3> + +<P> +We always looked forward to Sunday. It was our day of sport. Once, I +remember, we thought it would never come. We longed restlessly for it, +and the more we longed the more it seemed to linger. +</P> + +<P> +A meeting of selectors had been held; war declared against the +marsupial; and a hunt on a grand scale arranged for this particular +Sabbath. Of course those in the neighbourhood hunted the kangaroo +every Sunday, but "on their own," and always on foot, which had its +fatigues. This was to be a raid EN MASSE and on horseback. The whole +country-side was to assemble at Shingle Hut and proceed thence. It +assembled; and what a collection! Such a crowd! such gear! such a tame +lot of horses! and such a motley swarm of lean, lank, lame +kangaroo-dogs! +</P> + +<P> +We were not ready. The crowd sat on their horses and waited at the +slip-rails. Dogs trooped into the yard by the dozen. One pounced on a +fowl; another lamed the pig; a trio put the cat up a peach-tree; one +with a thirst mounted the water-cask and looked down it, while the bulk +of the brutes trotted inside and disputed with Mother who should open +the safe. +</P> + +<P> +Dad loosed our three, and pleased they were to feel themselves free. +They had been chained up all the week, with scarcely anything to eat. +Dad did n't believe in too much feeding. He had had wide experience in +dogs and coursing "at home" on his grandfather's large estates, and +always found them fleetest when empty. OURS ought to have been fleet +as locomotives. +</P> + +<P> +Dave, showing a neat seat, rode out of the yard on Bess, fresh and fat +and fit to run for a kingdom. They awaited Dad. He was standing +beside HIS mount—Farmer, the plough-horse, who was arrayed in winkers +with green-hide reins, and an old saddle with only one flap. He was +holding an earnest argument with Joe...Still the crowd waited. Still +Dad and Joe argued the point...There was a murmur and a movement and +much merriment. Dad was coming; so was Joe—perched behind him, "double +bank," rapidly wiping the tears from his eyes with his knuckles. +</P> + +<P> +Hooray! They were off. Paddy Maloney and Dave took the lead, heading +for kangaroo country along the foot of Dead Man's Mountain and through +Smith's paddock, where there was a low wire fence to negotiate. Paddy +spread his coat over it and jumped his mare across. He was a horseman, +was Pat. The others twisted a stick in the wires, and proceeded +carefully to lead their horses over. When it came to Farmer's turn he +hesitated. Dad coaxed him. Slowly he put one leg across, as if +feeling his way, and paused again. Joe was on his back behind the +saddle. Dad tugged hard at the winkers. Farmer was inclined to +withdraw his leg. Dad was determined not to let him. Farmer's heel +got caught against the wire, and he began to pull back and grunt—so +did Dad. Both pulled hard. Anderson and old Brown ran to Dad's +assistance. The trio planted their heels in the ground and leaned back. +</P> + +<P> +Joe became afraid. He clutched at the saddle and cried, "Let me off!" +"Stick to him!" said Paddy Maloney, hopping over the fence, "Stick to +him!" He kicked Farmer what he afterwards called "a sollicker on the +tail." Again he kicked him. Still Farmer strained and hung back. Once +more he let him have it. Then—off flew the winkers, and over went Dad +and Anderson and old Brown, and down rolled Joe and Farmer on the other +side of the fence. The others leant against their horses and laughed +the laugh of their lives. "Worse 'n a lot of d—d jackasses," Dad was +heard to say. They caught Farmer and led him to the fence again. He +jumped it, and rose feet higher than he had any need to, and had not +old Brown dodged him just when he did he would be a dead man now. +</P> + +<P> +A little further on the huntsmen sighted a mob of kangaroos. Joy and +excitement. A mob? It was a swarm! Away they hopped. Off scrambled +the dogs, and off flew Paddy Maloney and Dave—the rest followed +anyhow, and at varying speeds. +</P> + +<P> +That all those dogs should have selected and followed the same kangaroo +was sad and humiliating. And such a waif of a thing, too! Still, they +stuck to it. For more than a mile, down a slope, the weedy marsupial +outpaced them, but when it came to the hill the daylight between +rapidly began to lessen. A few seconds more and all would have been +over, but a straggling, stupid old ewe, belonging to an unneighbourly +squatter, darted up from the shade of a tree right in the way of +Maloney's Brindle, who was leading. Brindle always preferred mutton to +marsupial, so he let the latter slide and secured the ewe. The +death-scene was most imposing. The ground around was strewn with small +tufts of white wool. There was a complete circle of eager, wriggling +dogs—all jammed together, heads down, and tails elevated. Not a scrap +of the ewe was visible. Paddy Maloney jumped down and proceeded to +batter the brutes vigorously with a waddy. As the others arrived, they +joined him. The dogs were hungry, and fought for every inch of the +sheep. Those not laid out were pulled away, and when old Brown had +dragged the last one off by the hind legs, all that was left of that +ewe was four feet and some skin. +</P> + +<P> +Dad shook his head and looked grave—so did Anderson. After a short +rest they decided to divide into parties and work the ridges. A start +was made. Dad's contingent—consisting of himself and Joe, Paddy +Maloney, Anderson, old Brown, and several others—started a mob. This +time the dogs separated and scampered off in all directions. In quick +time Brown's black slut bailed up an "old man" full of fight. Nothing +was more desirable. He was a monster, a king kangaroo; and as he +raised himself to his full height on his toes and tail he looked +formidable—a grand and majestic demon of the bush. The slut made no +attempt to tackle him; she stood off with her tongue out. Several +small dogs belonging to Anderson barked energetically at him, even +venturing occasionally to run behind and bite his tail. But, further +than grabbing them in his arms and embracing them, he took no notice. +There he towered, his head back and chest well out, awaiting the +horsemen. They came, shouting and hooraying. He faced them defiantly. +Anderson, aglow with excitement, dismounted and aimed a lump of rock at +his head, which laid out one of the little dogs. They pelted him with +sticks and stones till their arms were tired, but they might just as +well have pelted a dead cow. Paddy Maloney took out his stirrup. +"Look out!" he cried. They looked out. Then, galloping up, he swung +the iron at the marsupial, and nearly knocked his horse's eye out. +</P> + +<P> +Dad was disgusted. He and Joe approached the enemy on Farmer. Dad +carried a short stick. The "old man" looked him straight in the face. +Dad poked the stick at him. He promptly grabbed hold of it, and a +piece of Dad's hand as well. Farmer had not been in many battles—no +Defence Force man ever owned him. He threw up his head and snorted, +and commenced a retreat. The kangaroo followed him up and seized Dad +by the shirt. Joe evinced signs of timidity. He lost faith in Dad, +and, half jumping, half falling, he landed on the ground, and set out +speedily for a tree. Dad lost the stick, and in attempting to brain +the brute with his fist he overbalanced and fell out of the saddle. He +struggled to his feet, and clutched his antagonist affectionately by +both paws—standing well away. Backwards and forwards and round and +round they moved. "Use your knife!" Anderson called out, getting +further away himself. But Dad dared not relax his grip. Paddy Maloney +ran behind the brute several times to lay him out with a waddy, but +each time he turned and fled before striking the blow. Dad thought to +force matters, and began kicking his assailant vigorously in the +stomach. Such dull, heavy thuds! The kangaroo retaliated, putting Dad +on the defensive. Dad displayed remarkable suppleness about the hips. +At last the brute fixed his deadly toe in Dad's belt. +</P> + +<P> +It was an anxious moment, but the belt broke, and Dad breathed freely +again. He was acting entirely on the defensive, but an awful +consciousness of impending misfortune assailed him. His belt was gone, +and—his trousers began to slip—slip—slip! He called wildly to the +others for God's sake to do something. They helped with advice. He +yelled "Curs!" and "Cowards!" back at them. Still, as he danced around +with his strange and ungainly partner, his trousers kept +slipping—slipping. For the fiftieth time and more he glanced eagerly +over his shoulder for some haven of safety. None was near. And +then—oh, horror!—down THEY slid calmly and noiselessly. Poor Dad! +He was at a disadvantage; his leg work was hampered. He was hobbled. +Could he only get free of them altogether! But he could n't—his feet +were large. He took a lesson from the foe and jumped—jumped this way +and that way, and round about, while large drops of perspiration rolled +off him. The small dogs displayed renewed and ridiculous ferocity, +often mistaking Dad for the marsupial. At last Dad became +exhausted—there was no spring left in him. Once he nearly went down. +Twice he tripped. He staggered again—down he was going—down—down, +down and down he fell! But at the same moment, and, as though they had +dropped from the clouds, Brindle and five or six other dogs pounced on +the "old man." The rest may be imagined. +</P> + +<P> +Dad lay on the ground to recover his wind, and when he mounted Farmer +again and silently turned for home, Paddy Maloney was triumphantly +seated on the carcase of the fallen enemy, exultingly explaining how he +missed the brute's head with the stirrup-iron, and claiming the tail. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap09"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter IX. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Dave's Snakebite. +</H3> + +<P> +One hot day, as we were finishing dinner, a sheriff's bailiff rode up +to the door. Norah saw him first. She was dressed up ready to go over +to Mrs. Anderson's to tea. Sometimes young Harrison had tea at +Anderson's—Thursdays, usually. This was Thursday; and Norah was +starting early, because it was "a good step of a way". +</P> + +<P> +She reported the visitor. Dad left the table, munching some bread, and +went out to him. Mother looked out of the door; Sal went to the +window; Little Bill and Tom peeped through a crack; Dave remained at +his dinner; and Joe knavishly seized the opportunity of exploring the +table for leavings, finally seating himself in Dad's place, and +commencing where Dad had left off. +</P> + +<P> +"Jury summons," said the meek bailiff, extracting a paper from his +breast-pocket, and reading, "Murtagh Joseph Rudd, selector, Shingle +Hut...Correct?" +</P> + +<P> +Dad nodded assent. +</P> + +<P> +"Got any water?" +</P> + +<P> +There was n't a drop in the cask, so Dad came in and asked Mother if +there was any tea left. She pulled a long, solemn, Sunday-school face, +and looked at Joe, who was holding the teapot upside-down, shaking the +tea-leaves into his cup. +</P> + +<P> +"Tea, Dad?" he chuckled—"by golly!" +</P> + +<P> +Dad did n't think it worth while going out to the bailiff again. He +sent Joe. +</P> + +<P> +"Not any at all?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothink," said Joe. +</P> + +<P> +"H'm! Nulla bona, eh?" And the Law smiled at its own joke and went off +thirsty. +</P> + +<P> +Thus it was that Dad came to be away one day when his great presence of +mind and ability as a bush doctor was most required at Shingle Hut. +</P> + +<P> +Dave took Dad's place at the plough. One of the horses—a colt that +Dad bought with the money he got for helping with Anderson's crop—had +only just been broken. He was bad at starting. When touched with the +rein he would stand and wait until the old furrow-horse put in a few +steps; then plunge to get ahead of him, and if a chain or a +swingle-tree or something else did n't break, and Dave kept the plough +in, he ripped and tore along in style, bearing in and bearing out, and +knocking the old horse about till that much-enduring animal became as +cranky as himself, and the pace terrible. Down would go the +plough-handles, and, with one tremendous pull on the reins, Dave would +haul them back on to their rumps. Then he would rush up and kick the +colt on the root of the tail, and if that did n't make him put his leg +over the chains and kick till he ran a hook into his heel and lamed +himself, or broke something, it caused him to rear up and fall back on +the plough and snort and strain and struggle till there was not a +stitch left on him but the winkers. +</P> + +<P> +Now, if Dave was noted for one thing more than another it was for his +silence. He scarcely ever took the trouble to speak. He hated to be +asked a question, and mostly answered by nodding his head. Yet, though +he never seemed to practise, he could, when his blood was fairly up, +swear with distinction and effect. On this occasion he swore through +the whole afternoon without repeating himself. +</P> + +<P> +Towards evening Joe took the reins and began to drive. He had n't gone +once around when, just as the horses approached a big dead tree that +had been left standing in the cultivation, he planted his left foot +heavily upon a Bathurst-burr that had been cut and left lying. It +clung to him. He hopped along on one leg, trying to kick it off; still +it clung to him. He fell down. The horses and the tree got mixed up, +and everything was confusion. +</P> + +<P> +Dave abused Joe remorselessly. "Go on!" he howled, waving in the air a +fistful of grass and weeds which he had pulled from the nose of the +plough; "clear out of this altogether!—you're only a damn nuisance." +</P> + +<P> +Joe's eyes rested on the fistful of grass. They lit up suddenly. +</P> + +<P> +"L-l-look out, Dave," he stuttered; "y'-y' got a s-s-snake." +</P> + +<P> +Dave dropped the grass promptly. A deaf-adder crawled out of it. Joe +killed it. Dave looked closely at his hand, which was all scratches +and scars. He looked at it again; then he sat on the beam of the +plough, pale and miserable-looking. +</P> + +<P> +"D-d-did it bite y', Dave?" No answer. +</P> + +<P> +Joe saw a chance to distinguish himself, and took it. He ran home, +glad to be the bearer of the news, and told Mother that "Dave's got bit +by a adder—a sudden-death adder—right on top o' the finger." +</P> + +<P> +How Mother screamed! "My God! whatever shall we do? Run quick," she +said, "and bring Mr. Maloney. Dear! oh dear! oh dear!" +</P> + +<P> +Joe had not calculated on this injunction. He dropped his head and +said sullenly: "Wot, walk all the way over there?" +</P> + +<P> +Before he could say another word a tin-dish left a dinge on the back of +his skull that will accompany him to his grave if he lives to be a +thousand. +</P> + +<P> +"You wretch, you! Why don't you run when I tell you?" +</P> + +<P> +Joe sprang in the air like a shot wallaby. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll not go AT ALL now—y' see!" he answered, starting to cry. Then +Sal put on her hat and ran for Maloney. +</P> + +<P> +Meanwhile Dave took the horses out, walked inside, and threw himself on +the sofa without uttering a word. He felt ill. +</P> + +<P> +Mother was in a paroxysm of fright. She threw her arms about +frantically and cried for someone to come. At last she sat down and +tried to think what she could do. She thought of the very thing, and +ran for the carving-knife, which she handed to Dave with shut eyes. He +motioned her with a disdainful movement of the elbow to take it away. +</P> + +<P> +Would Maloney never come! He was coming, hat in hand, and running for +dear life across the potato-paddock. Behind him was his man. Behind +his man—Sal, out of breath. Behind her, Mrs. Maloney and the children. +</P> + +<P> +"Phwat's the thrubble?" cried Maloney. "Bit be a dif—adher? O, be +the tares of war!" Then he asked Dave numerous questions as to how it +happened, which Joe answered with promptitude and pride. Dave simply +shrugged his shoulders and turned his face to the wall. Nothing was to +be got out of him. +</P> + +<P> +Maloney held a short consultation with himself. Then—"Hould up yer +hand!" he said, bending over Dave with a knife. Dave thrust out his +arm violently, knocked the instrument to the other side of the room, +and kicked wickedly. +</P> + +<P> +"The pison's wurrkin'," whispered Maloney quite loud. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, my gracious!" groaned Mother. +</P> + +<P> +"The poor crathur," said Mrs. Maloney. +</P> + +<P> +There was a pause. +</P> + +<P> +"Phwhat finger's bit?" asked Maloney. Joe thought it was the littlest +one of the lot. +</P> + +<P> +He approached the sofa again, knife in hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Show me yer finger," he said to Dave. +</P> + +<P> +For the first time Dave spoke. He said: +</P> + +<P> +"Damn y'—what the devil do y' want? Clear out and lea' me 'lone." +</P> + +<P> +Maloney hesitated. There was a long silence. Dave commenced breathing +heavily. +</P> + +<P> +"It's maikin' 'm slape," whispered Maloney, glancing over his shoulder +at the women. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't let him! Don't let him!" Mother wailed. +</P> + +<P> +"Salvation to 's all!" muttered Mrs. Maloney, piously crossing herself. +</P> + +<P> +Maloney put away the knife and beckoned to his man, who was looking on +from the door. They both took a firm hold of Dave and stood him upon +his feet. He looked hard and contemptuously at Maloney for some +seconds. Then with gravity and deliberation Dave said: "Now wot 'n th' +devil are y' up t'? Are y' mad?" +</P> + +<P> +"Walk 'm along, Jaimes—walk 'm—along," was all Maloney had to say. +And out into the yard they marched him. How Dave did struggle to get +away!—swearing and cursing Maloney for a cranky Irishman till he +foamed at the mouth, all of which the other put down to snake-poison. +Round and round the yard and up and down it they trotted him till long +after dark, until there was n't a struggle left in him. +</P> + +<P> +They placed him on the sofa again, Maloney keeping him awake with a +strap. How Dave ground his teeth and kicked and swore whenever he felt +that strap! And they sat and watched him. +</P> + +<P> +It was late in the night when Dad came from town. He staggered in with +the neck of a bottle showing out of his pocket. In his hand was a +piece of paper wrapped round the end of some yards of sausage. The dog +outside carried the other end. +</P> + +<P> +"An' 'e ishn't dead?" Dad said, after hearing what had befallen Dave. +"Don' b'leevsh id—wuzhn't bit. Die 'fore shun'own ifsh desh ad'er +bish 'm." +</P> + +<P> +"Bit!" Dave said bitterly, turning round to the surprise of everyone. +"I never said I was BIT. No one said I was—only those snivelling +idiots and that pumpkin-headed Irish pig there." +</P> + +<P> +Maloney lowered his jaw and opened his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Zhackly. Did'n' I (HIC) shayzo, 'Loney? Did'n' I, eh, ol' wom'n!" +Dad mumbled, and dropped his chin on his chest. +</P> + +<P> +Maloney began to take another view of the matter. He put a leading +question to Joe. +</P> + +<P> +"He MUSTER been bit," Joe answered, "'cuz he had the d-death adder in +his hand." +</P> + +<P> +More silence. +</P> + +<P> +"Mush die 'fore shun'own," Dad murmured. +</P> + +<P> +Maloney was thinking hard. At last he spoke. "Bridgy!" he cried, +"where's th' childer?" Mrs. Maloney gathered them up. +</P> + +<P> +Just then Dad seemed to be dreaming. He swayed about. His head hung +lower, and he muttered, "Shen'l'm'n, yoush disharged wish shanksh +y'cun'ry." +</P> + +<P> +The Maloneys left. +</P> + +<P> +Dave is still alive and well, and silent as ever; and if any one +question is more intolerable and irritating to him than another, it is +to be asked if he remembers the time he was bitten by deaf-adder. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap10"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter X. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Dad And The Donovans. +</H3> + +<P> +A sweltering summer's afternoon. A heat that curled and withered the +very weeds. The corn-blades drooping, sulking still. Mother and Sal +ironing, mopping their faces with a towel and telling each other how +hot it was. The dog stretched across the doorway. A child's bonnet on +the floor—the child out in the sun. Two horsemen approaching the +slip-rails. +</P> + +<P> +Dad had gone down the gully to Farmer, who had been sick for four days. +The ploughing was at a standstill in consequence, for we had only two +draught-horses. Dad erected a shelter over him, made of boughs, to +keep the sun off. Two or three times a day he cut greenstuff for +him—which the cows ate. He humped water to him which he sullenly +refused to drink; and did all in his power to persuade Farmer to get up +and go on with the ploughing. I don't know if Dad knew anything of +mesmerism, but he used to stand for long intervals dumbly staring the +old horse full in the eyes till in a commanding voice he would bid him, +"Get up!" But Farmer lacked the patriotism of the back-block poets. He +was obdurate, and not once did he "awake," not to mention "arise". +</P> + +<P> +This afternoon, as Dad approached his dumb patient, he suddenly put +down the bucket of water which he was carrying and ran, shouting +angrily. A flock of crows flew away from Farmer and "cawed" from a +tree close by. Dad was excited, and when he saw that one of the +animal's eyes was gone and a stream of blood trickled over its nose he +sat down and hid his face in his big rough hands. +</P> + +<P> +"CAW, CAW!" came from the tree. +</P> + +<P> +Dad rose and looked up. +</P> + +<P> +"CURSE you!" he hissed—"you black wretches of hell!" +</P> + +<P> +"CAW, CAW, CAW" +</P> + +<P> +He ran towards the tree as though he would hurl it to the ground, and +away flew the crows. +</P> + +<P> +Joe arrived. +</P> + +<P> +"W-w-wuz they at him, Dad?" +</P> + +<P> +Dad turned on him, trembling with rage. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, YOU son of the Devil!" he commenced. "YOU worthless pup, you! +Look there! Do you see that?" (He pointed to the horse.) "Did n't I +tell you to mind him? Did n'—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," snivelled Joe; "but Anderson's dog had a k-k-k-angaroo bailed +up." +</P> + +<P> +"DAMN you, be off out of this!" And Dad aimed a block of wood at Joe +which struck him on the back as he made away. But nothing short of two +broken legs would stop Joe, who the next instant had dashed among the +corn like an emu into a scrub. +</P> + +<P> +Dad returned to the house, foaming and vowing to take the gun and shoot +Joe down like a wallaby. But when he saw two horses hanging up he +hesitated and would have gone away again had Mother not called out that +he was wanted. He went in reluctantly. +</P> + +<P> +Red Donovan and his son, Mick, were there. Donovan was the publican, +butcher, and horse-dealer at the Overhaul. He was reputed to be +well-in, though some said that if everybody had their own he would n't +be worth much. He was a glib-tongued Irishman who knew everything—or +fondly imagined he did—from the law to horse-surgery. There was money +to be made out of selections, he reckoned, if selectors only knew how +to make it—the majority, he proclaimed, did n't know enough to get +under a tree when it rained. As a dealer, he was a hard nut, never +giving more than a "tenner" for a twenty pound beast, or selling a ten +pound one for less than twenty pounds. And few knew Donovan better +than did Dad, or had been taken in by him oftener; but on this occasion +Dad was in no easy or benevolent frame of mind. +</P> + +<P> +He sat down, and they talked of crops and the weather, and beat about +the bush until Donovan said: +</P> + +<P> +"Have you any fat steers to sell?" +</P> + +<P> +Dad had n't. "But," he added, "I can sell you a horse." +</P> + +<P> +"Which one?" asked Donovan, for he knew the horses as well as Dad +did—perhaps better. +</P> + +<P> +"The bay—Farmer." +</P> + +<P> +"How much?" +</P> + +<P> +"Seven pounds." Now, Farmer was worth fourteen pounds, if worth a +shilling—that is, before he took sick—and Donovan knew it well. +</P> + +<P> +"Seven," he repeated ponderingly. "Give you six." +</P> + +<P> +Never before did Dad show himself such an expert in dissimulation. He +shook his head knowingly, and enquired of Donovan if he would take the +horse for nothing. +</P> + +<P> +"Split the difference, then—make it six-ten?" +</P> + +<P> +Dad rose and looked out the window. +</P> + +<P> +"There he is now," he remarked sadly, "in the gully there." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what's it to be—six-ten or nothing?" renewed Donovan. +</P> + +<P> +"All right, then," Dad replied, demurely, "take him!" +</P> + +<P> +The money was paid there and then and receipts drawn up. Then, saying +that Mick would come for the horse on the day following, and after +offering a little gratuitous advice on seed-wheat and pig-sticking, the +Donovans left. +</P> + +<P> +Mick came the next day, and Dad showed him Farmer, under the bushes. +He was n't dead, because when Joe sat on him he moved. "There he is," +said Dad, grinning. +</P> + +<P> +Mick remained seated on his horse, bewildered-looking, staring first at +Farmer, then at Dad. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" Dad remarked, still grinning. Then Mick spoke feelingly. +</P> + +<P> +"YOU SWINDLING OLD CRAWLER!" he said, and galloped away. It was well +for him he got a good start. +</P> + +<P> +For long after that we turned the horses and cows into the little +paddock at night, and if ever the dog barked Dad would jump up and go +out in his shirt. +</P> + +<P> +We put them back into the paddock again, and the first night they were +there two cows got out and went away, taking with them the chain that +fastened the slip-rails. We never saw or heard of them again; but Dad +treasured them in his heart. Often, when he was thoughtful, he would +ponder out plans for getting even with the Donovans—we knew it was +the Donovans. And Fate seemed to be of Dad's mind; for the Donovans +got into "trouble,", and were reported to be "doing time." That pleased +Dad; but the vengeance was a little vague. He would have liked a +finger in the pie himself. +</P> + +<P> +Four years passed. It was after supper, and we were all husking corn +in the barn. Old Anderson and young Tom Anderson and Mrs. Maloney were +helping us. We were to assist them the following week. The barn was +illuminated by fat-lamps, which made the spiders in the rafters uneasy +and disturbed the slumbers of a few fowls that for months had insisted +on roosting on the cross-beam. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Maloney was arguing with Anderson. She was claiming to have +husked two cobs to his one, when the dogs started barking savagely. +Dad crawled from beneath a heap of husks and went out. The night was +dark. He bade the dogs "Lie down." They barked louder. "Damn +you—lie down!" he roared. They shut up. Then a voice from the +darkness said: +</P> + +<P> +"Is that you, Mr. Rudd?" +</P> + +<P> +Dad failed to recognise it, and went to the fence where the visitor +was. He remained there talking for fully half-an-hour. Then he +returned, and said it was young Donovan. +</P> + +<P> +"DONOVAN! MICK Donovan?" exclaimed Anderson. And Mother and Mrs. +Maloney and Joe echoed "MICK Donovan?" They WERE surprised. +</P> + +<P> +"He's none too welcome," said Anderson, thinking of his horses and +cows. Mother agreed with him, while Mrs. Maloney repeated over and over +again that she was always under the impression that Mick Donovan was in +gaol along with his bad old father. Dad was uncommunicative. There +was something on his mind. He waited till the company had gone, then +consulted with Dave. +</P> + +<P> +They were outside, in the dark, and leant on the dray. Dad said in a +low voice: "He's come a hundred mile to-day, 'n' his horse is +dead-beat, 'n' he wants one t' take him t' Back Creek t'morrer 'n' +leave this one in his place...Wot d'y' think?" Dave seemed to think a +great deal, for he said nothing. +</P> + +<P> +"Now," continued Dad, "it's me opinion the horse is n't his; it's one +he's shook—an' I've an idea." Then he proceeded to instruct Dave in +the idea. A while later he called Joe and drilled him in the idea. +</P> + +<P> +That night, young Donovan stayed at Shingle Hut. In the morning Dad +was very affable. He asked Donovan to come and show him his horse, as +he must see it before thinking of exchanging. They proceeded to the +paddock together. The horse was standing under a tree, tired-looking. +Dad stood and looked at Donovan for fully half-a-minute without +speaking. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, damn it!" he exclaimed, at last, "that's MY OWN horse...You don't +mean...S'help me! Old Bess's foal!" Donovan told him he was making a +mistake. +</P> + +<P> +"Mistake be hanged!" replied Dad, walking round the animal. "Not much +of a mistake about HIM!" +</P> + +<P> +Just here Dave appeared, as was proper. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you know this horse?" Dad asked him. "Yes, of course," he +answered, surprisedly, with his eyes open wide, "Bess's foal!—of +course it is." +</P> + +<P> +"There you are!" said Dad, grinning triumphantly. +</P> + +<P> +Donovan seemed uneasy. +</P> + +<P> +Joe in his turn appeared. Dad put the same question to him. Of course +Joe knew Bess's foal—"the one that got stole." +</P> + +<P> +There was a silence. +</P> + +<P> +"Now," said Dad, looking very grave, "what have y' got t' say? Who'd +y' get him off? Show's y'r receipt." +</P> + +<P> +Donovan had nothing to say; he preferred to be silent. +</P> + +<P> +"Then," Dad went on, "clear out of this as fast as you can go, an' +think y'rself lucky." +</P> + +<P> +He cleared, but on foot. +</P> + +<P> +Dad gazed after him, and, as he left the paddock, said: +</P> + +<P> +"One too many f' y' that time, Mick Donovan!" Then to Dave, who was +still looking at the horse: "He's a stolen one right enough, but he's +a beauty, and we'll keep him; and if the owner ever comes for him, +well—if he is the owner—he can have him, that's all." +</P> + +<P> +We had the horse for eighteen months and more. One day Dad rode him to +town. He was no sooner there than a man came up and claimed him. Dad +objected. The man went off and brought a policeman. "Orright"—Dad +said—"TAKE him." The policeman took him. He took Dad too. The +lawyer got Dad off, but it cost us five bags of potatoes. Dad did n't +grudge them, for he reckoned we'd had value. Besides, he was even with +the Donovans for the two cows. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap11"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XI. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A Splendid Year For Corn. +</H3> + +<P> +We had just finished supper. Supper! dry bread and sugarless tea. Dad +was tired out and was resting at one end of the sofa; Joe was stretched +at the other, without a pillow, and his legs tangled up among Dad's. +Bill and Tom squatted in the ashes, while Mother tried to put the +fat-lamp into burning order by poking it with a table-fork. +</P> + +<P> +Dad was silent; he seemed sad, and lay for some time gazing at the +roof. He might have been watching the blaze of the glorious moon or +counting the stars through the gaps in the shingles, but he was +n't—there was no such sentiment in Dad. He was thinking how his long +years of toil and worry had been rewarded again and again by +disappointment—wondering if ever there would be a turn in his luck, +and how he was going to get enough out of the land that season to pay +interest and keep Mother and us in bread and meat. +</P> + +<P> +At last he spoke, or rather muttered disjointedly, "Plen-ty—to eat—in +the safe." Then suddenly, in a strange and hollow voice, he shouted, +"THEY' RE DEAD—ALL OF THEN! I STARVED THEM!" +</P> + +<P> +Mother DID get a fright. She screamed. Then Dad jumped up, rubbing +his eyes, and asked what was the matter. Nothing was the matter THEN. +He had dozed and talked in his sleep, that was all; he had n't starved +anyone. Joe did n't jump up when Mother screamed—not altogether; he +raised himself and reached for Dad's pillow, then lay down and snored +serenely till bed-time. +</P> + +<P> +Dad sat gloomily by the fire and meditated. Mother spoke pleadingly to +him and asked him not to fret. He ran his fingers uneasily through his +hair and spat in the ashes. "Don't fret? When there's not a bit to +eat in the place—when there's no way of getting anything, and +when—merciful God!—every year sees things worse than they were +before." +</P> + +<P> +"It's only fancy," Mother went on. "And you've been brooding and +brooding till it seems far worse than it really is." +</P> + +<P> +"It's no fancy, Ellen." Then, after a pause—"Was the thirty acres of +wheat that did n't come up fancy? Is it only fancy that we've lost +nearly every beast in the paddock? Was the drought itself a fancy? +No—no." And he shook his head sadly and stared again into the fire. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Dad's inclination was to leave the selection, but Mother pleaded for +another trial of it—just one more. She had wonderful faith in the +selection, had Mother. She pleaded until the fire burned low, then Dad +rose and said: "Well, we'll try it once more with corn, and if nothing +comes of it why then we MUST give it up." Then he took the spade and +raked the fire together and covered it with ashes—we always covered +the fire over before going to bed so as to keep it alight. Some +mornings, though, it would be out, when one of us would have to go +across to Anderson's and borrow a fire-stick. Any of us but Joe—he +was sent only once, and on that occasion he stayed at Anderson's to +breakfast, and on his way back successfully burnt out two grass +paddocks belonging to a J.P. +</P> + +<P> +So we began to prepare the soil for another crop of corn, and Dad +started over the same old ground with the same old plough. How I +remember that old, screwed and twisted plough! The land was very hard, +and the horses out of condition. We wanted a furrow-horse. Smith had +one—a good one. "Put him in the furrow," he said to Dad, "and you +can't PULL him out of it." Dad wished to have such a horse. Smith +offered to exchange for our roan saddle mare—one we found running in +the lane, and advertised as being in our paddock, and no one claimed +it. Dad exchanged. +</P> + +<P> +He yoked the new horse to the plough, and it took to the furrow +splendidly—but that was all; it did n't take to anything else. Dad +gripped the handles—"Git up!" he said, and tapped Smith's horse with +the rein. Smith's horse pranced and marked time well, but did n't +tighten the chains. Dad touched him again. Then he stood on his +fore-legs and threw about a hundredweight of mud that clung to his +heels at Dad's head. That aggravated Dad, and he seized the +plough-scraper, and, using both hands, calmly belted Smith's horse over +the ribs for two minutes, by the sun. He tried him again. The horse +threw himself down in the furrow. Dad took the scraper again, welted +him on the rump, dug it into his back-bone, prodded him in the side, +then threw it at him disgustedly. Then Dad sat down awhile and +breathed heavily. He rose again and pulled Smith's horse by the head. +He was pulling hard when Dave and Joe came up. Joe had a bow-and-arrow +in his hand, and said, "He's a good furrer 'orse, eh, Dad? Smith SAID +you could n't pull him out of it." +</P> + +<P> +Shall I ever forget the look on Dad's face! He brandished the scraper +and sprang wildly at Joe and yelled, "Damn y', you WHELP! what do you +want here?" +</P> + +<P> +Joe left. The horse lay in the furrow. Blood was dropping from its +mouth. Dave pointed it out, and Dad opened the brute's jaws and +examined them. No teeth were there. He looked on the ground round +about—none there either. He looked at the horse's mouth again, then +hit him viciously with his clenched fist and said, "The old ——, he +never DID have any!" At length he unharnessed the brute as it +lay—pulled the winkers off, hurled them at its head, kicked it +once—twice—three times—and the furrow-horse jumped up, trotted away +triumphantly, and joyously rolled in the dam where all our water came +from, drinking-water included. +</P> + +<P> +Dad went straightaway to Smith's place, and told Smith he was a dirty, +mean, despicable swindler—or something like that. Smith smiled. Dad +put one leg through the slip-rails and promised Smith, if he'd only +come along, to split palings out of him. But Smith did n't. The +instinct of self-preservation must have been deep in that man Smith. +Then Dad went home and said he would shoot the —— horse there and +then, and went looking for the gun. The horse died in the paddock of +old age, but Dad never ploughed with him again. +</P> + +<P> +Dad followed the plough early and late. One day he was giving the +horses a spell after some hours' work, when Joe came to say that a +policeman was at the house wanting to see him. Dad thought of the roan +mare, and Smith, and turned very pale. Joe said: "There's "Q.P." on +his saddle-cloth; what's that for, Dad?" But he did n't answer—he was +thinking hard. "And," Joe went on, "there's somethin' sticking out of +his pocket—Dave thinks it'll be 'ancuffs." Dad shuddered. On the way +to the house Joe wished to speak about the policeman, but Dad seemed to +have lock-jaw. When he found the officer of the law only wanted to know +the number of stock he owned, he talked freely—he was delighted. He +said, "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," and "Jusso, sir," to everything the +policeman said. +</P> + +<P> +Dad wished to learn some law. He said: "Now, tell me this: supposing +a horse gets into my paddock—or into your paddock—and I advertise +that horse and nobody claims him, can't I put my brand on him?" The +policeman jerked back his head and stared at the shingles long enough +to recall all the robberies he had committed, and said: "Ye +can—that's so—ye can." +</P> + +<P> +"I knew it," answered Dad; "but a lawyer in town told Maloney, over +there, y' could n't." +</P> + +<P> +"COULD N'T?" And the policeman laughed till he nearly had the house +down, only stopping to ask, while the tears ran over his well-fed +cheeks, "Did he charge him forrit?" and laughed again. He went away +laughing, and for all I know the wooden-head may be laughing yet. +</P> + +<P> +Everything was favourable to a good harvest. The rain fell just when +it was wanted, and one could almost see the corn growing. How it +encouraged Dad, and what new life it seemed to give him! In the cool +of the evenings he would walk along the headlands and admire the +forming cobs, and listen to the rustling of the rows of drooping blades +as they swayed and beat against each other in the breeze. Then he +would go home filled with fresh hopes and talk of nothing but the good +prospect of that crop. +</P> + +<P> +And how we worked! Joe was the only one who played. I remember him +finding something on a chain one day. He had never seen anything like +it before. Dad told him it was a steel-trap and explained the working +of it. Joe was entranced—an invaluable possession! A treasure, he +felt, that the Lord must specially have sent him to catch things with. +He caught many things with it—willie-wagtails, laughing-jackasses, +fowls, and mostly the dog. Joe was a born naturalist—a perfect +McCooey in his way, and a close observer of the habits and customs of +animals and living things. He observed that whenever Jacob Lipp came +to our place he always, when going home, ran along the fence and +touched the top of every post with his hand. The Lipps had newly +arrived from Germany, and their selection adjoined ours. Jacob was +their "eldest", about fourteen, and a fat, jabbering, jolly-faced youth +he was. He often came to our place and followed Joe about. Joe never +cared much for the company of anyone younger than himself, and +therefore fiercely resented the indignity. Jacob could speak only +German—Joe understood only pure unadulterated Australian. Still Jacob +insisted on talking and telling Joe his private affairs. +</P> + +<P> +This day, Mrs. Lipp accompanied Jacob. She came to have a "yarn" with +Mother. They did n't understand each other either; but it did n't +matter much to them—it never does matter much to women whether they +understand or not; anyway, they laughed most of the time and seemed to +enjoy themselves greatly. Outside Jacob and Joe mixed up in an +argument. Jacob shoved his face close to Joe's and gesticulated and +talked German at the rate of two hundred words a minute. Joe thought +he understood him and said: "You want to fight?" Jacob seemed to have +a nightmare in German. +</P> + +<P> +"Orright, then," Joe said, and knocked him down. +</P> + +<P> +Jacob seemed to understand Australian better when he got up, for he ran +inside, and Joe put his ear to a crack, but did n't hear him tell +Mother. +</P> + +<P> +Joe had an idea. He would set the steel-trap on a wire-post and catch +Jacob. He set it. Jacob started home. One, two, three posts he hit. +Then he hit the trap. It grabbed him faithfully by three fingers. +</P> + +<P> +Angels of Love! did ever a boy of fourteen yell like it before! He +sprang in the air—threw himself on the ground like a roped +brumby—jumped up again and ran all he knew, frantically wringing the +hand the trap clung to. What Jacob reckoned had hold of him Heaven +only can tell. His mother thought he must have gone mad and ran after +him. Our Mother fairly tore after her. Dad and Dave left a dray-load +of corn and joined in the hunt. Between them they got Jacob down and +took him out of the trap. Dad smashed the infernal machine, and then +went to look for Joe. But Joe was n't about. +</P> + +<P> +The corn shelled out 100 bags—the best crop we had ever had; but when +Dad came to sell it seemed as though every farmer in every farming +district on earth had had a heavy crop, for the market was +glutted—there was too much corn in Egypt—and he could get no price +for it. At last he was offered Ninepence ha'penny per bushel, +delivered at the railway station. Ninepence ha'penny per bushel, +delivered at the railway station! Oh, my country! and fivepence per +bushel out of that to a carrier to take it there! AUSTRALIA, MY MOTHER! +</P> + +<P> +Dad sold—because he could n't afford to await a better market; and +when the letter came containing a cheque in payment, he made a +calculation, then looked pitifully at Mother, and muttered—"SEVEN +POUN'S TEN!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap12"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XII. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Kate's Wedding. +</H3> + +<P> +Our selection was a great place for dancing. We could all dance—from +Dan down—and there was n't a figure or a movement we did n't know. We +learned young. Mother was a firm believer in early tuition. She used +to say it was nice for young people to know how to dance, and be able +to take their part when they went out anywhere, and not be awkward and +stupid-looking when they went into society. It was awful, she thought, +to see young fellows and big lumps of girls like the Bradys stalk into +a ballroom and sit the whole night long in a corner, without attempting +to get up. She did n't know how mothers COULD bring children up so +ignorantly, and did n't wonder at some of them not being able to find +husbands for their daughters. +</P> + +<P> +But we had a lot to feel thankful for. Besides a sympathetic mother, +every other facility was afforded us to become accomplished. Abundance +of freedom; enthusiastic sisters; and no matter how things were +going—whether the corn would n't come up, or the wheat had failed, or +the pumpkins had given out, or the water-hole run dry—we always had a +concertina in the house. It never failed to attract company. Paddy +Maloney and the well-sinkers, after belting and blasting all day long, +used to drop in at night, and throw the table outside, and take the +girls up, and prance about the floor with them till all hours. +</P> + +<P> +Nearly every week Mother gave a ball. It might have been every night +only for Dad. He said the jumping about destroyed the +ground-floor—wore it away and made the room like a well. And whenever +it rained hard and the water rushed in he had to bail it out. Dad +always looked on the dark side of things. He had no ear for music +either. His want of appreciation of melody often made the home +miserable when it might have been the merriest on earth. Sometimes it +happened that he had to throw down the plough-reins for half-an-hour or +so to run round the wheat-paddock after a horse or an old cow; then, if +he found Dave, or Sal, or any of us, sitting inside playing the +concertina when he came to get a drink, he would nearly go mad. +</P> + +<P> +"Can't y' find anything better t' do than everlastingly playing at that +damn thing?" he would shout. And if we did n't put the instrument down +immediately he would tear it from our hands and pitch it outside. If +we DID lay it down quietly he would snatch it up and heave it out just +as hard. The next evening he would devote all his time to patching the +fragments together with sealing-wax. +</P> + +<P> +Still, despite Dad's antagonism, we all turned out good players. It +cost us nothing either. We learnt from each other. Kate was the first +that learnt. SHE taught Sal. Sal taught Dave, and so on. Sandy +Taylor was Kate's tutor. He passed our place every evening going to +his selection, where he used to sleep at night (fulfilling conditions), +and always stopped at the fence to yarn with Kate about dancing. Sandy +was a fine dancer himself, very light on his feet and easy to waltz +with—so the girls made out. When the dancing subject was exhausted +Sandy would drag some hair out of his horse's mane and say, "How's the +concertina?" "It's in there," Kate would answer. Then turning round +she would call out, "J—OE, bring the concer'." +</P> + +<P> +In an instant Joe would strut along with it. And Sandy, for the +fiftieth time, would examine it and laugh at the kangaroo-skin straps +that Dave had tacked to it, and the scraps of brown paper that were +plastered over the ribs of it to keep the wind in; and, cocking his +left leg over the pommel of his saddle, he would sound a full blast on +it as a preliminary. Then he would strike up "The Rocky Road to +Dublin", or "The Wind Among the Barley,", or some other beautiful air, +and grind away untiringly until it got dark—until mother came and +asked him if he would n't come in and have supper. Of course, he +always would. After supper he would play some more. Then there would +be a dance. +</P> + +<P> +A ball was to be held at Anderson's one Friday night, and only Kate and +Dave were asked from our place. Dave was very pleased to be invited; +it was the first time he had been asked anywhere, and he began to +practise vigorously. The evening before the ball Dad sent him to put +the draught horses in the top paddock. He went off merrily with them. +The sun was just going down when he let them go, and save the noise of +the birds settling to rest the paddock was quiet. Dave was filled with +emotion and enthusiastic thoughts about the ball. +</P> + +<P> +He threw the winkers down and looked around. For a moment or two he +stood erect, then he bowed gracefully to the saplings on his right, +then to the stumps and trees on his left, and humming a tune, ambled +across a small patch of ground that was bare and black, and pranced +back again. He opened his arms and, clasping some beautiful imaginary +form in them, swung round and round like a windmill. Then he paused +for breath, embraced his partner again, and "galloped" up and down. +And young Johnson, who had been watching him in wonder from behind a +fence, bolted for our place. +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs. Rudd! Mrs. Rudd!" he shouted from the verandah. Mother went out. +</P> + +<P> +"Wot's—wot's up with Dave?" +</P> + +<P> +Mother turned pale. +</P> + +<P> +"There's SOMETHING—!" +</P> + +<P> +"My God!" Mother exclaimed—"WHATEVER has happened?" +</P> + +<P> +Young Johnson hesitated. He was in doubt. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! What IS it?" Mother moaned. +</P> + +<P> +"Well" (he drew close to her) "he's—he's MAD!" +</P> + +<P> +"OH-H!" +</P> + +<P> +"He IS. I seen 'im just now up in your paddick, an' he's clean off +he's pannikin." +</P> + +<P> +Just then Dave came down the track whistling. Young Johnson saw him +and fled. +</P> + +<P> +For some time Mother regarded Dave with grave suspicion, then she +questioned him closely. +</P> + +<P> +"Yairs," he said, grinning hard, "I was goin' through th' FUST SET." +</P> + +<P> +It was when Kate was married to Sandy Taylor that we realised what a +blessing it is to be able to dance. How we looked forward to that +wedding! We were always talking about it, and were very pleased it +would be held in our own house, because all of us could go then. None +of us could work for thinking of it—even Dad seemed to forget his +troubles about the corn and Mick Brennan's threat to summon him for +half the fence. Mother said we would want plenty of water for the +people to drink, so Sandy yoked his horse to the slide, and he, Dad, +and Joe started for the springs. +</P> + +<P> +The slide was the fork of a tree, alias a wheel-less water-trolly. The +horse was hitched to the butt end, and a batten nailed across the +prongs kept the cask from slipping off going uphill. Sandy led the way +and carried the bucket; Dad went ahead to clear the track of stones; +and Joe straddled the cask to keep her steady. +</P> + +<P> +It always took three to work the slide. +</P> + +<P> +The water they brought was a little thick—old Anderson had been down +and stirred it up pulling a bullock out; but Dad put plenty ashes in +the cask to clear it. +</P> + +<P> +Each of us had his own work to do. Sandy knocked the partition down +and decorated the place with boughs; Mother and the girls cooked and +covered the walls with newspapers, and Dad gathered cow-dung and did +the floor. +</P> + +<P> +Two days before the wedding. All of us were still working hard. Dad +was up to his armpits in a bucket of mixture, with a stack of cow-dung +on one side, and a heap of sand and the shovel on the other. Dave and +Joe were burning a cow that had died just in front of the house, and +Sandy had gone to town for his tweed trousers. +</P> + +<P> +A man in a long, black coat, white collar, and new leggings rode up, +spoke to Dad, and got off. Dad straightened up and looked awkward, +with his arms hanging wide and the mixture dripping from them. Mother +came out. The cove shook hands with her, but he did n't with Dad. They +went inside—not Dad, who washed himself first. +</P> + +<P> +Dave sent Joe to ask Dad who the cove was. Dad spoke in a whisper and +said he was Mr. Macpherson, the clergyman who was to marry Kate and +Sandy. Dave whistled and piled more wood on the dead cow. Mother came +out and called Dave and Joe. Dave would n't go, but sent Joe. +</P> + +<P> +Dave threw another log on the cow, then thought he would see what was +going on inside. +</P> + +<P> +He stood at the window and looked in. He could n't believe his eyes at +first, and put his head right in. There were Dad, Joe, and the lot of +them down on their marrow-bones saying something after the parson. +Dave was glad that he did n't go in. +</P> + +<P> +How the parson prayed! Just when he said "Lead us not into temptation" +the big kangaroo-dog slipped in and grabbed all the fresh meat on the +table; but Dave managed to kick him in the ribs at the door. Dad +groaned and seemed very restless. +</P> + +<P> +When the parson had gone Dad said that what he had read about "reaping +the same as you sow" was all rot, and spoke about the time when we +sowed two bushels of barley in the lower paddock and got a big stack of +rye from it. +</P> + +<P> +The wedding was on a Wednesday, and at three o'clock in the afternoon. +Most of the people came before dinner; the Hamiltons arrived just after +breakfast. Talk of drays!—the little paddock could n't hold them. +</P> + +<P> +Jim Mullins was the only one who came in to dinner; the others mostly +sat on their heels in a row and waited in the shade of the wire-fence. +The parson was the last to come, and as he passed in he knocked his +head against the kangaroo-leg hanging under the verandah. Dad saw it +swinging, and said angrily to Joe: "Did n't I tell you to take that +down this morning?" +</P> + +<P> +Joe unhooked it and said: "But if I hang it anywhere else the dog'll +get it." +</P> + +<P> +Dad tried to laugh at Joe, and said, loudly, "And what else is it for?" +Then he bustled Joe off before he could answer him again. +</P> + +<P> +Joe did n't understand. +</P> + +<P> +Then Dad said (putting the leg in a bag): "Do you want everyone to +know we eat it, —— you?" +</P> + +<P> +Joe understood. +</P> + +<P> +The ceremony commenced. Those who could squeeze inside did so—the +others looked in at the window and through the cracks in the chimney. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. M'Doolan led Kate out of the back-room; then Sandy rose from the +fire-place and stood beside her. Everyone thought Kate looked very +nice——and orange blossoms! You'd think she was an orange-tree with a +new bed-curtain thrown over it. Sandy looked well, too, in his +snake-belt and new tweeds; but he seemed uncomfortable when the pin +that Dave put in the back of his collar came out. +</P> + +<P> +The parson did n't take long; and how they scrambled and tumbled over +each other at the finish! Charley Mace said that he got the first +kiss; Big George said HE did; and Mrs. M'Doolan was certain she would +have got it only for the baby. +</P> + +<P> +Fun! there WAS fun! The room was cleared and they promenaded for a +dance—Sandy and Kate in the lead. They continued promenading until +one of the well-sinkers called for the concertina—ours had been +repaired till you could get only three notes out of it; but Jim Burke +jumped on his horse and went home for his accordion. +</P> + +<P> +Dance! they did dance!—until sun-rise. But unless you were dancing +you could n't stay inside, because the floor broke up, and talk about +dust!—before morning the room was like a drafting-yard. +</P> + +<P> +It was a great wedding; and though years have since passed, all the +neighbours say still it was the best they were ever at. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap13"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XIII. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Summer Old Bob Died. +</H3> + +<P> +It was a real scorcher. A soft, sweltering summer's day. The air +quivered; the heat drove the fowls under the dray and sent the old dog +to sleep upon the floor inside the house. The iron on the skillion +cracked and sweated—so did Dad and Dave down the paddock, +grubbing—grubbing, in 130 degrees of sunshine. They were clearing a +piece of new land—a heavily-timbered box-tree flat. They had been at +it a fortnight, and if any music was in the ring of the axe or the +rattle of the pick when commencing, there was none now. +</P> + +<P> +Dad wished to be cheerful and complacent. He said (putting the pick +down and dragging his flannel off to wring it): "It's a good thing to +sweat well." Dave did n't say anything. I don't know what he thought, +but he looked up at Dad—just looked up at him—while the perspiration +filled his eyes and ran down over his nose like rain off a shingle; +then he hitched up his pants and "wired in" again. +</P> + +<P> +Dave was a philosopher. He worked away until the axe flew off the +handle with a ring and a bound, and might have been lost in the long +grass for ever only Dad stopped it with his shin. I fancy he did n't +mean to stop it when I think how he jumped—it was the only piece of +excitement there had been the whole of that relentlessly solemn +fortnight. Dad got vexed—he was in a hurry with the grubbing—and +said he never could get anything done without something going wrong. +Dave was n't sorry the axe came off—he knew it meant half-an-hour in +the shade fixing it on again. "Anyway," Dad went on, "we'll go to +dinner now." +</P> + +<P> +On the way to the house he several times looked at the sky—that +cloudless, burning sky—and said—to no one in particular, "I wish to +God it would rain!" It sounded like an aggravated prayer. Dave did +n't speak, and I don't think Dad expected he would. +</P> + +<P> +Joe was the last to sit down to dinner, and he came in steaming hot. +He had chased out of sight a cow that had poked into the cultivation. +Joe mostly went about with green bushes in his hat, to keep his head +cool, and a few gum-leaves were now sticking in his moist and matted +hair. +</P> + +<P> +"I put her out, Dad!" he said, casting an eager glare at everything on +the table. "She tried to jump and got stuck on the fence, and broke it +all down. On'y I could n't get anything, I'd er broke 'er head—there +was n't a thing, on'y dead cornstalks and cow-dung about." Then he +lunged his fork desperately at a blowfly that persistently hovered +about his plate, and commenced. +</P> + +<P> +Joe had a healthy appetite. He had charged his mouth with a load of +cold meat, when his jaws ceased work, and, opening his mouth as though +he were sleepy, he leaned forward and calmly returned it all to the +plate. Dad got suspicious and asked Joe what was up; but Joe only +wiped his mouth, looked sideways at his plate, and pushed it away. +</P> + +<P> +All of us stopped eating then, and stared at each other. Mother said, +"Well, I—I wrapped a cloth round it so nothing could get in, and put +it in the safe—I don't know where on earth to put the meat, I'm sure; +if I put it in a bag and hang it up that thief of a dog gets it." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," Dad observed, "I believe he'd stick his nose into hell itself, +Ellen, if he thought there was a bone there—and there ought to be lots +by this time." Then he turned over the remains of that cold meat, and, +considering we had all witnessed the last kick of the slaughtered +beast, it was surprising what animation this part of him yet retained. +In vain did Dad explore for a really dead piece—there was life in all +of it. +</P> + +<P> +Joe was n't satisfied. He said he knew where there was a lot of eggs, +and disappeared down the yard. Eggs were not plentiful on our +selection, because we too often had to eat the hens when there was no +meat—three or four were as many as we ever saw at one time. So on +this day, when Joe appeared with a hatful, there was excitement. He +felt himself a hero. We thought him a little saviour. +</P> + +<P> +"My!" said Mother, "where did you get all those?" +</P> + +<P> +"Get 'em! I've had these planted for three munce—they're a nest I +found long ago; I thought I would n't say anythink till we really +wanted 'em." +</P> + +<P> +Just then one of the eggs fell out of the hat and went off "pop" on the +floor. +</P> + +<P> +Dave nearly upset the table, he rose so suddenly; and covering his nose +with one hand he made for the door; then he scowled back over his +shoulder at Joe. He utterly scorned his brother Joe. All of us +deserted the table except Dad—he stuck to his place manfully; it took +a lot to shift HIM. +</P> + +<P> +Joe must have had a fine nerve. "That's on'y one bad 'n'," he said, +taking the rest to the fireplace where the kettle stood. Then Dad, who +had remained calm and majestic, broke out. "Damn y', boy!" he yelled, +"take th' awful things outside—YOU tinker!" Joe took them out and +tried them all, but I forget if he found a good one. +</P> + +<P> +Dad peered into the almost-empty water-cask and again muttered a short +prayer for rain. He decided to do no more grubbing that day, but to +run wire around the new land instead. The posts had been in the ground +some time, and were bored. Dave and Sarah bored them. Sarah was as +good as any man—so Dad reckoned. She could turn her hand to anything, +from sewing a shirt to sinking a post-hole. She could give Dave inches +in arm measurements, and talk about a leg! She HAD a leg—a beauty! +It was as thick at the ankle as Dad's was at the thigh, nearly. +</P> + +<P> +Anyone who would know what real amusement is should try wiring posts. +What was to have been the top wire (the No. 8 stuff) Dad commenced to +put in the bottom holes, and we ran it through some twelve or fifteen +posts before he saw the mistake—then we dragged it out slowly and +savagely; Dad swearing adequately all the time. +</P> + +<P> +At last everything went splendidly. We dragged the wire through panel +after panel, and at intervals Dad would examine the blistering sky for +signs of rain. Once when he looked up a red bullock was reaching for +his waistcoat, which hung on a branch of a low tree. Dad sang out. +The bullock poked out his tongue and reached higher. Then Dad told Joe +to run. Joe ran—so did the bullock, but faster, and with the +waistcoat that once was a part of Mother's shawl half-way down his +throat. Had the shreds and ribbons that dangled to it been a little +longer, he might have trodden on them and pulled it back, but he did +n't. Joe deemed it his duty to follow that red bullock till it dropped +the waistcoat, so he hammered along full split behind. Dad and Dave +stood watching until pursued and pursuer vanished down the gully; then +Dad said something about Joe being a fool, and they pulled at the wire +again. They were nearing a corner post, and Dad was hauling the wire +through the last panel, when there came the devil's own noise of +galloping hoofs. Fifty or more cattle came careering along straight +for the fence, bellowing and kicking up their heels in the air, as +cattle do sometimes after a shower of rain. Joe was behind +them—considerably—still at full speed and yelping like a dog. Joe +loved excitement. +</P> + +<P> +For weeks those cattle had been accustomed to go in and out between the +posts; and they did n't seem to have any thoughts of wire as they +bounded along. Dave stood with gaping mouth. Dad groaned, and the +wire's-end he was holding in his hand flew up with a whiz and took a +scrap of his ear away. The cattle got mixed up in the wires. Some +toppled over; some were caught by the legs; some by the horns. They +dragged the wire twenty and thirty yards away, twisted it round logs, +and left a lot of the posts pointing to sunset. +</P> + +<P> +Oh, Dad's language then! He swung his arms about and foamed at the +mouth. Dave edged away from him. +</P> + +<P> +Joe came up waving triumphantly a chewed piece of the waistcoat. +"D-d-did it g-give them a buster, Dad?" he said, the sweat running over +his face as though a spring had broken out on top of his head. Dad +jumped a log and tried to unbuckle his strap and reach for Joe at the +same time, but Joe fled. +</P> + +<P> +That threw a painful pall over everything. Dad declared he was sick +and tired of the whole thing, and would n't do another hand's-turn. +Dave meditated and walked along the fence, plucking off scraps of skin +and hair that here and there clung to the bent and battered wire. +</P> + +<P> +We had just finished supper when old Bob Wren, a bachelor who farmed +about two miles from us, arrived. He used to come over every +mail-night and bring his newspaper with him. Bob could n't read a +word, so he always got Dad to spell over the paper to him. WE did n't +take a newspaper. +</P> + +<P> +Bob said there were clouds gathering behind Flat Top when he came in, +and Dad went out and looked, and for the fiftieth time that day prayed +in his own way for rain. Then he took the paper, and we gathered at +the table to listen. "Hello," he commenced, "this is M'Doolan's paper +you've got, Bob." +</P> + +<P> +Bob rather thought it was n't. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes, man, it IS," Dad put in; "see, it's addressed to him." +</P> + +<P> +Bob leaned over and LOOKED at the address, and said: "No, no, that's +mine; it always comes like that." Dad laughed. We all laughed. He +opened it, anyway. He had n't read for five minutes when the light +flickered nearly out. Sarah reckoned the oil was about done, and +poured water in the lamp to raise the kerosene to the wick, but that +did n't last long, and, as there was no fat in the house, Dad squatted +on the floor and read by the firelight. +</P> + +<P> +He plodded through the paper tediously from end to end, reading the +murders and robberies a second time. The clouds that old Bob said were +gathering when he came in were now developing to a storm, for the wind +began to rise, and the giant iron-bark tree that grew close behind the +house swayed and creaked weirdly, and threw out those strange sobs and +moans that on wild nights bring terror to the hearts of bush children. +A glimmer of lightning appeared through the cracks in the slabs. Old +Bob said he would go before it came on, and started into the inky +darkness. +</P> + +<P> +"It's coming!" Dad said, as he shut the door and put the peg in after +seeing old Bob out. And it came—in no time. A fierce wind struck the +house. Then a vivid flash of lightning lit up every crack and hole, +and a clap of thunder followed that nearly shook the place down. +</P> + +<P> +Dad ran to the back door and put his shoulder against it; Dave stood to +the front one; and Sarah sat on the sofa with her arms around Mother, +telling her not to be afraid. The wind blew furiously—its one aim +seemed the shifting of the house. Gust after gust struck the walls and +left them quivering. The children screamed. Dad called and shouted, +but no one could catch a word he said. Then there was one tremendous +crack—we understood it—the iron-bark tree had gone over. At last, +the shingled roof commenced to give. Several times the ends rose (and +our hair too) and fell back into place again with a clap. Then it went +clean away in one piece, with a rip like splitting a ribbon, and there +we stood, affrighted and shelterless, inside the walls. Then the wind +went down and it rained—rained on us all night. +</P> + +<P> +Next morning Joe had been to the new fence for the axe for Dad, and was +off again as fast as he could run, when he remembered something and +called out, "Dad, old B-B-Bob's just over there, lyin' down in the +gully." +</P> + +<P> +Dad started up. "It's 'im all right—I w-w-would n'ter noticed, only +Prince s-s-smelt him." +</P> + +<P> +"Quick and show me where!" Dad said. +</P> + +<P> +Joe showed him. +</P> + +<P> +"My God!" and Dad stood and stared. Old Bob it was—dead. Dead as +Moses. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor old Bob!" Dad said. "Poor-old-fellow!" Joe asked what could +have killed him? "Poor-old-Bob!" +</P> + +<P> +Dave brought the dray, and we took him to the house—or what remained +of it. +</P> + +<P> +Dad could n't make out the cause of death—perhaps it was lightning. +He held a POST-MORTEM, and, after thinking hard for a long while, told +Mother he was certain, anyway, that old Bob would never get up again. +It was a change to have a dead man about the place, and we were very +pleased to be first to tell anyone who did n't know the news about old +Bob. +</P> + +<P> +We planted him on his own selection beneath a gum-tree, where for years +and years a family of jackasses nightly roosted, Dad remarking: "As +there MIGHT be a chance of his hearin', it'll be company for the poor +old cove." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap14"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XIV. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +When Dan Came Home. +</H3> + +<P> +One night after the threshing. Dad lying on the sofa, thinking; the +rest of us sitting at the table. Dad spoke to Joe. +</P> + +<P> +"How much," he said, "is seven hundred bushels of wheat at six +shillings?" +</P> + +<P> +Joe, who was looked upon as the brainy one of our family, took down his +slate with a hint of scholarly ostentation. +</P> + +<P> +"What did y' say, Dad—seven 'undred BAGS?" +</P> + +<P> +"Bushels! BUSHELS!" +</P> + +<P> +"Seven 'un-dered bush-els-of wheat—WHEAT was it, Dad?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, WHEAT!" +</P> + +<P> +"Wheat at...At WHAT, Dad?" +</P> + +<P> +"Six shillings a bushel." +</P> + +<P> +"Six shil-lings-a.... A, Dad? We've not done any at A; she's on'y +showed us PER!" +</P> + +<P> +"PER bushel, then!" +</P> + +<P> +"Per bush-el. That's seven 'undered bushels of wheat at six shillin's +per bushel. An' y' wants ter know, Dad—?" +</P> + +<P> +"How much it'll be, of course." +</P> + +<P> +"In money, Dad, or—er——?" +</P> + +<P> +"Dammit, yes; MONEY!" Dad raised his voice. +</P> + +<P> +For a while, Joe thought hard, then set to work figuring and rubbing +out, figuring and rubbing out. The rest of us eyed him, envious of his +learning. +</P> + +<P> +Joe finished the sum. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" from Dad. +</P> + +<P> +Joe cleared his throat. We listened. +</P> + +<P> +"Nine thousan' poun'." +</P> + +<P> +Dave laughed loud. Dad said, "Pshaw!" and turned his face to the wall. +Joe looked at the slate again. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! I see," he said, "I did n't divide by twelve t' bring t' pounds," +and laughed himself. +</P> + +<P> +More figuring and rubbing out. +</P> + +<P> +Finally Joe, in loud, decisive tones, announced, "FOUR thousand, NO +'undered an' twenty poun', fourteen shillin's an'—" +</P> + +<P> +"Bah! YOU blockhead!" Dad blurted out, and jumped off the sofa and +went to bed. +</P> + +<P> +We all turned in. +</P> + +<P> +We were not in bed long when the dog barked and a horse entered the +yard. There was a clink of girth-buckles; a saddle thrown down; then a +thump, as though with a lump of blue-metal, set the dog yelping +lustily. We lay listening till a voice called out at the door—"All in +bed?" Then we knew it was Dan, and Dad and Dave sprang out in their +shirts to let him in. All of us jumped up to see Dan. This time he had +been away a long while, and when the slush-lamp was lit and fairly +going, how we stared and wondered at his altered looks! He had grown a +long whisker, and must have stood inches higher than Dad. +</P> + +<P> +Dad was delighted. He put a fire on, made tea, and he and Dan talked +till near daybreak—Dad of the harvest, and the Government dam that was +promised, and the splendid grass growing in the paddock; Dan of the +great dry plains, and the shearing-sheds out back, and the chaps he had +met there. And he related in a way that made Dad's eyes glisten and +Joe's mouth open, how, with a knocked-up wrist, he shore beside Proctor +and big Andy Purcell, at Welltown, and rung the shed by half a sheep. +</P> + +<P> +Dad ardently admired Dan. +</P> + +<P> +Dan was only going to stay a short while at home, he said, then was off +West again. Dad tried to persuade him to change his mind; he would +have him remain and help to work the selection. But Dan only shook his +head and laughed. +</P> + +<P> +Dan accompanied Dad to the plough every morning, and walked cheerfully +up and down the furrows all day, talking to him. Sometimes he took a +turn at the plough, and Dad did the talking. Dad just loved Dan's +company. +</P> + +<P> +A few days went by. Dan still accompanied Dad to the plough; but did +n't walk up and down with him. He selected a shade close by, and +talked to Dad from there as he passed on his rounds. Sometimes Dan +used to forget to talk at all—he would be asleep—and Dad would wonder +if he was unwell. Once he advised him to go up to the house and have a +good camp. Dan went. He stretched himself on the sofa, and smoked and +spat on the floor and played the concertina—an old one he won in a +raffle. +</P> + +<P> +Dan did n't go near the plough any more. He stayed inside every day, +and drank the yeast, and provided music for the women. Sometimes he +would leave the sofa, and go to the back-door and look out, and watch +Dad tearing up and down the paddock after the plough; then he'd yawn, +and wonder aloud what the diggins it was the old man saw in a game like +that on a hot day; and return to the sofa, tired. But every evening +when Dad knocked off and brought the horses to the barn Dan went out +and watched him unharnessing them. +</P> + +<P> +A month passed. Dad was n't so fond of Dan now, and Dan never talked +of going away. One day Anderson's cows wandered into our yard and +surrounded the hay-stack. Dad saw them from the paddock and cooeed, +and shouted for those at the house to drive them away. They did n't +hear him. Dad left the plough and ran up and pelted Anderson's cows +with stones and glass-bottles, and pursued them with a pitch-fork till, +in a mad rush to get out, half the brutes fell over the fence and made +havoc with the wire. Dad spent an hour mending it; then went to the +verandah and savagely asked Mother if she had lost her ears. Mother +said she had n't. "Then why the devil could n't y' hear me singin' +out?" Mother thought it must have been because Dan was playing the +concertina. "Oh, DAMN his concertina!" Dad squealed, and kicked Joe's +little kitten, that was rubbing itself fondly against his leg, clean +through the house. +</P> + +<P> +Dan found the selection pretty slow—so he told Mother—and thought he +would knock about a bit. He went to the store and bought a supply of +ammunition, which he booked to Dad, and started shooting. He stood at +the door and put twenty bullets into the barn; then he shot two bears +near the stock-yard with twenty more bullets, and dragged both bears +down to the house and left them at the back-door. They stayed at the +back-door until they went very bad; then Dad hooked himself to them and +dragged them down the gully. +</P> + +<P> +Somehow, Dad began to hate Dan! He scarcely ever spoke to him now, and +at meal-times never spoke to any of us. Dad was a hard man to +understand. We could n't understand him. "And with DAN at home, too!" +Sal used to whine. Sal verily idolised Dan. Hero-worship was strong +in Sal. +</P> + +<P> +One night Dad came in for supper rather later than usual. He'd had a +hard day, and was done up. To make matters worse, when he was taking +the collar off Captain the brute tramped heavily on his toe, and took +the nail off. Supper was n't ready. The dining-room was engaged. Dan +was showing Sal how the Prince of Wales schottische was danced in the +huts Out Back. For music, Sal was humming, and the two were flying +about the room. Dad stood at the door and looked on, with blood in his +eye. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here!" he thundered suddenly, interrupting Dan—"I've had enough +of you!" The couple stopped, astonished, and Sal cried, "DAD!" But +Dad was hot. "Out of this!" (placing his hand on Dan, and shoving +him). "You've loafed long enough on me! Off y' go t' th' devil!" +</P> + +<P> +Dan went over to Anderson's and Anderson took him in and kept him a +week. Then Dan took Anderson down at a new game of cards, and went away +West again. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap15"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XV. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Our Circus. +</H3> + +<P> +Dave had been to town and came home full of circus. He sat on the +ground beside the tubs while Mother and Sal were washing, and raved +about the riding and the tumbling he had seen. He talked +enthusiastically to Joe about it every day for three weeks. Dave rose +very high in Joe's estimation. +</P> + +<P> +Raining. All of us inside. Sal on the sofa playing the concertina; +Dad squatting on the edge of a flat stone at the corner of the +fireplace; Dave on another opposite; both gazing into the fire, which +was almost out, and listening intently to the music; the dog, dripping +wet, coiled at their feet, shivering; Mother sitting dreamily at the +table, her palm pressed against her cheek, also enjoying the music. +</P> + +<P> +Sal played on until the concertina broke. Then there was a silence. +</P> + +<P> +For a while Dave played with a piece of charcoal. At last he spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," he said, looking at Dad, "what about this circus?" +</P> + +<P> +Dad chuckled. +</P> + +<P> +"But what d' y' THINK?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well" (Dad paused), "yes" (chuckled again)—"very well." +</P> + +<P> +"A CIRCUS!" Sal put in—"a PRETTY circus YOUS'D have!" +</P> + +<P> +Dave fired up. +</P> + +<P> +"YOU go and ride the red heifer, strad-legs, same as y' did yesterday," +he snarled, "an' let all the country see y'." +</P> + +<P> +Sal blushed. +</P> + +<P> +Then to Dad: +</P> + +<P> +"I'm certain, with Paddy Maloney in it, we could do it right enough, +and make it pay, too." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well, then," said Dad, "very well. There's th' tarpaulin there, +and plenty bales and old bags whenever you're ready." +</P> + +<P> +Dave was delighted, and he and Dad and Joe ran out to see where the +tent could be pitched, and ran in again wetter than the dog. +</P> + +<P> +One day a circus-tent went up in our yard. It attracted a lot of +notice. Two of the Johnsons and old Anderson and others rode in on +draught-horses and inspected it. And Smith's spring-cart horse, that +used to be driven by every day, stopped in the middle of the lane and +stared at it; and, when Smith stood up and belted him with the double +of the reins, he bolted and upset the cart over a stump. It was n't a +very white tent. It was made of bags and green bushes, and Dad and +Dave and Paddy Maloney were two days putting it up. +</P> + +<P> +We all assisted in the preparations for the circus. Dad built seats +out of forked sticks and slabs, and Joe gathered jam-tins which Mother +filled with fat and moleskin wicks to light up with. +</P> + +<P> +Everyone in the district knew about our circus, and longed for the +opening night. It came. A large fire near the slip-rails, shining +across the lane and lighting up a corner of the wheat-paddock, showed +the way in. +</P> + +<P> +Dad stood at the door to take the money. The Andersons—eleven of +them—arrived first. They did n't walk straight in. They hung about +for a while. Then Anderson sidled up to Dad and talked into his ear. +"Oh! that's all right," Dad said, and passed them all in without taking +any money. +</P> + +<P> +Next came the Maloneys, and, as Paddy belonged to the circus, they also +walked in without paying, and secured front seats. +</P> + +<P> +Then Jim Brown and Sam Holmes, and Walter Nutt, and Steve Burton, and +eight others strolled along. Dad owed all of them money for binding, +which they happened to remember. "In yous go," Dad said, and in the +lot went. The tent filled quickly, and the crowd awaited the opening +act. +</P> + +<P> +Paddy Maloney came forward with his hair oiled and combed, and rang the +cow-bell. +</P> + +<P> +Dave, bare-footed and bare-headed, in snow-white moles and red shirt, +entered standing majestically upon old Ned's back. He got a great +reception. But Ned was tired and refused to canter. He jogged lazily +round the ring. Dave shouted at him and rocked about. He was very +unsteady. Paddy Maloney flogged Ned with the leg-rope. But Ned had +been flogged often before. He got slower and slower. Suddenly, he +stood and cocked his tail, and to prevent himself falling, Dave jumped +off. Then the audience yelled while Dave dragged Ned into the +dressing-room and punched him on the nose. +</P> + +<P> +Paddy Maloney made a speech. He said: "Well, the next item on the +programme'll knock y' bandy. Keep quiet, you fellows, now, an' y'll +see somethin'." +</P> + +<P> +They saw Joe. He stepped backwards into the ring, pulling at a string. +There was something on the string. "Come on!" Joe said, tugging. The +"something" would n't come. "Chuck 'im in!" Joe called out. Then the +pet kangaroo was heaved in through the doorway, and fell on its head +and raised the dust. A great many ugly dogs rushed for it savagely. +The kangaroo jumped up and bounded round the ring. The dogs pursued +him noisily. "GERROUT!" Joe shouted, and the crowd stood up and became +very enthusiastic. The dogs caught the kangaroo, and were dragging him +to earth when Dad rushed in and kicked them in twos to the top of the +tent. Then, while Johnson expostulated with Dad for laming his brindle +slut, the kangaroo dived through a hole in the tent and rushed into the +house and into the bedroom, and sprang on the bed among a lot of babies +and women's hats. +</P> + +<P> +When the commotion subsided Paddy Maloney rang the cow-bell again, and +Dave and "Podgy," the pet sheep, rode out on Nugget. Podgy sat with +hind-legs astride the horse and his head leaning back against Dave's +chest. Dave (standing up) bent over him with a pair of shears in his +hand. He was to shear Podgy as the horse cantered round. +</P> + +<P> +Paddy Maloney touched Nugget with the whip, and off he +went—"rump-ti-dee, dump-ti-dee." Dave rolled about a lot the first +time round, but soon got his equilibrium. He brandished the shears and +plunged the points of them into Podgy's belly-wool—also into Podgy's +skin. "Bur-UR-R!" Podgy blurted and struggled violently. Dave began +to topple about. He dropped the shears. The audience guffawed. Then +Dave jumped; but Podgy's horns got caught in his clothes and made +trouble. Dave hung on one side of the horse and the sheep dangled on +the other. Dave sang out, so did Podgy. And the horse stopped and +snorted, then swung furiously round and round until five or six pairs +of hands seized his head and held him. +</P> + +<P> +Dave did n't repeat the act. He ran away holding his clothes together. +</P> + +<P> +It was a very successful circus. Everyone enjoyed it and wished to see +it again—everyone but the Maloneys. They said it was a swindle, and +ran Dad down because he did n't divide with Paddy the 3s. 6d. he took +at the door. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap16"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XVI. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +When Joe Was In Charge. +</H3> + +<P> +Joe was a naturalist. He spent a lot of time—time that Dad considered +should have been employed cutting burr or digging potatoes—in +ear-marking bears and bandicoots, and catching goannas and letting them +go without their tails, or coupled in pairs with pieces of greenhide. +The paddock was full of goannas in harness and slit-eared bears. THEY +belonged to Joe. +</P> + +<P> +Joe also took an interest in snakes, and used to poke amongst logs and +brush-fences in search of rare specimens. Whenever he secured a good +one he put it in a cage and left it there until it died or got out, or +Dad threw it, cage and all, right out of the parish. +</P> + +<P> +One day, while Mother and Sal were out with Dad, Joe came home with a +four-foot black snake in his hand. It was a beauty. So sleek and +lithe and lively! He carried it by the tail, its head swinging close +to his bare leg, and the thing yearning for a grab at him. But Joe +understood the ways of a reptile. +</P> + +<P> +There was no cage—Dad had burnt the last one—so Joe walked round the +room wondering where to put his prize. The cat came out of the bedroom +and mewed and followed him for the snake. He told her to go away. She +did n't go. She reached for the snake with her paw. It bit her. She +spat and sprang in the air and rushed outside with her back up. Joe +giggled and wondered how long the cat would live. +</P> + +<P> +The Rev. Macpherson, on his way to christen M'Kenzie's baby, called in +for a drink, and smilingly asked after Joe's health. +</P> + +<P> +"Hold this kuk-kuk-cove, then," Joe said, handing the parson the +reptile, which was wriggling and biting at space, "an' I'll gug-gug-get +y' one." But when Mr. Macpherson saw the thing was alive he jumped back +and fell over the dog which was lying behind him in the shade. Bluey +grabbed him by the leg, and the parson jumped up in haste and made for +his horse—followed by Bluey. Joe cried, "KUM 'ere!"—then turned +inside. +</P> + +<P> +Mother and Sal entered. They had come to make Dad and themselves a cup +of tea. They quarrelled with Joe, and he went out and started playing +with the snake. He let it go, and went to catch it by the tail again, +but the snake caught HIM—by the finger. +</P> + +<P> +"He's bit me!" Joe cried, turning pale. Mother screeched, and Sal +bolted off for Dad, while the snake glided silently up the yard. +</P> + +<P> +Anderson, passing on his old bay mare, heard the noise, and came in. +He examined Joe's finger, bled the wound, and was bandaging the arm +when Dad rushed in. +</P> + +<P> +"Where is he?" he said. "Oh, you d—d whelp! You wretch of a boy! MY +God!" +</P> + +<P> +"'Twasn' MY fault." And Joe began to blubber. +</P> + +<P> +But Anderson protested. There was no time, he said, to be lost +barneying; and he told Dad to take his old mare Jean and go at once for +Sweeney. Sweeney was the publican at Kangaroo Creek, with a reputation +for curing snake-bite. Dad ran out, mounted Jean and turned her head +for Sweeney's. But, at the slip-rails, Jean stuck him up, and would n't +go further. Dad hit her between the ears with his fist, and got down +and ran back. +</P> + +<P> +"The boy'll be dead, Anderson," he cried, rushing inside again. +</P> + +<P> +"Come on then," Anderson said, "we'll take off his finger." +</P> + +<P> +Joe was looking drowsy. But, when Anderson took hold of him and placed +the wounded finger on a block, and Dad faced him with the hammer and a +blunt, rusty old chisel, he livened up. +</P> + +<P> +"No, Dad, NO!" he squealed, straining and kicking like an old man +kangaroo. Anderson stuck to him, though, and with Sal's assistance held +his finger on the block till Dad carefully rested the chisel on it and +brought the hammer down. It did n't sever the finger—it only scraped +the nail off—but it did make Joe buck. He struggled desperately and +got away. +</P> + +<P> +Anderson could n't run at all; Dad was little faster; Sal could run +like a greyhound in her bare feet, but, before she could pull her boots +off, Joe had disappeared in the corn. +</P> + +<P> +"Quick!" Dad shouted, and the trio followed the patient. They hunted +through the corn from end to end, but found no trace of him. Night +came. The search continued. They called, and called, but nothing +answered save the ghostly echoes, the rustling of leaves, the slow, +sonorous notes of a distant bear, or the neighing of a horse in the +grass-paddock. +</P> + +<P> +At midnight they gave up, and went home, and sat inside and listened, +and looked distracted. +</P> + +<P> +While they sat, "Whisky," a blackfellow from Billson's station, dropped +in. He was taking a horse down to town for his boss, and asked Dad if +he could stay till morning. Dad said he could. He slept in Dave's +bed; Dave slept on the sofa. +</P> + +<P> +"If Joe ain't dead, and wuz t' come in before mornin'," Dave said, +"there won't be room for us all." +</P> + +<P> +And before morning Joe DID come in. He entered stealthily by the +back-door, and crawled quietly into bed. +</P> + +<P> +At daybreak Joe awoke, and nudged his bed-mate and said: +</P> + +<P> +"Dave, the cocks has crowed!" No answer. He nudged him again. +</P> + +<P> +"Dave, the hens is all off the roost!" Still no reply. +</P> + +<P> +Daylight streamed in through the cracks. Joe sat up—he was at the +back—and stared about. He glanced at the face of his bed-mate and +chuckled and said: +</P> + +<P> +"Who's been blackenin' y', Dave?" +</P> + +<P> +He sat grinning awhile, then stood up, and started pulling on his +trousers, which he drew from under his pillow. He had put one leg into +them when his eyes rested on a pair of black feet uncovered at the foot +of the bed. He stared at them and the black face again—then plunged +for the door and fell. Whisky was awake and grinned over the side of +the bed at him. +</P> + +<P> +"Wot makit you so fritent like that?" he said, grinning more. +</P> + +<P> +Joe ran into Mother's room and dived in behind her and Dad. Dad swore, +and kicked Joe and jammed him against the slabs with his heels, saying: +</P> + +<P> +"My GAWD! You DEVIL of a feller, how (KICK) dare you (KICK) run (KICK) +run (KICK, KICK, KICK) away yesterday, eh?" (KICK). +</P> + +<P> +But he was very glad to see Joe all the same; we all felt that Shingle +Hut would not have been the same place at all without Joe. +</P> + +<P> +It was when Dad and Dave were away after kangaroo-scalps that Joe was +most appreciated. Mother and Sal felt it such a comfort to have a man +in the house—even if it was only Joe. +</P> + +<P> +Joe was proud of his male prerogatives. He looked after the selection, +minded the corn, kept Anderson's and Dwyer's and Brown's and old Mother +Murphy's cows out of it, and chased goannas away from the front door +the same as Dad used to do—for Joe felt that he was in Dad's place, +and postponed his customary familiarities with the goannas. +</P> + +<P> +It was while Joe was in charge that Casey came to our place. A +starved-looking, toothless little old man with a restless eye, +talkative, ragged and grey; he walked with a bend in his back (not a +hump), and carried his chin in the air. We never saw a man like him +before. He spoke rapidly, too, and watched us all as he talked. Not +exactly a "traveller;" he carried no swag or billycan, and wore a pair +of boots much too large. He seemed to have been "well brought up"—he +took off his hat at the door and bowed low to Mother and Sal, who were +sitting inside, sewing. They gave a start and stared. The dog, lying +at Mother's feet, rose and growled. Bluey was n't used to the ways of +people well brought up. +</P> + +<P> +The world had dealt harshly with Casey, and his story went to Mother's +heart. "God buless y'," he said when she told him he could have some +dinner; "but I'll cut y' wood for it; oh, I'll cut y' wood!" And he +went to the wood-heap and started work. A big heap and a blunt axe; +but it did n't matter to Casey. He worked hard, and did n't stare +about, and did n't reduce the heap much, either; and when Sal called +him to dinner he could n't hear—he was too busy. Joe had to go and +bring him away. +</P> + +<P> +Casey sat at the table and looked up at the holes in the roof, through +which the sun was shining. +</P> + +<P> +"Ought t' be a cool house," he remarked. +</P> + +<P> +Mother said it was. +</P> + +<P> +"Quite a bush house." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes," Mother said—"we're right in the bush here." +</P> + +<P> +He began to eat and, as he ate, talked cheerfully of selections and +crops and old times and bad times and wire fences and dead cattle. +Casey was a versatile ancient. When he was finished he shifted to the +sofa and asked Mother how many children she had. Mother considered and +said, "Twelve." He thought a dozen enough for anyone, and, said that +HIS mother, when he left home, had twenty-one—all girls but him. That +was forty years ago, and he did n't know how many she had since. +Mother and Sal smiled. They began to like old Casey. +</P> + +<P> +Casey took up his hat and went outside, and did n't say "Good-day" or +"Thanks" or anything. He did n't go away, either. He looked about the +yard. A panel in the fence was broken. It had been broken for five +years. Casey seemed to know it. He started mending that panel. He +was mending it all the evening. +</P> + +<P> +Mother called to Joe to bring in some wood. Casey left the fence, +hurried to the wood-heap, carried in an armful, and asked Mother if she +wanted more. Then he returned to the fence. +</P> + +<P> +"J-OE," Mother screeched a little later, "look at those cows tryin' to +eat the corn." +</P> + +<P> +Casey left the fence again and drove the cows away, and mended the wire +on his way back. +</P> + +<P> +At sundown Casey was cutting more wood, and when we were at supper he +brought it in and put some on the fire, and went out again slowly. +</P> + +<P> +Mother and Sal talked about him. +</P> + +<P> +"Better give him his supper," Sal said, and Mother sent Joe to invite +him in. He did n't come in at once. Casey was n't a forward man. He +stayed to throw some pumpkin to the pigs. +</P> + +<P> +Casey slept in the barn that night. He slept in it the next night, +too. He did n't believe in shifting from place to place, so he stayed +with us altogether. He took a lively interest in the selection. The +house, he said, was in the wrong place, and he showed Mother where it +ought to have been built. He suggested shifting it, and setting a +hedge and ornamental trees in front and fruit trees at the back, and +making a nice place of it. Little things like that pleased Mother. +"Anyway," she would sometimes say to Sal, "he's a useful old man, and +knows how to look after things about the place." Casey did. Whenever +any watermelons were ripe, he looked after THEM and hid the skins in +the ground. And if a goanna or a crow came and frightened a hen from +her nest Casey always got the egg, and when he had gobbled it up he +would chase that crow or goanna for its life and shout lustily. +</P> + +<P> +Every day saw Casey more at home at our place. He was a very kind man, +and most obliging. If a traveller called for a drink of water, Casey +would give him a cup of milk and ask him to wait and have dinner. If +Maloney, or old Anderson, or anybody, wished to borrow a horse, or a +dray, or anything about the place, Casey would let them have it with +pleasure, and tell them not to be in a hurry about returning it. +</P> + +<P> +Joe got on well with Casey. Casey's views on hard work were the same +as Joe's. Hard work, Joe thought, was n't necessary on a selection. +</P> + +<P> +Casey knew a thing or two—so he said. One fine morning, when all the +sky was blue and the butcher-birds whistling strong, Dwyer's cows +smashed down a lot of the fence and dragged it into the corn. Casey, +assisted by Joe, put them all in the yard, and hammered them with +sticks. Dwyer came along. +</P> + +<P> +"Those cattle belong to me," he said angrily. +</P> + +<P> +"They belongs t' ME," Casey answered, "until you pay damages." Then he +put his back to the slip-rails and looked up aggressively into Dwyer's +face. Dwyer was a giant beside Casey. Dwyer did n't say anything—he +was n't a man of words—but started throwing the rails down to let the +cows out. Casey flew at him. Dwyer quietly shoved him away with his +long, brown arm. Casey came again and fastened on to Dwyer. Joe +mounted the stockyard. Dwyer seized Casey with both hands; then there +was a struggle—on Casey's part. Dwyer lifted him up and carried him +away and set him down on his back, then hastened to the rails. But +before he could throw them down Casey was upon him again. Casey never +knew when he was beaten. Dwyer was getting annoyed. He took Casey by +the back of the neck and squeezed him. Casey humped his shoulders and +gasped. Dwyer stared about. A plough-rein hung on the yard. Dwyer +reached for it. Casey yelled, "Murder!" Dwyer fastened one end of the +rope round Casey's body—under the arms—and stared about again. And +again "Murder!" from Casey. Joe jumped off the yard to get further +away. A tree, with a high horizontal limb, stood near. Dad once used +it as a butcher's gallows. Dwyer gathered the loose rein into a coil +and heaved it over the limb, and hauled Casey up. Then he tied the end +of the rope to the yard and drove out the cows. +</P> + +<P> +"When y' want 'im down," Dwyer said to Joe as he walked away, "cut the +rope." +</P> + +<P> +Casey groaned, and one of his boots dropped off. Then he began to spin +round—to wind up and unwind and wind up again. Joe came near and eyed +the twirling form with joy. +</P> + +<P> +Mother and Sal arrived, breathless and excited. They screeched at Joe. +</P> + +<P> +"Undo th' r-r-rope," Joe said, "an' he'll come w-w—WOP." +</P> + +<P> +Sal ran away and procured a sheet, and Mother and she held it under +Casey, and told Joe to unfasten the rope and lower him as steadily as +he could. Joe unfastened the rope, but somehow it pinched his fingers +and he let go, and Casey fell through the sheet. For three weeks Casey +was an invalid at our place. He would have been invalided there for +the rest of his days only old Dad came home and induced him to leave. +Casey did n't want to go; but Dad had a persuasive way with him that +generally proved effectual. +</P> + +<P> +Singularly enough, Dad complained that kangaroos were getting scarce +where he was camped; while our paddocks were full of them. Joe started +a mob nearly every day, as he walked round overseeing things; and he +pondered. Suddenly he had an original inspiration—originality was +Joe's strong point. He turned the barn into a workshop, and buried +himself there for two days. For two whole days he was never "at +home,", except when he stepped out to throw the hammer at the dog for +yelping for a drink. The greedy brute! it was n't a week since he'd +had a billyful—Joe told him. On the morning of the third day the +barn-door swung open, and forth came a kangaroo, with the sharpened +carving knife in its paws. It hopped across the yard and sat up, bold +and erect, near the dog-kennel. Bluey nearly broke his neck trying to +get at it. The kangaroo said: "Lay down, you useless hound!" and +started across the cultivation!, heading for the grass-paddock in long, +erratic jumps. Half-way across the cultivation it spotted a mob of +other kangaroos, and took a firmer grip of the carver. +</P> + +<P> +Bluey howled and plunged until Mother came out to see what was the +matter. She was in time to see a solitary kangaroo hop in a drunken +manner towards the fence, so she let the dog go and cried, "Sool him, +Bluey! Sool him!" Bluey sooled him, and Mother followed with the axe +to get the scalp. As the dog came racing up, the kangaroo turned and +hissed, "G' home, y' mongrel!" Bluey took no notice, and only when he +had nailed the kangaroo dextrously by the thigh and got him down did it +dawn upon the marsupial that Bluey was n't in the secret. Joe tore off +his head-gear, called the dog affectionately by name, and yelled for +help; but Bluey had not had anything substantial to eat for over a +week, and he worried away vigorously. +</P> + +<P> +Then the kangaroo slashed out with the carving-knife, and hacked a junk +off Bluey's nose. Bluey shook his head, relaxed his thigh-grip, and +grabbed the kangaroo by the ribs. How that kangaroo did squeal! +Mother arrived. She dropped the axe, threw up both hands, and +shrieked. "Pull him off! he's eating me!" gasped the kangaroo. Mother +shrieked louder, and wrung her hands; but it had no effect on Bluey. +He was a good dog, was Bluey! +</P> + +<P> +At last, Mother got him by the tail and dragged him off, but he took a +mouthful of kangaroo with him as he went. +</P> + +<P> +Then the kangaroo raised itself slowly on to its hands and knees. It +was very white and sick-looking, and Mother threw her arms round it and +cried, "Oh, Joe! My child! my child!" +</P> + +<P> +It was several days before Joe felt better. When he did, Bluey and he +went down the gully together, and, after a while, Joe came back—like +Butler—alone. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap17"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XVII. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Dad's "Fortune." +</H3> + +<P> +Dad used to say that Shingle Hut was the finest selection on Darling +Downs; but WE never could see anything fine about it—except the +weather in drought time, or Dad's old saddle mare. SHE was very fine. +The house was built in a gully so that the bailiffs (I suppose) or the +blacks—who were mostly dead—could n't locate it. An old wire-fence, +slanting all directions, staggered past the front door. At the rear, +its foot almost in the back door, sloped a barren ridge, formerly a +squatter's sheep-yard. For the rest there were sky, wallaby-scrub, +gum-trees, and some acres of cultivation. But Dad must have seen +something in it, or he would n't have stood feasting his eyes on the +wooded waste after he had knocked off work of an evening. In all his +wanderings—and Dad had been almost everywhere; swimming flooded creeks +and rivers, humping his swag from one end of Australia to the other; at +all games going except bank-managing and bushranging—he had seen no +place timbered like Shingle Hut. +</P> + +<P> +"Why," he used to say, "it's a fortune in itself. Hold on till the +country gets populated, and firewood is scarce, there'll be money in it +then—mark my words!" +</P> + +<P> +Poor Dad! I wonder how long he expected to live? +</P> + +<P> +At the back of Shingle Hut was a tract of Government land—mostly +mountains—marked on the map as the Great Dividing Range. Splendid +country, Dad considered it—BEAUTIFUL country—and part of a grand +scheme he had in his head. I defy you to find a man more full of +schemes than Dad was. +</P> + +<P> +The day had been hot. Inside, the mosquitoes were bad; and, after +supper, Dad and Dave were outside, lying on some bags. They had been +grubbing that day, and were tired. The night was nearly dark. Dad lay +upon his back, watching the stars; Dave upon his stomach, his head +resting on his arms. Both silent. One of the draught-horses cropped +the couch-grass round about them. Now and again a flying-fox circled +noiselessly overhead, and "MOPOKE!—MOPOKE!" came dismally from the +ridge and from out the lonely-looking gully. A star fell, lighting up +a portion of the sky, but Dad did not remark it. In a while he said: +</P> + +<P> +"How old are you, Dave?" Dave made a mental calculation before +answering. +</P> + +<P> +"S'pose I must be eighteen now ...Why?" +</P> + +<P> +A silence. +</P> + +<P> +"I've been thinking of that land at the back—if we had that I believe +we could make money." +</P> + +<P> +"Yairs—if we HAD." +</P> + +<P> +Another silence. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I mean to have it, and that before very long." +</P> + +<P> +Dave raised his head, and looked towards Dad. +</P> + +<P> +"There's four of you old enough to take up land, and where could you +get better country than that out there for cattle? Why" (turning on +his side and facing Dave) "with a thousand acres of that stocked with +cattle and this kept under cultivation we'd make money—we'd be RICH in +a very few years." +</P> + +<P> +Dave raised himself on his elbow. +</P> + +<P> +"Yairs—with CATTLE," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Just so" (Dad sat up with enthusiasm), "but to get the LAND is the +first thing, and that's easy enough ONLY" (lowering his voice) "it'll +have to be done QUIETLY and without letting everyone 'round know we're +going in for it." ("Oh! yairs, o' course," from Dave.) "THEN" (and Dad +lifted his voice and leaned over) "run a couple of wires round it, put +every cow we've here on it straight away; get another one or two when +the barley's sold, and let them breed." +</P> + +<P> +"'Bout how many'd that be t' start 'n?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, EIGHT good cows at the least—plenty, too. It's simply +WONDERFUL how cattle breed if they're let alone. Look at Murphy, for +instance. Started on that place with two young heifers—those two old +red cows that you see knocking about now. THEY'RE the mothers of all +his cattle. Anderson just the same...Why, God bless my soul! we would +have a better start than any one of them ever had—by a long way." +</P> + +<P> +Dave sat up. He began to share Dad's enthusiasm. +</P> + +<P> +"Once get it STOCKED, and all that is to be done then is simply to look +after the fence, ride about among the cattle every day, see they're +right, brand the calves, and every year muster the mob, draft out the +fat bullocks, whip them into town, and get our seven and eight pounds a +head for them." +</P> + +<P> +"That'd suit me down to the ground, ridin' about after cattle," Dave +said. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, get our seven and eight pounds, maybe nine or ten pounds a-piece. +And could ever we do that pottering about on the place?" Dad leaned +over further and pressed Dave's knee with his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Mind you!" (in a very confidential tone) "I'm not at all satisfied the +way we're dragging along here. It's utter nonsense, and, to speak the +truth" (lowering his voice again) "I'VE BEEN SICK OF THE WHOLE DAMN +THING LONG AGO." +</P> + +<P> +A minute or two passed. +</P> + +<P> +"It would n't matter," Dad continued, "if there was no way of doing +better; but there IS. The thing only requires to be DONE, and why not +DO it?" He paused for an answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," Dave said, "let us commence it straight off—t'morror. It's +the life that'd suit ME." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course it WOULD...and there's money in it...no mistake about it!" +</P> + +<P> +A few minutes passed. Then they went inside, and Dad took Mother into +his confidence, and they sat up half the night discussing the scheme. +</P> + +<P> +Twelve months later. The storekeeper was at the house wanting to see +Dad. Dad was n't at home. He never was when the storekeeper came; he +generally contrived to be away, up the paddock somewhere or amongst the +corn—if any was growing. The storekeeper waited an hour or so, but +Dad did n't turn up. When he was gone, though, Dad walked in and asked +Mother what he had said. Mother was seated on the sofa, +troubled-looking. +</P> + +<P> +"He must be paid by next week," she said, bursting into tears, "or the +place'll be sold over our heads." +</P> + +<P> +Dad stood with his back to the fire-place, his hand locked behind him, +watching the flies swarming on the table. +</P> + +<P> +Dave came in. He understood the situation at a glance. The scene was +not new to him. He sat down, leant forward, picked a straw off the +flor and twisted it round and round his finger, reflecting. +</P> + +<P> +Little Bill put his head on Mother's lap, and asked for a piece of +bread...He asked a second time. +</P> + +<P> +"There IS no bread, child," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"But me wants some, mumma." +</P> + +<P> +Dad went outside and Dave followed. They sat on their heels, their +backs to the barn, thoughtfully studying the earth. +</P> + +<P> +"It's the same thing"—Dad said, reproachfully—"from one year's end to +the other...alwuz a BILL!" +</P> + +<P> +"Thought last year we'd be over all this by now!" from Dave. +</P> + +<P> +"So we COULD...Can NOW...It only wants that land to be taken up; and, +as I've said often and often, these cows taken——" +</P> + +<P> +Dad caught sight of the storekeeper coming back, and ran into the barn. +</P> + +<P> +Six months later. Dinner about ready. "Take up a thousand acres," Dad +was saying; "take it up——" +</P> + +<P> +He was interrupted by a visitor. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you Mister Rudd?" Dad said he was. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, er—I've a FI. FA. against y'." +</P> + +<P> +Dad didn't understand. +</P> + +<P> +The Sheriff's officer drew a document from his inside breast-pocket and +proceeded to read: +</P> + +<P> +"To Mister James Williams, my bailiff. Greeting: By virtue of Her +Majesty's writ of FIERI FACIAS, to me directed, I command you that of +the goods and chattels, money, bank-note or notes or other property of +Murtagh Joseph Rudd, of Shingle Hut, in my bailiwick, you cause to be +made the sum of forty pounds ten shillings, with interest thereon," &c. +</P> + +<P> +Dad understood. +</P> + +<P> +Then the bailiff's man rounded up the cows and the horses, and Dad and +the lot of us leant against the fence and in sadness watched Polly and +old Poley and the rest for the last time pass out the slip-rails. +</P> + +<P> +"That puts an end to the land business!" Dave said gloomily. +</P> + +<P> +But Dad never spoke. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap18"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XVIII. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +We Embark in the Bear Industry. +</H3> + +<P> +When the bailiff came and took away the cows and horses, and completely +knocked the bottom out of Dad's land scheme, Dad did n't sit in the +ashes and sulk. He was n't that kind of person. He DID at times say +he was tired of it all, and often he wished it far enough, too! But, +then, that was all mere talk on Dad's part. He LOVED the selection. +To every inch—every stick of it—he was devoted. 'T was his creed. +He felt certain there was money in it—that out of it would come his +independence. Therefore, he did n't rollup and, with Mother by the hand +and little Bill on his back, stalk into town to hang round and abuse +the bush. He walked up and down the yard thinking and thinking. Dad +was a man with a head. +</P> + +<P> +He consulted Mother and Dave, and together they thought more. +</P> + +<P> +"The thing is," Dad said, "to get another horse to finish the bit of +ploughing. We've got ONE; Anderson will lend the grey mare, I know." +</P> + +<P> +He walked round the room a few times. +</P> + +<P> +"When that's done, I think I see my way clear; but THAT'S the trouble." +</P> + +<P> +He looked at Dave. Dave seemed as though he had a solution. But Joe +spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Kuk-kuk-could n't y' b-reak in some kang'roos, Dad? There's pul-lenty +in th' pup-paddick." +</P> + +<P> +"Could n't you shut up and hold your tongue and clear out of this, you +brat?" Dad roared. And Joe hung his head and shut up. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, y' know"—Dave drawled—"there's that colt wot Maloney offered +us before to quieten. Could get 'im. 'E's a big lump of a 'orse if y' +could do anythin' with 'im. THEY gave 'im best themselves." +</P> + +<P> +Dad's eyes shone. +</P> + +<P> +"That's th' horse," he cried. "GET him! To-morrow first thing go for +him! I'LL make something of him!" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't know"—Dave chuckled—"he's a——" +</P> + +<P> +"Tut, tut; you fetch him." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I'll FETCH 'im." And Dave, on the strength of having made a +valuable suggestion, dragged Joe off the sofa and stretched himself +upon it. +</P> + +<P> +Dad went on thinking awhile. "How much," he at last asked, "did +Johnson get for those skins?" +</P> + +<P> +"Which?" Dave answered. "Bears or kangaroos?" +</P> + +<P> +"Bears." +</P> + +<P> +"Five bob, was n't it? Six for some." +</P> + +<P> +"What, A-PIECE?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yairs." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, God bless my soul, what have we been thinking about? FIVE +SHILLINGS? Are you sure?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yairs, rather." +</P> + +<P> +"What, bear-skins worth that and the paddock here and the lanes and the +country over-run with them—FULL of the damn things—HUNDREDS of +them—and we, all this time—all these years—working and slaving and +scraping and-and" (he almost shouted), "DAMN me! What asses we HAVE +been, to be sure." (Dave stared at him.) "Bear-skins FIVE SHILLINGS +each, and——" +</P> + +<P> +"That's all right enough," Dave interrupted, "but——" +</P> + +<P> +"Of COURSE it's all right enough NOW," Dad yelled, "now when we see it." +</P> + +<P> +"But look!" and Dave sat up and assumed an arbitrary attitude. He was +growing suspicious of Dad's ideas. "To begin with, how many bears do +you reckon on getting in a day?" +</P> + +<P> +"In a day"—reflectively—"twenty at the least." +</P> + +<P> +"Twenty. Well, say we only got HALF that, how much d' y' make?" +</P> + +<P> +"MAKE?" (considering). "Two pounds ten a day...fifteen or twenty +pounds a week...yes, TWENTY POUNDS, reckoning at THAT even. And do you +mean to tell ME that we would n't get more than TEN bears a day? Why +we'd get more than that in the lane—get more up ONE tree." +</P> + +<P> +Dave grinned. +</P> + +<P> +"Can't you SEE? DAMN it, boy, are you so DENSE?" +</P> + +<P> +Dave saw. He became enthusiastic. He wondered why it had never struck +us before. Then Dad smiled, and we sat to supper and talked about +bears. +</P> + +<P> +"We'll not bother with that horse NOW," said Dad; "the ploughing can +go; I'm DONE with it. We've had enough poking and puddling about. +We'll start this business straightaway." And the following morning, +headed by the dog and Dad, armed with a tomahawk, we started up the +paddock. +</P> + +<P> +How free we felt! To think we were finished for ever with the raking +and carting of hay—finished tramping up and down beside Dad, with the +plough-reins in our hands, flies in our eyes and burr in our +feet—finished being the target for Dad's blasphemy when the plough or +the horses or the harness went wrong—was delightful! And the +adventure and excitement which this new industry promised operated +strongly upon us. We rioted and careered like hunted brumbies through +the trees, till warned by Dad to "keep our eyes about;" then we settled +down, and Joe found the first bear. It was on an ironbark tree, around +the base of which we soon were clamouring. +</P> + +<P> +"Up y' go!" Dad said, cheerfully helping Dave and the tomahawk into the +first fork. +</P> + +<P> +Dave ascended and crawled cautiously along the limb the bear was on and +began to chop. WE armed ourselves with heavy sticks and waited. The +dog sat on his tail and stared and whined at the bear. The limb +cracked, and Dave ceased chopping and shouted "Look out!" We shouldered +arms. The dog was in a hurry. He sprang in the air and landed on his +back. But Dave had to make another nick or two. Then with a loud +crack the limb parted and came sweeping down. The dog jumped to meet +it. He met it, and was laid out on the grass. The bear scrambled to +its feet and made off towards Bill. Bill squealed and fell backwards +over a log. Dad rushed in and kicked the bear up like a football. It +landed near Joe. Joe's eyes shone with the hunter's lust of blood. He +swung his stick for a tremendous blow—swung it mightily and high—and +nearly knocked his parent's head off. When Dad had spat blood enough +to make sure that he had only lost one tooth, he hunted Joe; but Joe +was too fleet, as usual. +</P> + +<P> +Meanwhile, the bear had run up another tree—about the tallest old gum +in the paddock. Dad snapped his fingers angrily and cried: "Where the +devil was the DOG?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, where the devil wuz the DORG?" Dave growled, sliding down the +tree—"where th' devil wuz YOU? Where wuz the lot o' y'?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, well!" Dad said "—there's plenty more we can get. Come along." +And off we went. The dog pulled himself together and limped after us. +</P> + +<P> +Bears were plentiful enough, but we wandered far before we found +another on a tree that Dave could climb, and, when we DID, somehow or +other the limb broke when he put his weight on it, and down he came, +bear and all. Of course we were not ready, and that bear, like the +other, got up another tree. But Dave did n't. He lay till Dad ran +about two miles down a gully to a dam and filled his hat with muddy +water and came tearing back with it empty—till Anderson and Mother +came and helped to carry him home. +</P> + +<P> +We did n't go out any more after bears. Dave, when he was able, went +and got Maloney's colt and put him in the plough. And, after he had +kicked Dad and smashed all the swingle-trees about the place, and got +right out of his harness a couple of times and sulked for two days, he +went well enough beside Anderson's old grey mare. +</P> + +<P> +And that season, when everyone else's wheat was red with rust—when +Anderson and Maloney cut theirs for hay—when Johnson put a firestick +in his—ours was good to see. It ripened; and the rain kept off, and +we reaped 200 bags. Salvation! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap19"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XIX. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Nell and Ned. +</H3> + +<P> +That harvest of two hundred bags of wheat was the turning-point in the +history of our selection. Things somehow seemed to go better; and +Dad's faith was gradually justified—to some extent. We accumulated +out-buildings and added two new rooms to the hut, and Dad was able to +lend old Anderson five pounds in return for a promise to pay seven +pounds ten shillings in six months' time. We increased the stock, too, +by degrees; and—crowning joy!—we got a horse or two you could ride to +the township. +</P> + +<P> +With Nell and Ned we reckoned we had two saddle-horses—those were +their names, Nell and Ned, a mare and a colt. Fine hacks they were, +too! Anybody could ride them, they were so quiet. Dad reckoned Ned was +the better of the two. He was well-bred, and had a pedigree and a +gentle disposition, and a bald-face, and a bumble-foot, and a raw +wither, and a sore back that gave him a habit of "flinching"—a habit +that discounted his uselessness a great deal, because, when we were n't +at home, the women could n't saddle him to run the cows in. Whenever +he saw the saddle or heard the girth-buckles rattle he would start to +flinch. Put the cloth on his back—folded or otherwise—and, no matter +how smart you might be, it would be off before you could cover it with +the saddle, and he would n't have flicked it with his tail, or pulled +it off with his teeth, or done anything to it. He just flinched—made +the skin on his back—where there was any—QUIVER. Throw on the saddle +without a cloth, and he would "give" in the middle like a broken +rail—bend till his belly almost touched the ground, and remain bent +till mounted; then he'd crawl off and gradually straighten up as he +became used to you. Were you tender-hearted enough to feel compunction +in sitting down hard on a six-year-old sore, or if you had an aversion +to kicking the suffering brute with both heels and belting his hide +with a yard or two of fencing-wire to get him to show signs of +animation, you would dismount and walk—perhaps, weep. WE always rode +him right out, though. +</P> + +<P> +As a two-year-old Ned was Dad's hope. Pointing proudly to the +long-legged, big-headed, ugly moke mooching by the door, smelling the +dust, he would say: "Be a fine horse in another year! Little +sleepy-looking yet; that's nothing!" +</P> + +<P> +"Stir him up a bit, till we see how he canters," he said to Joe one +day. And when Joe stirred him up—rattled a piece of rock on his jaw +that nearly knocked his head off—Dad took after Joe and chased him +through the potatoes, and out into the grass-paddock, and across +towards Anderson's; then returned and yarded the colt, and knocked a +patch of skin off him with a rail because he would n't stand in a +corner till he looked at his eye. "Would n't have anything happen to +that colt for a fortune!" he said to himself. Then went away, +forgetting to throw the rails down. Dave threw them down a couple of +days after. +</P> + +<P> +WE preferred Nell to Ned, but Dad always voted for the colt. "You can +trust him; he'll stand anywhere," he used to say. Ned WOULD! Once, +when the grass-paddock was burning, he stood until he took fire. Then +he stood while we hammered him with boughs to put the blaze out. It +took a lot to frighten Ned. His presence of mind rarely deserted him. +Once, though, he got a start. He was standing in the shade of a tree +in the paddock when Dad went to catch him. He seemed to be watching +Dad, but was n't. He was ASLEEP. "Well, old chap," said Dad, "how ARE +y'?" and proceeded to bridle him. Ned opened his mouth and received +the bit as usual, only some of his tongue came out and stayed out. +"Wot's up w' y'?" and Dad tried to poke it in with his finger, but it +came out further, and some chewed grass dropped into his hand. Dad +started to lead him then, or rather to PULL him, and at the first tug +he have the reins Ned woke with a snort and broke away. And when the +other horses saw him looking at Dad with his tail cocked, and his head +up, and the bridle-reins hanging, they went for their lives through the +trees, and Blossom's foal got staked. +</P> + +<P> +Another day Dad was out on Ned, looking for the red heifer, and came +across two men fencing—a tall, powerful-looking man with a beard, and +a slim young fellow with a smooth face. Also a kangaroo-pup. As Dad +slowly approached, Ned swaying from side to side with his nose to the +ground, the elder man drove the crowbar into the earth and stared as if +he had never seen a man on horseback before. The young fellow sat on a +log and stared too. The pup ran behind a tree and growled. +</P> + +<P> +"Seen any cattle round here?" Dad asked. +</P> + +<P> +"No," the man said, and grinned. +</P> + +<P> +"Did n't notice a red heifer?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," grinning more. +</P> + +<P> +The kangaroo-pup left the tree and sniffed at Ned's heels. +</P> + +<P> +"Won't kick, will he?" said the man. +</P> + +<P> +The young fellow broke into a loud laugh and fell off the log. +</P> + +<P> +"No," Dad replied—"he's PERFECTLY quiet." +</P> + +<P> +"He LOOKS quiet." +</P> + +<P> +The young fellow took a fit of coughing. +</P> + +<P> +After a pause. "Well, you did n't see any about, then?" and Dad +wheeled Ned round to go away. +</P> + +<P> +"No, I DID N'T, old man," the other answered, and snatched hold of +Ned's tail and hung back with all his might. Ned grunted and strained +and tore the ground up with his toes; Dad spurred and leathered him +with a strap, looking straight ahead. The man hung on. "Come 'long," +Dad said. The pup barked. "COME 'long with YER!" Dad said. The young +fellow fell off the log again. Ned's tail cracked. Dad hit him +between the ears. The tail cracked again. A piece of it came off; +then Ned stumbled and went on his head. "What the DEVIL——!" Dad +said, looking round. But only the young fellow was laughing. +</P> + +<P> +Nell was different from Ned. She was a bay, with yellow flanks and a +lump under her belly; a bright eye, lop ears, and heavy, hairy legs. +She was a very wise mare. It was wonderful how much she know. She +knew when she was wanted; and she would go away the night before and +get lost. And she knew when she was n't wanted; then she'd hang about +the back-door licking a hole in the ground where the dish-water was +thrown, or fossicking at the barn for the corn Dad had hidden, or +scratching her neck or her rump against the cultivation paddock +slip-rails. She always scratched herself against those +slip-rails—sometimes for hours—always until they fell down. Then +she'd walk in and eat. And how she COULD eat! +</P> + +<P> +As a hack, Nell was unreliable. You could n't reckon with certainty on +getting her to start. All depended on the humour she was in and the +direction you wished to take—mostly the direction. If towards the +grass-paddock or the dam, she was off helter-skelter. If it was n't, +she'd go on strike—put her head down and chew the bit. Then, when +you'd get to work on her with a waddy—which we always did—she'd walk +backwards into the house and frighten Mother, or into the waterhole and +dirty the water. Dad said it was the fault of the cove who broke her +in. Dad was a just man. The "cove" was a union shearer—did it for +four shillings and six pence. Wanted five bob, but Dad beat him down. +Anybody else would have asked a pound. +</P> + +<P> +When Nell DID make up her mind to go, it was with a rush, and, if the +slip-rails were on the ground, she'd refuse to take them. She'd stand +and look out into the lane. You'd have to get off and drag the rails +aside (about twenty, counting broken ones). Then she'd fancy they were +up, and would shake her head and mark time until you dug your heels +into her; then she'd gather herself together and jump high enough for a +show—over nothing! +</P> + +<P> +Dave was to ride Nell to town one Christmas to see the sports. He had +n't seen any sports before, and went to bed excited and rose in the +middle of the night to start. He dressed in the dark, and we heard him +going out, because he fell over Sandy and Kate. They had come on a +visit, and were sleeping on the floor in the front room. We also heard +him throw the slip-rails down. +</P> + +<P> +There was a heavy fog that morning. At breakfast we talked about Dave, +and Dad "s'posed" he would just about be getting in; but an hour or two +after breakfast the fog cleared, and we saw Dave in the lane hammering +Nell with a stick. Nell had her rump to the fence and was trying hard +to kick it down. Dad went to him. "Take her gently; take her GENTLY, +boy," he shouted. "PSHAW! take her GENTLY!" Dave shouted back. +"Here"—he jumped off her and handed Dad the reins—"take her away and +cut her throat." Then he cried, and then he picked up a big stone and +rushed at Nell's head. But Dad interfered. +</P> + +<P> +But the day Dad mounted Nell to bring a doctor to Anderson! She +started away smartly—the wrong road. Dad jerked her mouth and pulled +her round roughly. He was in a hurry—Nell was n't. She stood and +shook her head and switched her tail. Dad rattled a waddy on her and +jammed his heels hard against her ribs. She dropped her head and +cow-kicked. Then he coaxed her. "Come on, old girl," he said; "come +on,"—and patted her on the neck. She liked being patted. That +exasperated Dad. He hit her on the head with his fist. Joe ran out +with a long stick. He poked her in the flank. Nell kicked the stick +out of his hands and bolted towards the dam. Dad pulled and swore as +she bore him along. And when he did haul her in, he was two hundred +yards further from the doctor. Dad turned her round and once more used +the waddy. Nell was obdurate, Dad exhausted. Joe joined them, out of +breath. He poked Nell with the stick again. She "kicked up." Dad +lost his balance. Joe laughed. Dad said, "St-o-op!" Joe was +energetic. So was Nell. She kicked up again—strong—and Dad fell off. +</P> + +<P> +"Wot, could'n' y' s-s-s-stick to 'er, Dad?" Joe asked. +</P> + +<P> +"STICK BE DAMNED—run—CATCH her!—D——N y'!" +</P> + +<P> +Joe obeyed. +</P> + +<P> +Dad made another start, and this time Nell went willingly. Dad was +leading her! +</P> + +<P> +Those two old horses are dead now. They died in the summer when there +was lots of grass and water—just when Dad had broken them into +harness—just when he was getting a good team together to draw logs for +the new railway line! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap20"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XX. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Cow We Bought. +</H3> + +<P> +When Dad received two hundred pounds for the wheat he saw nothing but +success and happiness ahead. His faith in the farm and farming +swelled. Dad was not a pessimist—when he had two hundred pounds. +</P> + +<P> +"Say what they like," he held forth to Anderson and two other men +across the rails one evening—"talk how they will about it, there's +money to be made at farming. Let a man WORK and use his HEAD and know +what to sow and when to sow it, and he MUST do well." (Anderson stroked +his beard in grave silence; HE had had no wheat). "Why, once a farmer +gets on at all he's the most independent man in the whole country." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes! Once he DOES!" drawled one of the men,—a weird, withered fellow +with a scraggy beard and a reflective turn of mind. +</P> + +<P> +"Jusso," Dad went on, "but he must use his HEAD; it's all in th' +head." (He tapped his own skull with his finger). "Where would I be +now if I had n't used me head this last season?" +</P> + +<P> +He paused for an answer. None came. +</P> + +<P> +"I say," he continued, "it's a mistake to think nothing's to be made at +farming, and any man" ("Come to supper, D—AD!"—'t was Sal's voice) +"ought t' get on where there's land like this." +</P> + +<P> +"LAND!" said the same man—"where IS it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Where IS it?" Dad warmed up—"where IS N'T it? Is n't this land?" +(Looking all round.) "Is n't the whole country land from one end to +the other? And is there another country like it anywhere?" +</P> + +<P> +"There is n't!" said the man. +</P> + +<P> +"Is there any other country in th' WORLD" (Dad lifted his voice) "where +a man, if he likes, can live" ("Dad, tea!") "without a shilling in his +pocket and without doing a tap of work from one year's end to the +other?" +</P> + +<P> +Anderson did n't quite understand, and the weird man asked Dad if he +meant "in gaol." +</P> + +<P> +"I mean," Dad said, "that no man should starve in this country when +there's kangaroos and bears and"—(Joe came and stood beside Dad and +asked him if he was DEAF)—"and goannas and snakes in thousands. Look +here!" (still to the weird man), "you say that farming"—(Mother, +bare-headed, came out and stood beside Joe, and asked Anderson if Mrs. +Anderson had got a nurse yet, and Anderson smiled and said he believed +another son had just arrived, but he had n't seen it)—"that farming +don't pay"—(Sal came along and stood near Mother and asked Anderson +who the baby was like)—"don't pay in this country?" +</P> + +<P> +The man nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"It will pay any man who——" +</P> + +<P> +Interruption. +</P> + +<P> +Anderson's big dog had wandered to the house, and came back with nearly +all that was for supper in his mouth. +</P> + +<P> +Sal squealed. +</P> + +<P> +"DROP IT—DROP IT, Bob!" Anderson shouted, giving chase. Bob dropped +it on the road. +</P> + +<P> +"DAMN IT!" said Dad, glaring at Mother, "wot d' y' ALL want out +'ere?...Y-YOU brute!" (to the dog, calmly licking its lips). +</P> + +<P> +Then Anderson and the two men went away. +</P> + +<P> +But when we had paid sixty pounds to the storekeeper and thirty pounds +in interest; and paid for the seed and the reaping and threshing of the +wheat; and bought three plough-horses, and a hack for Dave; and a +corn-sheller, and a tank, and clothes for us all; and put rations in +the house; and lent Anderson five pounds; and improved Shingle Hut; and +so on; very little of the two hundred pounds was left. +</P> + +<P> +Mother spoke of getting a cow. The children, she said, could n't live +without milk and when Dad heard from Johnson and Dwyer that Eastbrook +dairy cattle were to be sold at auction, he said he would go down and +buy one. +</P> + +<P> +Very early. The stars had scarcely left the sky. There was a lot of +groping and stumbling about the room. Dad and Dave had risen and were +preparing to go to the sale. +</P> + +<P> +I don't remember if the sky was golden or gorgeous at all, or if the +mountain was clothed in mist, or if any fragrance came from the +wattle-trees when they were leaving; but Johnson, without hat or boots, +was picking splinters off the slabs of his hut to start his fire with, +and a mile further on Smith's dog was barking furiously. He was a +famous barker. Smith trained him to it to keep the wallabies off. +Smith used to chain him to a tree in the paddock and hang a piece of +meat to the branches, and leave him there all night. +</P> + +<P> +Dad and Dave rode steadily along and arrived at Eastbrook before +mid-day. The old station was on its last legs. "The flags were flying +half-mast high." A crowd of people were there. Cart-horses with +harness on, and a lot of tired-looking saddle-hacks, covered with dry +sweat, were fastened to cart-wheels, and to every available post and +place. Heaps of old iron, broken-down drays and buggies and +wheel-barrows, pumps and pieces of machinery, which Dad reckoned were +worth a lot of money, were scattered about. Dad yearned to gather them +all up and cart them home. Rows of unshaven men were seated high on +the rails of the yards. The yards were filled with cattle—cows, +heifers, bulls, and calves, all separate—bellowing, and, in a friendly +way, raking skins and hair off each other with their horns. +</P> + +<P> +The station-manager, with a handful of papers and a pencil behind his +ear, hurried here and there, followed by some of the crowd, who asked +him questions which he did n't answer. Dad asked him if this was the +place where the sale was to be. He looked all over Dad. +</P> + +<P> +A man rang a bell violently, shouting, "This way for the dairy cows!" +Dad went that way, closely followed by Dave, who was silent and +strange. A boy put a printed catalogue into Dad's hand, which he was +doubtful about keeping until he saw Andy Percil with one. Most of the +men seated on the rails jumped down into an empty yard and stood round +in a ring. In one corner the auctioneer mounted a box, and read the +conditions of sale, and talked hard about the breed of the cattle. +Then: +</P> + +<P> +"How much for the imported cow, Silky? No.1 on the catalogue. How +much to start her, gentlemen?" +</P> + +<P> +Silky rushed into the yard with a shower of sticks flying after her and +glared about, finally fixing her gaze on Dad, who was trying to find +her number in the catalogue. +</P> + +<P> +"A pure-bred 'Heereford,' four years old, by The Duke out of Dolly, to +calve on the eighth of next month," said the auctioneer. "How much to +start her?" +</P> + +<P> +All silent. Buyers looked thoughtful. The auctioneer ran his restless +eyes over them. +</P> + +<P> +Dad and Dave held a whispered consultation; then Dad made a movement. +The auctioneer caught his eye and leant forward. +</P> + +<P> +"FIVE BOB!" Dad shouted. There was a loud laugh. The auctioneer +frowned. "We're selling COWS, old man," he said, "not running a +shilling-table." +</P> + +<P> +More laughter. It reached Dave's heart, and he wished he had n't come +with Dad. +</P> + +<P> +Someone bid five pounds, someone else six; seven-eight-nine went round +quickly, and Silky was sold for ten pounds. +</P> + +<P> +"Beauty" rushed in. +</P> + +<P> +Two station-hands passed among the crowd, each with a bucket of beer +and some glasses. Dad hesitated when they came to him, and said he did +n't care about it. Dave the same. +</P> + +<P> +Dad ran "Beauty" to three pound ten shillings (all the money he had), +and she was knocked down at twelve pounds. +</P> + +<P> +Bidding became lively. +</P> + +<P> +Dave had his eye on the men with the beer—he was thirsty. He noticed +no one paid for what was drunk, and whispered his discovery to Dad. +When the beer came again, Dad reached out and took a glass. Dave took +one also. +</P> + +<P> +"Have another!" said the man. +</P> + +<P> +Dave grinned, and took another. +</P> + +<P> +Dad ran fifteen cows, successively, to three pounds ten shillings. +</P> + +<P> +The men with the beer took a liking to Dave. They came frequently to +him, and Dave began to enjoy the sale. +</P> + +<P> +Again Dad stopped bidding at three pounds ten shillings. +</P> + +<P> +Dave began to talk. He left his place beside Dad and, hat in hand, +staggered to the middle of the yard. "WOH!" he shouted, and made an +awkward attempt to embrace a red cow which was under the hammer. +</P> + +<P> +"SEV'N POUN'—SEV'N POUN'—SEV'N POUN'," shouted the auctioneer, +rapidly. "Any advance on sev'n POUN'?" +</P> + +<P> +"WENNY (hic) QUID," Dave said. +</P> + +<P> +"At sev'n poun' she's GOING?" +</P> + +<P> +"Twenny (hic) TWO quid," Dave said. +</P> + +<P> +"You have n't twenty-two PENCE," snorted the auctioneer. +</P> + +<P> +Then Dave caught the cow by the tail, and she pulled him about the yard +until two men took him away. +</P> + +<P> +The last cow put up was, so the auctioneer said, station-bred and in +full milk. She was a wild-looking brute, with three enormous teats and +a large, fleshy udder. The catalogue said her name was "Dummy." +</P> + +<P> +"How much for 'Dummy,' the only bargain in the mob—how much for her, +gentlemen?" +</P> + +<P> +Dad rushed "Dummy." "Three poun' ten," he said, eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +The auctioneer rushed Dad. "YOURS," he said, bringing his hammer down +with a bang; "you deserve her, old man!" And the station-manager +chuckled and took Dad's name—and Dad's money. +</P> + +<P> +Dad was very pleased, and eager to start home. He went and found Dave, +who was asleep in a hay-stack, and along with Steven Burton they drove +the cow home, and yarded her in the dark. +</P> + +<P> +Mother and Sal heard the noise, and came with a light to see Dad's +purchase, but as they approached "Dummy" threatened to carry the yard +away on her back, and Dad ordered them off. +</P> + +<P> +Dad secured the rails by placing logs and the harrow against them, then +went inside and told Mother what a bargain he'd made. +</P> + +<P> +In the morning Dad took a bucket and went to milk "Dummy." All of us +accompanied him. He crawled through the rails while "Dummy" tore the +earth with her fore-feet and threw lumps of it over the yard. But she +was n't so wild as she seemed, and when Dad went to work on her with a +big stick she walked into the bail quietly enough. Then he sat to milk +her, and when he took hold of her teats she broke the leg-rope and +kicked him clean off the block and tangled her leg in the bucket and +made a great noise with it. Then she bellowed and reared in the bail +and fell down, her head screwed the wrong way, and lay with her tongue +out moaning. +</P> + +<P> +Dad rose and spat out dirt. +</P> + +<P> +"Dear me!" Mother said, "it's a WILD cow y' bought." +</P> + +<P> +"Not at all," Dad answered; "she's a bit touchy, that's all." +</P> + +<P> +"She tut-tut—TUTCHED YOU orright, Dad," Joe said from the top of the +yard. +</P> + +<P> +Dad looked up. "Get down outer THAT!" he yelled. "No wonder the damn +cow's frightened." +</P> + +<P> +Joe got down. +</P> + +<P> +Dad brought "Dummy" to her senses with a few heavy kicks on her nose, +and proceeded to milk her again. "Dummy" kicked and kicked. Dad +tugged and tugged at her teats, but no milk came. Dad could n't +understand it. "Must be frettin'," he said. +</P> + +<P> +Joe owned a pet calf about a week old which lived on water and a long +rope. Dad told him to fetch it to see if it would suck. Joe fetched +it, and it sucked ravenously at "Dummy's" flank, and joyfully wagged +its tail. "Dummy" resented it. She plunged until the leg-rope parted +again, when the calf got mixed up in her legs, and she trampled it in +the ground. Joe took it away. Dad turned "Dummy" out and bailed her +up the next day—and every day for a week—with the same result. Then +he sent for Larry O'Laughlin, who posed as a cow doctor. +</P> + +<P> +"She never give a drop in her life," Larry said. "Them's BLIND tits +she have." +</P> + +<P> +Dad one day sold "Dummy" for ten shillings and bought a goat, which +Johnson shot on his cultivation and made Dad drag away. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap21"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XXI. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Parson and the Scone. +</H3> + +<P> +It was dinner-time. And were n't we hungry!—particularly Joe! He was +kept from school that day to fork up hay-work hard enough for a +man—too hard for some men—but in many things Joe was more than a +man's equal. Eating was one of them. We were all silent. Joe ate +ravenously. The meat and pumpkin disappeared, and the pile of hot +scones grew rapidly less. Joe regarded it with anxiety. He stole sly +glances at Dad and at Dave and made a mental calculation. Then he +fixed his eyes longingly on the one remaining scone, and ate faster and +faster....Still silence. Joe glanced again at Dad. +</P> + +<P> +The dogs outside barked. Those inside, lying full-stretch beneath the +table, instantly darted up and rushed out. One of them carried off +little Bill—who was standing at the table with his legs spread out +and a pint of tea in his hand—as far as the door on its back, and +there scraped him off and spilled tea over him. Dad spoke. He said, +"Damn the dogs!" Then he rose and looked out the window. We all +rose—all except Joe. Joe reached for the last scone. +</P> + +<P> +A horseman dismounted at the slip-rails. +</P> + +<P> +"Some stranger," Dad muttered, turning to re-seat himself. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, it's—it's the minister!" Sal cried—"the minister that married +Kate!" +</P> + +<P> +Dad nearly fell over. "Good God!" was all he said, and stared +hopelessly at Mother. The minister—for sure enough it was the Rev. +Daniel Macpherson—was coming in. There was commotion. Dave finished +his tea at a gulp, put on his hat, and left by the back-door. Dad +would have followed, but hesitated, and so was lost. Mother was +restless—"on pins and needles." +</P> + +<P> +"And there ain't a bite to offer him," she cried, dancing hysterically +about the table—"not a bite; nor a plate, nor a knife, nor a fork to +eat it with!" There was humour in Mother at times. It came from the +father's side. He was a dentist. +</P> + +<P> +Only Joe was unconcerned. He was employed on the last scone. He +commenced it slowly. He wished it to last till night. His mouth +opened and received it fondly. He buried his teeth in it and lingered +lovingly over it. Mother's eyes happened to rest on him. Her face +brightened. She flew at Joe and cried: +</P> + +<P> +"Give me that scone!—put it back on the table this minute!" +</P> + +<P> +Joe became concerned. He was about to protest. Mother seized him by +the hair (which had n't been cut since Dan went shearing) and hissed: +</P> + +<P> +"Put—it—back—sir!" Joe put it back. +</P> + +<P> +The minister came in. Dad said he was pleased to see him—poor +Dad!—and enquired if he had had dinner. The parson had not, but said +he did n't want any, and implored Mother not to put herself about on +his account. He only required a cup of tea—nothing else whatever. +Mother was delighted, and got the tea gladly. Still she was not +satisfied. She would be hospitable. She said: +</P> + +<P> +"Won't you try a scone with it, Mr. Macpherson?" And the parson said he +would—"just one." +</P> + +<P> +Mother passed the rescued scone along, and awkwardly apologised for the +absence of plates. She explained that the Andersons were threshing +their wheat, and had borrowed all our crockery and +cutlery—everybody's, in fact, in the neighbourhood—for the use of the +men. Such was the custom round our way. But the minister did n't +mind. On the contrary, he commended everybody for fellowship and +good-feeling, and felt sure that the district would be rewarded. +</P> + +<P> +It took the Rev. Macpherson no time to polish off the scone. When the +last of it was disappearing Mother became uneasy again. So did Dad. +He stared through the window at the parson's sleepy-looking horse, +fastened to the fence. Dad wished to heaven it would break away, or +drop dead, or do anything to provide him with an excuse to run out. +But it was a faithful steed. It stood there leaning on its forehead +against a post. There was a brief silence. +</P> + +<P> +Then the minister joked about his appetite—at which only Joe could +afford to smile—and asked, "May I trouble you for just another scone?" +</P> + +<P> +Mother muttered something like "Yes, of course," and went out to the +kitchen just as if there had been some there. Dad was very +uncomfortable. He patted the floor with the flat of his foot and +wondered what would happen next. Nothing happened for a good while. +The minister sipped and sipped his tea till none was left... +</P> + +<P> +Dad said: "I'll see what's keeping her," and rose—glad if ever man +was glad—to get away. He found Mother seated on the ironbark table in +the kitchen. They did n't speak. They looked at each other +sympathisingly. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" Dad whispered at last; "what are you going to do?" Mother +shook her head. She did n't know. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell him straight there ain't any, an' be done with it," was Dad's +cheerful advice. Mother several times approached the door, but +hesitated and returned again. +</P> + +<P> +"What are you afraid of?" Dad would ask; "he won't eat y'." Finally she +went in. +</P> + +<P> +Then Dad tiptoed to the door and listened. He was listening eagerly +when a lump of earth—a piece of the cultivation paddock—fell +dangerously near his feet. It broke and scattered round him, and +rattled inside against the papered wall. Dad jumped round. A row of +jackasses on a tree near by laughed merrily. Dad looked up. They +stopped. Another one laughed clearly from the edge of the tall corn. +Dad turned his head. It was Dave. Dad joined him, and they watched +the parson mount his horse and ride away. +</P> + +<P> +Dad drew a deep and grateful breath. "Thank God!" he said. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap22"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XXII. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Callaghan's Colt. +</H3> + +<P> +It was the year we put the bottom paddock under potatoes. Dad was +standing contemplating the tops, which were withering for want of rain. +He shifted his gaze to the ten acres sown with corn. A dozen stalks or +so were looking well; a few more, ten or twelve inches high, were +coming in cob; the rest had n't made an appearance. +</P> + +<P> +Dad sighed and turned away from the awful prospect. He went and looked +into the water-cask. Two butterflies, a frog or two, and some charcoal +were at the bottom. No water. He sighed again, took the yoke and two +kerosene-tins, and went off to the springs. +</P> + +<P> +About an hour and a half after he returned with two half-tins of muddy, +milky-looking water—the balance had been splashed out as he got +through the fences—and said to Mother (wiping the sweat off his face +with his shirt-sleeve)— +</P> + +<P> +"Don't know, I'm SURE, what things are going t' come t';...no use doing +anything...there's no rain...no si——" he lifted his foot and with +cool exactness took a place-kick at the dog, which was trying to fall +into one of the kerosene-tins, head first, and sent it and the water +flying. "Oh you ——!" The rest is omitted in the interests of Poetry. +</P> + +<P> +Day after. Fearful heat; not a breath of air; fowl and beast sought +the shade; everything silent; the great Bush slept. In the west a +stray cloud or two that had been hanging about gathered, thickened, +darkened. +</P> + +<P> +The air changed. Fowl and beast left the shade; tree-tops began to +stir—to bend—to sway violently. Small branches flew down and rolled +before the wind. Presently it thundered afar off. Mother and Sal ran +out and gathered the clothes, and fixed the spout, and looked +cheerfully up at the sky. +</P> + +<P> +Joe sat in the chimney-corner thumping the ribs of a cattle-pup, and +pinching its ears to make it savage. He had been training the pup ever +since its arrival that morning. +</P> + +<P> +The plough-horses, yoked to the plough, stood in the middle of the +paddock, beating the flies off with their tails and leaning against +each other. +</P> + +<P> +Dad stood at the stock-yard—his brown arms and bearded chin resting on +a middle-rail—passively watching Dave and Paddy Maloney breaking-in a +colt for Callaghan—a weedy, wild, herring-gutted brute that might have +been worth fifteen shillings. Dave was to have him to hack about for +six months in return for the breaking-in. Dave was acquiring a local +reputation for his skill in handling colts. +</P> + +<P> +They had been at "Callaghan"—as they christened the colt—since +daylight, pretty well; and had crippled old Moll and lamed Maloney's +Dandy, and knocked up two they borrowed from Anderson—yarding the +rubbish; and there was n't a fence within miles of the place that he +had n't tumbled over and smashed. But, when they did get him in, they +lost no time commencing to quieten him. They cursed eloquently, and +threw the bridle at him, and used up all the missiles and bits of hard +mud and sticks about the yard, pelting him because he would n't stand. +</P> + +<P> +Dave essayed to rope him "the first shot," and nearly poked his eye out +with the pole; and Paddy Maloney, in attempting to persuade the +affrighted beast to come out of the cow-bail, knocked the cap of its +hip down with the milking-block. They caught him then and put the +saddle on. Callaghan trembled. When the girths were tightened they +put the reins under the leathers, and threw their hats at him, and +shouted, and "hooshed" him round the yard, expecting he would buck with +the saddle. But Callaghan only trotted into a corner and snorted. +Usually, a horse that won't buck with a saddle is a "snag." Dave knew +it. The chestnut he tackled for Brown did nothing with the saddle. HE +was a snag. Dave remembered him and reflected. Callaghan walked +boldly up to Dave, with his head high in the air, and snorted at him. +He was a sorry-looking animal—cuts and scars all over him; hip down; +patches and streaks of skin and hair missing from his head. "No buck +in him!" unctuously observed Dad, without lifting his chin off the +rail. "Ain't there?" said Paddy Maloney, grinning cynically. "Just +you wait!" +</P> + +<P> +It seemed to take the heart out of Dave, but he said nothing. He +hitched his pants and made a brave effort to spit—several efforts. +And he turned pale. +</P> + +<P> +Paddy was now holding Callaghan's head at arms'-length by the bridle +and one ear, for Dave to mount. +</P> + +<P> +A sharp crack of thunder went off right overhead. Dave did n't hear it. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello!" Dad said, "We're going to have it—hurry up!" +</P> + +<P> +Dave did n't hear him. He approached the horse's side and nervously +tried the surcingle—a greenhide one of Dad's workmanship. "Think +that'll hold?" he mumbled meekly. +</P> + +<P> +"Pshaw!" Dad blurted through the rails—"Hold! Of course it'll +hold—hold a team o' bullocks, boy." +</P> + +<P> +"'S all right, Dave; 's all right—git on!" From Paddy Maloney, +impatiently. +</P> + +<P> +Paddy, an out-and-out cur amongst horses himself, was anxious to be +relieved of the colt's head. Young horses sometimes knock down the man +who is holding them. Paddy was aware of it. +</P> + +<P> +Dave took the reins carefully, and was about to place his foot in the +stirrup when his restless eye settled on a wire-splice in the +crupper—also Dad's handiwork. He hesitated and commenced a remark. +But Dad was restless; Paddy Maloney anxious (as regarded himself); +besides, the storm was coming. +</P> + +<P> +Dad said: "Damn it, what are y' 'FRAID o', boy? THAT'll hold—jump on." +</P> + +<P> +Paddy said: "NOW, Dave, while I've 'is 'ead round." +</P> + +<P> +Joe (just arrived with the cattle-pup) chipped in. +</P> + +<P> +He said: "Wot, is he fuf-fuf-fuf-f-rikent of him, Dad?" +</P> + +<P> +Dave heard them. A tear like a hailstone dropped out of his eye. +</P> + +<P> +"It's all damn well t' TALK," he fired off; "come in and RIDE +th'——horse then, if y' s'——GAME!" +</P> + +<P> +A dead silence. +</P> + +<P> +The cattle-pup broke away from Joe and strolled into the yard. It +barked feebly at Callaghan, then proceeded to worry his heels. It +seemed to take Callaghan for a calf. Callaghan kicked it up against +the rails. It must have taken him for a cow then. +</P> + +<P> +Dave's blood was up. He was desperate. He grabbed the reins roughly, +put his foot in the stirrup, gripped the side of the pommel, and was on +before you could say "Woolloongabba." +</P> + +<P> +With equal alacrity, Paddy let the colt's head go and made tracks, +chuckling. The turn things had taken delighted him. Excitement (and +pumpkin) was all that kept Paddy alive. But Callaghan did n't +budge—at least not until Dave dug both heels into him. Then he made a +blind rush and knocked out a panel of the yard—and got away with Dave. +Off he went, plunging, galloping, pig-jumping, breaking loose limbs and +bark off trees with Dave's legs. A wire-fence was in his way. It +parted like the Red Sea when he came to it—he crashed into it and +rolled over. The saddle was dangling under his belly when he got up; +Dave and the bridle were under the fence. But the storm had come, and +such a storm! Hailstones as big as apples nearly—first one here and +there, and next moment in thousands. +</P> + +<P> +Paddy Maloney and Joe ran for the house; Dave, with an injured ankle +and a cut head, limped painfully in the same direction; but Dad saw the +plough-horses turning and twisting about in their chains and set out +for them. He might as well have started off the cross the continent. +A hailstone, large enough to kill a cow, fell with a thud a yard or two +in advance of him, and he slewed like a hare and made for the house +also. He was getting it hot. Now and again his hands would go up to +protect his head, but he could n't run that way—he could n't run much +any way. +</P> + +<P> +The others reached the house and watched Dad make from the back-door. +Mother called to him to "Run, run!" Poor Dad! He was running. Paddy +Maloney was joyful. He danced about and laughed vociferously at the +hail bouncing off Dad. Once Dad staggered—a hail-boulder had struck +him behind the ear—and he looked like dropping. Paddy hit himself on +the leg, and vehemently invited Dave to "Look, LOOK at him!" But Dad +battled along to the haystack, buried his head in it, and stayed there +till the storm was over—wriggling and moving his feet as though he +were tramping chaff. +</P> + +<P> +Shingles were dislodged from the roof of the house, and huge hailstones +pelted in and put the fire out, and split the table, and fell on the +sofa and the beds. +</P> + +<P> +Rain fell also, but we did n't catch any in the cask—the wind blew the +spout away. It was a curled piece of bark. Nevertheless, the storm +did good. We did n't lose ALL the potatoes. We got SOME out of them. +We had them for dinner one Sunday. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap23"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XXIII. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Agricultural Reporter. +</H3> + +<P> +It had been a dull, miserable day, and a cold westerly was blowing. +Dave and Joe were at the barn finishing up for the day. +</P> + +<P> +Dad was inside grunting and groaning with toothache. He had had it a +week, and was nearly mad. For a while he sat by the fire, prodding the +tooth with his pocket-knife; then he covered his jaw with his hand and +went out and walked about the yard. +</P> + +<P> +Joe asked him if he had seen Nell's foal anywhere that day. He did n't +answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Did y' see the brown foal any place ter-day, Dad?" +</P> + +<P> +"Damn the brown foal!"—and Dad went inside again. +</P> + +<P> +He walked round and round the table and in and out the back room till +Mother nearly cried with pity. +</P> + +<P> +"Is n't it any easier at all, Father?" she said commiseratingly. +</P> + +<P> +"How the devil can it be easier?...Oh-h!" +</P> + +<P> +The kangaroo-dog had coiled himself snugly on a bag before the fire. +Dad kicked him savagely and told him to get out. The dog slunk sulkily +to the door, his tail between his legs, and his back humped as if +expecting another kick. He got it. Dad sat in the ashes then, and +groaned lamentably. The dog walked in at the back door and dropped on +the bag again. +</P> + +<P> +Joe came in to say that "Two coves out there wants somethink." +</P> + +<P> +Dad paid no attention. +</P> + +<P> +The two "coves"—a pressman, in new leggings, and Canty, the +storekeeper—came in. Mother brought a light. Dad moaned, but did n't +look up. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Mr. Rudd," the pressman commenced (he was young and +fresh-looking), "I'm from the (something-or-other) office. +I'm—er—after information about the crops round here. I +suppose—er——" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh-h-h!" Dad groaned, opening his mouth over the fire, and pressing +the tooth hard with his thumb. +</P> + +<P> +The pressman stared at him for awhile; then grinned at the storekeeper, +and made a derisive face at Dad's back. Then—"What have you got in +this season, Mr. Rudd? Wheat?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know....Oh-h—it's awful!" +</P> + +<P> +Another silence. +</P> + +<P> +"Did n't think toothache so bad as THAT," said the man of news, airily, +addressing Mother. "Never had it much myself, you see!" +</P> + +<P> +He looked at Dad again; then winked slyly at Canty, and said to Dad, in +an altered tone: "Whisky's a good thing for it, old man, if you've got +any." +</P> + +<P> +Nothing but a groan came from Dad, but Mother shook her head sadly in +the negative. +</P> + +<P> +"Any oil of tar?" +</P> + +<P> +Mother brightened up. "There's a little oil in the house," she said, +"but I don't know if we've any tar. Is there, Joe—in that old drum?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nurh." +</P> + +<P> +The Press looked out the window. Dad commenced to butcher his gums +with the pocket-knife, and threatened to put the fire out with blood +and saliva. +</P> + +<P> +"Let's have a look at the tooth, old man," the pressman said, +approaching Dad. +</P> + +<P> +Dad submitted. +</P> + +<P> +"Pooh!—I'll take that out in one act!"...To Joe—"Got a good strong +piece of string?" +</P> + +<P> +Joe could n't find a piece of string, but produced a kangaroo-tail +sinew that had been tied round a calf's neck. +</P> + +<P> +The pressman was enthusiastic. He buzzed about and talked dentistry in +a most learned manner. Then he had another squint at Dad's tooth. +</P> + +<P> +"Sit on the floor here," he said, "and I won't be a second. You'll +feel next to no pain." +</P> + +<P> +Dad complied like a lamb. +</P> + +<P> +"Hold the light down here, missis—a little lower. You gentlemen" (to +Canty and Dave) "look after his legs and arms. Now, let your head come +back—right back, and open your mouth—wide as you can." Dad obeyed, +groaning the whole time. It was a bottom-tooth, and the dentist stood +behind Dad and bent over him to fasten the sinew round it. Then, +twisting it on his wrist, he began to "hang on" with both hands. Dad +struggled and groaned—then broke into a bellow and roared like a wild +beast. But the dentist only said, "Keep him down!" and the others kept +him down. +</P> + +<P> +Dad's neck was stretching like a gander's, and it looked as if his head +would come off. The dentist threw his shoulders into it like a crack +oarsman—there was a crack, a rip, a tear, and, like a young tree +leaving the ground, two huge, ugly old teeth left Dad's jaw on the end +of that sinew. +</P> + +<P> +"Holy!" cried the dentist, surprised, and we stared. Little Bill made +for the teeth; so did Joe, and there was a fight under the table. +</P> + +<P> +Dad sat in a lump on the floor propping himself up with his hands; his +head dropped forward, and he spat feebly on the floor. +</P> + +<P> +The pressman laughed and slapped Dad on the back, and asked "How do you +feel, old boy?" Dad shook his head and spat and spat. But presently +he wiped his eyes with his shirt-sleeve and looked up. The pressman +told Mother she ought to be proud of Dad. Dad struggled to his feet +then, pale but smiling. The pressman shook hands with him, and in no +time Dad was laughing and joking over the operation. A pleased look +was in Mother's face; happiness filled the home again, and we grew +quite fond of that pressman—he was so jolly and affable, and made +himself so much at home, Mother said. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, sit over, and we'll have supper," said Dad, proud of having some +fried steak to offer the visitors. We had killed a cow the evening +before—one that was always getting bogged in the dam and taking up +much of Dad's time dragging her out and cutting greenstuff to keep her +alive. The visitors enjoyed her. The pressman wanted salt. None was +on the table. Dad told Joe to run and get some—to be quick. Joe went +out, but in a while returned. He stood at the door with the hammer in +his hand and said: +</P> + +<P> +"Did you shift the r-r-r-rock-salt from where S-Spotty was lickin' it +this evenin', Dave?" +</P> + +<P> +Dave reached for the bread. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't bother—don't bother about it," said the pressman. "Sit down, +youngster, and finish your supper." +</P> + +<P> +"No bother at all," Dad said; but Joe sat down, and Dad scowled at him. +</P> + +<P> +Then Dad got talking about wheat and wallabies—when, all at once, the +pressman gave a jump that rattled the things on the table. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh-h-h!...I'VE got it now!" he said, dropping his knife and fork and +clapping his hands over his mouth. "Ooh!" +</P> + +<P> +We looked at him. "Got what?" Dad asked, a gleam of satisfaction +appearing in his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"The toothache!—the d——d toothache!...Oh-h!" +</P> + +<P> +"Ha! ha! Hoo! hoo! hoo!" Dad roared. In fact, we all roared—all but +the pressman. "OH-H!" he said, and went to the fire. Dad laughed some +more. +</P> + +<P> +We ate on. The pressman continued to moan. +</P> + +<P> +Dad turned on his seat. "What paper, mister, do you say you come from?" +</P> + +<P> +"OH-H!...Oh-h, Lord!" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, let me see; I'll have in altogether, I daresay, this year, about +thirty-five acres of wheat—I suppose as good a wheat——" +</P> + +<P> +"Damn the wheat!...OOH!" +</P> + +<P> +"Eh!" said Dad, "why, I never thought toothache was THET bad! You +reminds me of this old cow we be eatin'. SHE moaned just like thet all +the time she was layin' in the gully, afore I knocked 'er on the head." +</P> + +<P> +Canty, the storekeeper, looked up quickly, and the pressman looked +round slowly—both at Dad. +</P> + +<P> +"Here," continued Dad—"let's have a look at yer tooth, old man!" +</P> + +<P> +The pressman rose. His face was flushed and wild-looking. "Come on +out of this—for God's sake!" he said to Canty—"if you're ready." +</P> + +<P> +"What," said Dad, hospitably, "y're not going, surely!" But they were. +"Well, then—thirty-five acres of wheat, I have, and" (putting his head +out the door and calling after them) "NEXT year—next year, all being +well, please God, I'll have SIXTY!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap24"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XXIV. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A Lady at Shingle Hut. +</H3> + +<P> +Miss Ribbone had just arrived. +</P> + +<P> +She was the mistress of the local school, and had come to board with us +a month. The parents of the score of more of youngsters attending the +school had arranged to accommodate her, month about, and it was our +turn. And did n't Mother just load us up how we were to +behave—particularly Joe. +</P> + +<P> +Dad lumbered in the usual log for the fire, and we all helped him throw +it on—all except the schoolmistress. Poor thing! She would have +injured her long, miserable, putty-looking fingers! Such a contrast +between her and Sal! Then we sat down to supper—that old familiar +repast, hot meat and pumpkin. +</P> + +<P> +Somehow we did n't feel quite at home; but Dad got on well. He talked +away learnedly to Miss Ribbone about everything. Told her, without +swearing once, how, when at school in the old country, he fought the +schoolmaster and leathered him well. A pure lie, but an old favourite +of Dad's, and one that never failed to make Joe laugh. He laughed now. +And such a laugh!—a loud, mirthless, merciless noise. No one else +joined in, though Miss Ribbone smiled a little. When Joe recovered he +held out his plate. +</P> + +<P> +"More pumpkin, Dad." +</P> + +<P> +"If—what, sir?" Dad was prompting him in manners. +</P> + +<P> +"IF?" and Joe laughed again. "Who said 'if'?—I never." +</P> + +<P> +Just then Miss Ribbone sprang to her feet, knocking over the box she +had been sitting on, and stood for a time as though she had seen a +ghost. We stared at her. "Oh," she murmured at last, "it was the dog! +It gave me such a fright!" +</P> + +<P> +Mother sympathised with her and seated her again, and Dad fixed his eye +on Joe. +</P> + +<P> +"Did n't I tell you," he said, "to keep that useless damned mongrel of +a dog outside the house altogether—eh?—did n't I? Go this moment and +tie the brute up, you vagabond!" +</P> + +<P> +"I did tie him up, but he chewed the greenhide." +</P> + +<P> +"Be off with you, you—" (Dad coughed suddenly and scattered fragments +of meat and munched pumpkin about the table) "at once, and do as I tell +you, you——" +</P> + +<P> +"That'll do, Father—that'll do," Mother said gently, and Joe took +Stump out to the barn and kicked him, and hit him against the +corn-sheller, and threatened to put him through it if he did n't stop +squealing. +</P> + +<P> +He was a small dog, a dog that was always on the watch—for meat; a +shrewd, intelligent beast that never barked at anyone until he got +inside and well under the bed. Anyway, he had taken a fancy to Miss +Ribbone's stocking, which had fallen down while he was lying under the +table, and commenced to worry it. Then he discovered she had a calf, +and started to eat THAT. She did n't tell US though—she told Mrs. +Macpherson, who imparted the secret to mother. I suppose Stump did n't +understand stockings, because neither Mother nor Sal ever wore any, +except to a picnic or somebody's funeral; and that was very seldom. +The Creek was n't much of a place for sport. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope as you'll be comfortable, my dear," Mother observed as she +showed the young lady the back-room where she was to sleep. "It ain't +s' nice as we should like to have it f' y'; we had n't enough spare +bags to line it all with, but the cracks is pretty well stuffed up with +husks an' one thing an' 'nother, and I don't think you'll find any wind +kin get in. Here's a bear-skin f' your feet, an' I've nailed a bag up +so no one kin see-in in the morning. S' now, I think you'll be pretty +snug." +</P> + +<P> +The schoolmistress cast a distressed look at the waving bag-door and +said: +</P> + +<P> +"Th-h-ank you-very much." +</P> + +<P> +What a voice! I've heard kittens that had n't their eyes open make a +fiercer noise. +</P> + +<P> +Mother must have put all the blessed blankets in the house on the +school-teacher's bed. I don't know what she had on her own, but we +only had the old bag-quilt and a stack of old skirts, and other +remnants of the family wardrobe, on ours. In the middle of the night, +the whole confounded pile of them rolled off, and we nearly froze. Do +what we boys would—tie ourselves in knots and coil into each other +like ropes—we could n't get warm. We sat up in the bed in turns, and +glared into the darkness towards the schoolmistress's room, which was +n't more than three yards away; then we would lie back again and +shiver. We were having a time. But at last we heard a noise from the +young lady's room. We listened—all we knew. Miss Ribbone was up and +dressing. We could hear her teeth chattering and her knees knocking +together. Then we heard her sneak back to bed again and felt +disappointed and colder than ever, for we had hoped she was getting up +early, and would n't want the bed any longer that night. Then we too +crawled out and dressed and tried it that way. +</P> + +<P> +In answer to Mother at breakfast, next morning, Miss Ribbone said she +had "slept very well indeed." +</P> + +<P> +We did n't say anything. +</P> + +<P> +She was n't much of an eater. School-teachers are n't as a rule. +They pick, and paw, and fiddle round a meal in a way that gives a +healthy-appetited person the jim-jams. She did n't touch the fried +pumpkin. And the way she sat there at the table in her watch-chain and +ribbons made poor old Dave, who sat opposite her in a ragged shirt +without a shirt-button, feel quite miserable and awkward. +</P> + +<P> +For a whole week she did n't take anything but bread and tea—though +there was always plenty good pumpkin and all that. Mother used to +speak to Dad about it, and wonder if she ate the little pumpkin-tarts +she put up for her lunch. Dad could n't understand anyone not eating +pumpkin, and said HE'D tackle GRASS before he'd starve. +</P> + +<P> +"And did ever y' see such a object?" Mother went on. "The hands an' +arms on her! Dear me! Why, I do believe if our Sal was to give her +one squeeze she'd kill her. Oh, but the finery and clothes! Y' never +see the like! Just look at her!" And Dad, the great oaf, with Joe at +his heels, followed her into the young lady's bedroom. +</P> + +<P> +"Look at that!" said Mother, pointing to a couple of dresses hanging on +a nail—"she wears THEM on week-days, no less; and here" (raising the +lid of a trunk and exposing a pile of clean and neatly-folded clothing +that might have been anything, and drawing the articles forth one by +one)—"look at them! There's that—and that—and this—and——" +</P> + +<P> +"I say, what's this, Mother?" interrupted Joe, holding up something he +had discovered. +</P> + +<P> +"And that—an'——" +</P> + +<P> +"Mother!" +</P> + +<P> +"And this——" +</P> + +<P> +"Eh, Mother?" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't bother me, boy, it's her tooth-brush," and Mother pitched the +clothes back into the trunk and glared round. Meanwhile, Joe was hard +at his teeth with the brush. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, here!" and she dived at the bed and drew a night-gown from beneath +the pillow, unfolded it, and held it up by the neck for inspection. +</P> + +<P> +Dad, with his huge, ungainly, hairy paws behind him, stood mute, like +the great pitiful elephant he was, and looked at the tucks and the +rest—stupidly. "Where before did y'ever see such tucks and frills and +lace on a night-shirt? Why, you'd think 't were for goin' to picnics +in, 'stead o' goin' to bed with. Here, too! here's a pair of brand new +stays, besides the ones she's on her back. Clothes!—she's nothin' +else but clothes." +</P> + +<P> +Then they came out, and Joe began to spit and said he thought there +must have been something on that brush. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Ribbone did n't stay the full month—she left at the end of the +second week; and Mother often used to wonder afterwards why the +creature never came to see us. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap25"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XXV. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Man with the Bear-Skin Cap. +</H3> + +<P> +One evening a raggedly-dressed man, with a swag on his back, a +bear-skin cap on his head, and a sheath-knife in his belt, came to our +place and took possession of the barn. Dad ordered him off. The man +offered to fight Dad for the barn. Dad ran in and got the gun. Then +the man picked up his swag and went away. The incident caused much +talk for a few days, but we soon forgot all about it; and the man with +the bear-skin cap passed from our minds. +</P> + +<P> +Church service was to be held at our selection. It was the first +occasion, in fact, that the Gospel had come to disturb the contentedly +irreligious mind of our neighbourhood. Service was to open at 3 p.m.; +at break-of-day we had begun to get ready. +</P> + +<P> +Nothing but bustle and hurry. Buttons to be sewn on Dave's shirt; +Dad's pants—washed the night before and left on the clothes-line all +night to bleach—lost; Little Bill's to be patched up generally; Mother +trotting out to the clothes-line every minute to see if Joe's coat was +dry. And, what was unusual, Dave, the easy-going, took a notion to +spruce himself up. He wandered restlessly from one room to another, +robed in a white shirt which was n't starched or ironed, trying hard to +fix a collar to it. He had n't worn the turn-out for a couple of years, +and, of course, had grown out of it, but this did n't seem to strike +him. He tugged and fumbled till he lost patience; then he sat on the +bed and railed at the women, and wished that the shirt and the collar, +and the church-service and the parson, were in Heaven. Mother offered +to fasten the collar, but when she took hold of it—forgetting that her +hands were covered with dough and things—Dave flew clean off the +handle! And when Sal advised him to wear his coloured shirt, same as +Dad was going to do, and reminded him that Mary Anderson might n't come +at all, he aimed a pillow at her and knocked Little Bill under the +table, and scattered husks all over the floor. Then he fled to the +barn and refused dinner. +</P> + +<P> +Mid-day, and Dad's pants not found. We searched inside and outside and +round about the pig-sty, and the hay-stack, and the cow-yard; and eyed +the cows, and the pet kangaroo, and the draught-horses with suspicion; +but saw nothing of the pants. Dad was angry, but had to make the most +of an old pair of Dave's through the legs of which Dad thrust himself a +lot too far. Mother and Sal said he looked well enough in them, but +laughed when he went outside. +</P> + +<P> +The people commenced to arrive on horseback and in drays. The women +went on to the verandah with their babies; the men hung round outside +and waited. Some sat under the peach-tree and nibbled sticks and +killed green-heads; others leant against the fence; while a number +gathered round the pig-sty and talked about curing bacon. +</P> + +<P> +The parson came along. All of them stared at him; watched him unsaddle +his horse and hunt round for a place to fasten the beast. They +regarded the man in the long black coat with awe and wonder. +</P> + +<P> +Everything was now ready, and, when Dad carried in the side-boards of +the dray and placed them on boxes for seat accommodation, the clergyman +awaited his congregation, which had collected at the back-door. +Anderson stepped in; the rest followed, timid-looking, and stood round +the room till the clergyman motioned them to sit. They sat and watched +him closely. +</P> + +<P> +"We'll now join in singing hymn 499," said the parson, commencing to +sing himself. The congregation listened attentively, but did n't join +in. The parson jerked his arms encouragingly at them, which only made +them the more uneasy. They did n't understand. He snapped his arms +harder, as he lifted his voice to the rafters; still they only stared. +At last Dad thought he saw through him. He bravely stood up and looked +hard at the others. They took the hint and rose clumsily to their +feet, but just then the hymn closed, and, as no one seemed to know +when to sit again, they remained standing. +</P> + +<P> +They were standing when a loud whip-crack sounded close to the house, +and a lusty voice roared: +</P> + +<P> +"Wah Tumbler! Wah Tumbler! Gee back, Brandy! Gee back, +you——!——!!——!!!" +</P> + +<P> +People smiled. Then a team of bullocks appeared on the road. The +driver drawled, "Wa-a-a-y!" and the team stopped right in front of the +door. The driver lifted something weighty from the dray and struggled +to the verandah with it and dropped it down. It was a man. The +bullock-driver, of course, did n't know that a religious service was +being conducted inside, and the chances are he did n't much care. He +only saw a number of faces looking out, and talked at them. +</P> + +<P> +"I've a —— cove here," he said, "that I found lying on the —— +plain. Gawd knows what's up with him—I don't. A good square feed is +about what he wants, I reckon." Then he went back for the man's swag. +</P> + +<P> +Dad, after hesitating, rose and went out. The others followed like a +flock of sheep; and the "shepherd" brought up the rear. Church was +out. It gathered around the seeming corpse, and stared hard at it. Dad +and Dave spoke at the same time. +</P> + +<P> +"Why," they said, "it's the cove with the bear-skin cap!" Sure enough +it was. The clergyman knelt down and felt the man's pulse; then went +and brought a bottle from his valise—he always carried the bottle, he +said, in case of snake-bite and things like that—and poured some of +the contents down the man's throat. The colour began to come to the +man's face. The clergyman gave him some more, and in a while the man +opened his eyes. They rested on Dad, who was bending benignly over him. +He seemed to recognise Dad. He stared for some time at him, then said +something in a feeble whisper, which the clergyman interpreted—"He +wishes you—" looking at Dad—"to get what's in his swag if he dies." +Dad nodded, and his thoughts went sadly back to the day he turned the +poor devil out of the barn. +</P> + +<P> +They carried the man inside and placed him on the sofa. But soon he +took a turn. He sank quickly, and in a few moments he was dead. In a +few moments more nearly everyone had gone. +</P> + +<P> +"While you are here," Dad said to the clergyman, in a soft voice, "I'll +open the swag." He commenced to unroll it—it was a big blanket—and +when he got to the end there were his own trousers—the lost ones, +nothing more. Dad's eyes met Mother's; Dave's met Sal's; none of them +spoke. But the clergyman drew his own conclusions; and on the +following Sunday, at Nobby-Nobby, he preached a stirring sermon on that +touching bequest of the man with the bear-skin cap. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap26"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Chapter XXVI. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +One Christmas. +</H3> + +<P> +Three days to Christmas; and how pleased we were! For months we had +looked forward to it. Kate and Sandy, whom we had only seen once since +they went on their selection, were to be home. Dave, who was away +shearing for the first time, was coming home too. Norah, who had been +away for a year teaching school, was home already. Mother said she +looked quite the lady, and Sal envied the fashionable cut of her +dresses. +</P> + +<P> +Things were in a fair way at Shingle Hut; rain had fallen and +everything looked its best. The grass along the headlands was almost +as tall as the corn; the Bathurst-burr, the Scotch-thistles, and the +"stinking Roger" were taller. Grow! Dad never saw the like. Why, the +cultivation was n't large enough to hold the melon and pumpkin +vines—they travelled into the horse-paddock and climbed up trees and +over logs and stumps, and they would have fastened on the horses only +the horses were fat and fresh and often galloped about. And the stock! +Blest if the old cows did n't carry udders like camp-ovens, and had so +much milk that one could track them everywhere they went—they leaked +so. The old plough-horses, too—only a few months before dug out of +the dam with a spade, and slung up between heaven and earth for a week, +and fed and prayed for regularly by Dad—actually bolted one day with +the dray because Joe rattled a dish of corn behind them. Even the pet +kangaroo was nearly jumping out of its skin; and it took the big black +"goanna" that used to come after eggs all its time to beat Dad from the +barn to the nearest tree, so fat was it. And such a season for +butterflies and grasshoppers, and grubs and snakes, and native bears! +Given an ass, an elephant, and an empty wine-bottle or two, and one +might have thought Noah's ark had been emptied at our selection. +</P> + +<P> +Two days to Christmas. The sun getting low. An old cow and a heifer +in the stock-yard. Dad in, admiring them; Mother and Sal squinting +through the rails; little Bill perched on one of the round posts, +nursing the steel and a long knife; Joe running hard from the barn with +a plough-rein. +</P> + +<P> +Dad was wondering which beast to kill, and expressed a preference for +the heifer. Mother said, "No, kill the cow." Dad inspected the cow +again, and shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, if you don't she'll only die, if the winter's a hard one; then +you'll have neither." That settled it. Dad took the rope from Joe, +who arrived aglow with heat and excitement, and fixed a running noose +on one end of it. Then— +</P> + +<P> +"Hunt 'em round!" he cried. +</P> + +<P> +Joe threw his hat at them, and chased them round and round the yard. +Dad turned slowly in the centre, like a ring-master, his eye on the +cow; a coil of rope was in this left hand, and with the right he +measuredly swung the loop over and over his head for some time. At +last the cow gave him a chance at her horns, and he let fly. The rope +whizzed across the yard, caught little Bill round the neck, and brought +him down off the post. Dad could hardly believe it. He first stared at +Bill as he rolled in the yard, then at the cow. Mother wished to know +if he wanted to kill the boy, and Joe giggled and, with a deal of +courage, assured Dad it was "a fine shot." The cow and the heifer ran +into a corner, and switched their tails, and raked skin and hair off +each other with their horns. +</P> + +<P> +"What do you want to be always stuck in the road for?" Dad growled, +taking the rope off little Bill's neck. "Go away from here +altogether!" Little Bill went away; so did Mother and Sal—until Dad +had roped the cow, which was n't before he twice lassoed the +heifer—once by the fore-leg and once round the flanks. The cow +thereupon carried a panel of the yard away, and got out and careered +down the lane, bucking and bellowing till all the cattle of the country +gathered about her. +</P> + +<P> +Dad's blood was up. He was hanging on to the rope, his heels ploughing +the dust, and the cow pulling him about as she liked. The sun was +setting; a beautiful sunset, too, and Mother and Sal were admiring it. +</P> + +<P> +"Did y' never see th' blasted sun go—go down be——" Dad did n't +finish. He feet slid under a rail, causing him to relax his grip of the +rope and sprawl in the dust. But when he rose! +</P> + +<P> +"Are y' going t' stand staring there all night?" They were beside the +rails in an instant, took the end of the rope which he passed to them, +put it once round the gallows-post, and pulled-pulled like sailors. +Dad hung on close to the cow's head, while Joe kicked her with his bare +foot and screwed her tail. +</P> + +<P> +"Steady!" said Dad, "that'll about do." Then, turning to the women as +he mounted a rail and held the axe above the cow's head: "Hang on +there now!" They closed their eyes and sat back. The cow was very +patient. Dad extended himself for a great effort, but hesitated. Joe +called out: "L-l-ook out th' axe dud-dud-don't fly and gug-gug-get me, +Dad!" Dad glanced quickly at it, and took aim again. Down it came, +whish! But the cow moved, and he only grazed her cheek. She bellowed +and pulled back, and Mother and Sal groaned and let the rope go. The +cow swung round and charged Joe, who was standing with his mouth open. +But only a charge of shot could catch Joe; he mounted the rails like a +cat and shook his hat at the beast below. +</P> + +<P> +After Dad had nearly brained her with a rail the cow was dragged to the +post again; and this time Dad made no mistake. Down she dropped, and, +before she could give her last kick, all of us entered the yard and +approached her boldly. Dad danced about excitedly, asking for the long +knife. Nobody knew where it was. "DAMN it, where is it?" he cried, +impatiently. Everyone flew round in search of it but Joe. HE was +curious to know if the cow was in milk. Dad noticed him; sprang upon +him; seized him by the shirt collar and swung him round and trailed him +through the yard, saying: "Find me th' knife; d' y' HEAR?" It seemed +to sharpen Joe's memory, for he suddenly remembered having stuck it in +one of the rails. +</P> + +<P> +Dad bled the beast, but it was late before he had it skinned and +dressed. When the carcase was hoisted to the gallows—and it seemed +gruesome enough as it hung there in the pallid light of the moon, with +the night birds dismally wailing like mourners from the lonely +trees—we went home and had supper. +</P> + +<P> +Christmas Eve. Mother and Sal had just finished papering the walls, +and we were busy decorating the place with green boughs, when Sandy and +Kate, in their best clothes—Kate seated behind a well-filled +pillow-slip strapped on the front of her saddle; Sandy with the baby in +front of him—came jogging along the lane. There was commotion! +Everything was thrown aside to receive them. They were surrounded at +the slip-rails, and when they got down—talk about kissing! Dad was +the only one who escaped. When the hugging commenced he poked his head +under the flap of Kate's saddle and commenced unbuckling the girth. +Dad had been at such receptions before. But Sandy took it all meekly. +And the baby! (the dear little thing) they scrimmaged about it, and +mugged it, and fought for possession of it until Sandy became alarmed +and asked them to "Mind!" +</P> + +<P> +Inside they sat and drank tea and talked about things that had happened +and things that had n't happened. Then they got back to the baby and +disagreed on the question of family likeness. Kate thought the +youngster was the dead image of Sandy about the mouth and eyes. Sal +said it had Dad's nose; while Mother was reminded of her dear old +grandmother every time the infant smiled. Joe ventured to think it +resembled Paddy Maloney far more than it did Sandy, and was told to run +away and put the calves in. The child was n't yet christened, and the +rest of the evening was spent selecting a name for it. Almost every +appellation under the sun was suggested and promptly rejected. They +could n't hit on a suitable one, and Kate would n't have anything that +was n't nice, till at last Dad thought of one that pleased +everybody—"Jim!" +</P> + +<P> +After supper, Kate started playing the concertina, and the Andersons +and Maloneys and several others dropped in. Dad was pleased to see +them; he wished them all a merry Christmas, and they wished him the +same and many of them. Then the table was put outside, and the room +cleared for a dance. The young people took the floor and waltzed, I +dare say, for miles—their heads as they whirled around tossing the +green bushes that dangled from the rafters; while the old people, with +beaming faces, sat admiring them, and swaying their heads about and +beating time to the music by patting the floor with their feet. +Someone called out "Faster!" Kate gave it faster. Then to see them and +to hear the rattle of the boots upon the floor! You'd think they were +being carried away in a whirlwind. All but Sal and Paddy Maloney gave +up and leant against the wall, and puffed and mopped their faces and +their necks with their pocket-handkerchiefs. +</P> + +<P> +Faster still went the music; faster whirled Sal and Paddy Maloney. And +Paddy was on his mettle. He was lifting Sal off her feet. But Kate +was showing signs of distress. She leaned forward, jerked her head +about, and tugged desperately at the concertina till both handles left +it. That ended the tussle; and Paddy spread himself on the floor, his +back to the wall, his legs extending to the centre of the room, his +chin on his chest, and rested. +</P> + +<P> +Then enjoyment at high tide; another dance proposed; Sal trying hard to +persuade Dad to take Mother or Mrs. Maloney up; Dad saying "Tut, tut, +tut!"—when in popped Dave, and stood near the door. He had n't +changed his clothes, and was grease from top to toe. A saddle-strap +was in one hand, his Sunday clothes, tied up in a handkerchief, in the +other, and his presence made the room smell just like a woolshed. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, Dave!" shouted everyone. He said "Well!" and dropped his hat +in a corner. No fuss, no kissing, no nothing about Dave. Mother asked +if he did n't see Kate and Sandy (both were smiling across the room at +him), and he said "Yairs"; then went out to have a wash. +</P> + +<P> +All night they danced—until the cocks crew—until the darkness gave +way to the dawn—until the fowls left the roost and came round the +door—until it was Christmas Day! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of On Our Selection, by Steele Rudd + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON OUR SELECTION *** + +***** This file should be named 3677-h.htm or 3677-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/7/3677/ + +Produced by Col Choat. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: On Our Selection + +Author: Steele Rudd + +Posting Date: June 20, 2009 [EBook #3677] +Release Date: January, 2003 +First Posted: July 16, 2001 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON OUR SELECTION *** + + + + +Produced by Col Choat. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + + + + + +On Our Selection + + +Steele Rudd (Arthur Hoey Davis) + + + + + +PIONEERS OF AUSTRALIA! + + To You "Who Gave Our Country Birth;" + to the memory of You + whose names, whose giant enterprise, whose deeds of + fortitude and daring + were never engraved on tablet or tombstone; + to You who strove through the silences of the Bush-lands + and made them ours; + to You who delved and toiled in loneliness through + the years that have faded away; + to You who have no place in the history of our Country + so far as it is yet written; + to You who have done MOST for this Land; + to You for whom few, in the march of settlement, in the turmoil + of busy city life, now appear to care; + and to you particularly, + GOOD OLD DAD, + This Book is most affectionately dedicated. + +"STEELE RUDD." + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + CHAPTER I. STARTING THE SELECTION + CHAPTER II. OUR FIRST HARVEST + CHAPTER III. BEFORE WE GOT THE DEEDS + CHAPTER IV. WHEN THE WOLF WAS AT THE DOOR + CHAPTER V. THE NIGHT WE WATCHED FOR WALLABIES + CHAPTER VI. GOOD OLD BESS + CHAPTER VII. CRANKY JACK + CHAPTER VIII. A KANGAROO HUNT FROM SHINGLE HUT + CHAPTER IX. DAVE'S SNAKEBITE + CHAPTER X. DAD AND THE DONOVANS + CHAPTER XI. A SPLENDID YEAR FOR CORN + CHAPTER XII. KATE'S WEDDING + CHAPTER XIII. THE SUMMER OLD BOB DIED + CHAPTER XIV. WHEN DAN CAME HOME + CHAPTER XV. OUR CIRCUS + CHAPTER XVI. WHEN JOE WAS IN CHARGE + CHAPTER XVII. DAD'S "FORTUNE" + CHAPTER XVIII. WE EMBARK IN THE BEAR INDUSTRY + CHAPTER XIX. NELL AND NED + CHAPTER XX THE COW WE BOUGHT + CHAPTER XXI. THE PARSON AND THE SCONE + CHAPTER XXII. CALLAGHAN'S COLT + CHAPTER XXIII. THE AGRICULTURAL REPORTER + CHAPTER XXIV. A LADY AT SHINGLE HUT + CHAPTER XXV. THE MAN WITH THE BEAR-SKIN CAP + CHAPTER XXVI. CHRISTMAS + + + + +On Our Selection. + + + +Chapter I. + +Starting the Selection. + + +It's twenty years ago now since we settled on the Creek. Twenty years! +I remember well the day we came from Stanthorpe, on Jerome's +dray--eight of us, and all the things--beds, tubs, a bucket, the two +cedar chairs with the pine bottoms and backs that Dad put in them, some +pint-pots and old Crib. It was a scorching hot day, too--talk about +thirst! At every creek we came to we drank till it stopped running. + +Dad did n't travel up with us: he had gone some months before, to put +up the house and dig the waterhole. It was a slabbed house, with +shingled roof, and space enough for two rooms; but the partition was +n't up. The floor was earth; but Dad had a mixture of sand and fresh +cow-dung with which he used to keep it level. About once every month +he would put it on; and everyone had to keep outside that day till it +was dry. There were no locks on the doors: pegs were put in to keep +them fast at night; and the slabs were not very close together, for we +could easily see through them anybody coming on horseback. Joe and I +used to play at counting the stars through the cracks in the roof. + +The day after we arrived Dad took Mother and us out to see the paddock +and the flat on the other side of the gully that he was going to clear +for cultivation. There was no fence round the paddock, but he pointed +out on a tree the surveyor's marks, showing the boundary of our ground. +It must have been fine land, the way Dad talked about it! There was +very valuable timber on it, too, so he said; and he showed us a place, +among some rocks on a ridge, where he was sure gold would be found, but +we were n't to say anything about it. Joe and I went back that evening +and turned over every stone on the ridge, but we did n't find any gold. + +No mistake, it was a real wilderness--nothing but trees, "goannas," +dead timber, and bears; and the nearest house--Dwyer's--was three miles +away. I often wonder how the women stood it the first few years; and I +can remember how Mother, when she was alone, used to sit on a log, +where the lane is now, and cry for hours. Lonely! It WAS lonely. + +Dad soon talked about clearing a couple of acres and putting in +corn--all of us did, in fact--till the work commenced. It was a +delightful topic before we started,; but in two weeks the clusters of +fires that illumined the whooping bush in the night, and the crash upon +crash of the big trees as they fell, had lost all their poetry. + +We toiled and toiled clearing those four acres, where the haystacks are +now standing, till every tree and sapling that had grown there was +down. We thought then the worst was over; but how little we knew of +clearing land! Dad was never tired of calculating and telling us how +much the crop would fetch if the ground could only be got ready in time +to put it in; so we laboured the harder. + +With our combined male and female forces and the aid of a sapling lever +we rolled the thundering big logs together in the face of Hell's own +fires; and when there were no logs to roll it was tramp, tramp the day +through, gathering armfuls of sticks, while the clothes clung to our +backs with a muddy perspiration. Sometimes Dan and Dave would sit in +the shade beside the billy of water and gaze at the small patch that +had taken so long to do; then they would turn hopelessly to what was +before them and ask Dad (who would never take a spell) what was the use +of thinking of ever getting such a place cleared? And when Dave wanted +to know why Dad did n't take up a place on the plain, where there were +no trees to grub and plenty of water, Dad would cough as if something +was sticking in his throat, and then curse terribly about the squatters +and political jobbery. He would soon cool down, though, and get hopeful +again. + +"Look at the Dwyers," he'd say; "from ten acres of wheat they got +seventy pounds last year, besides feed for the fowls; they've got corn +in now, and there's only the two." + +It was n't only burning off! Whenever there came a short drought the +waterhole was sure to run dry; then it was take turns to carry water +from the springs--about two miles. We had no draught horse, and if we +had there was neither water-cask, trolly, nor dray; so we humped +it--and talk about a drag! By the time you returned, if you had n't +drained the bucket, in spite of the big drink you'd take before leaving +the springs, more than half would certainly be spilt through the vessel +bumping against your leg every time you stumbled in the long grass. +Somehow, none of us liked carrying water. We would sooner keep the +fires going all day without dinner than do a trip to the springs. + +One hot, thirsty day it was Joe's turn with the bucket, and he managed +to get back without spilling very much. We were all pleased because +there was enough left after the tea had been made to give each a drink. +Dinner was nearly over; Dan had finished, and was taking it easy on the +sofa, when Joe said: + +"I say, Dad, what's a nater-dog like?" Dad told him: "Yellow, sharp +ears and bushy tail." + +"Those muster bin some then thet I seen--I do n't know 'bout the bushy +tail--all th' hair had comed off." "Where'd y' see them, Joe?" we +asked. "Down 'n th' springs floating about--dead." + +Then everyone seemed to think hard and look at the tea. I did n't want +any more. Dan jumped off the sofa and went outside; and Dad looked +after Mother. + +At last the four acres--excepting the biggest of the iron-bark trees +and about fifty stumps--were pretty well cleared; and then came a +problem that could n't be worked-out on a draught-board. I have +already said that we had n't any draught horses; indeed, the only thing +on the selection like a horse was an old "tuppy" mare that Dad used to +straddle. The date of her foaling went further back than Dad's, I +believe; and she was shaped something like an alderman. We found her +one day in about eighteen inches of mud, with both eyes picked out by +the crows, and her hide bearing evidence that a feathery tribe had made +a roost of her carcase. Plainly, there was no chance of breaking up +the ground with her help. We had no plough, either; how then was the +corn to be put in? That was the question. + +Dan and Dave sat outside in the corner of the chimney, both scratching +the ground with a chip and not saying anything. Dad and Mother sat +inside talking it over. Sometimes Dad would get up and walk round the +room shaking his head; then he would kick old Crib for lying under the +table. At last Mother struck something which brightened him up, and he +called Dave. + +"Catch Topsy and--" He paused because he remembered the old mare was +dead. + +"Run over and ask Mister Dwyer to lend me three hoes." + +Dave went; Dwyer lent the hoes; and the problem was solved. That was +how we started. + + + + +Chapter II. + +Our First Harvest + + +If there is anything worse than burr-cutting or breaking stones, it's +putting corn in with a hoe. + +We had just finished. The girls were sowing the last of the grain when +Fred Dwyer appeared on the scene. Dad stopped and talked with him +while we (Dan, Dave and myself) sat on our hoe-handles, like kangaroos +on their tails, and killed flies. Terrible were the flies, +particularly when you had sore legs or the blight. + +Dwyer was a big man with long, brown arms and red, bushy whiskers. + +"You must find it slow work with a hoe?" he said. + +"Well-yes-pretty," replied Dad (just as if he was n't quite sure). + +After a while Dwyer walked over the "cultivation", and looked at it +hard, then scraped a hole with the heel of his boot, spat, and said he +did n't think the corn would ever come up. Dan slid off his perch at +this, and Dave let the flies eat his leg nearly off without seeming to +feel it; but Dad argued it out. + +"Orright, orright," said Dwyer; "I hope it do." + +Then Dad went on to speak of places he knew of where they preferred +hoes to a plough for putting corn in with; but Dwyer only laughed and +shook his head. + +"D--n him!" Dad muttered, when he had gone; "what rot! WON'T COME UP!" + +Dan, who was still thinking hard, at last straightened himself up and +said HE did n't think it was any use either. Then Dad lost his temper. + +"No USE?" he yelled, "you whelp, what do you know about it?" + +Dan answered quietly: "On'y this, that it's nothing but tomfoolery, +this hoe business." + +"How would you do it then?" Dad roared, and Dan hung his head and tried +to button his buttonless shirt wrist-band while he thought. + +"With a plough," he answered. + +Something in Dad's throat prevented him saying what he wished, so he +rushed at Dan with the hoe, but--was too slow. + +Dan slept outside that night. + +No sooner was the grain sown than it rained. How it rained! for +weeks! And in the midst of it all the corn came up--every grain-and +proved Dwyer a bad prophet. Dad was in high spirits and promised each +of us something--new boots all round. + +The corn continued to grow--so did our hopes, but a lot faster. +Pulling the suckers and "heeling it up" with hoes was but child's +play--we liked it. Our thoughts were all on the boots; 'twas months +months since we had pulled on a pair. Every night, in bed, we decided +twenty times over whether they would be lace-ups or bluchers, and Dave +had a bottle of "goanna" oil ready to keep his soft with. + +Dad now talked of going up country--as Mother put it, "to keep the wolf +from the door"--while the four acres of corn ripened. He went, and +returned on the day Tom and Bill were born--twins. Maybe his absence +did keep the wolf from the door, but it did n't keep the dingoes from +the fowl-house! + +Once the corn ripened it did n't take long to pull it, but Dad had to +put on his considering-cap when we came to the question of getting it +in. To hump it in bags seemed inevitable till Dwyer asked Dad to give +him a hand to put up a milking-yard. Then Dad's chance came, and he +seized it. + +Dwyer, in return for Dad's labour, carted in the corn and took it to +the railway-station when it was shelled. Yes, when it WAS shelled! We +had to shell it with our hands, and what a time we had! For the first +half-hour we did n't mind it at all, and shelled cob after cob as +though we liked it; but next day, talk about blisters! we could n't +close our hands for them, and our faces had to go without a wash for a +fortnight. + +Fifteen bags we got off the four acres, and the storekeeper undertook +to sell it. Corn was then at 12 shillings and 14 shillings per +bushel, and Dad expected a big cheque. + +Every day for nearly three weeks he trudged over to the store (five +miles) and I went with him. Each time the storekeeper would shake his +head and say "No word yet." + +Dad could n't understand. At last word did come. The storekeeper was +busy serving a customer when we went in, so he told Dad to "hold on a +bit". + +Dad felt very pleased--so did I. + +The customer left. The storekeeper looked at Dad and twirled a piece +of string round his first finger, then said--"Twelve pounds your corn +cleared, Mr. Rudd; but, of course" (going to a desk) "there's that +account of yours which I have credited with the amount of the +cheque--that brings it down now to just three pound, as you will see by +the account." + +Dad was speechless, and looked sick. + +He went home and sat on a block and stared into the fire with his chin +resting in his hands, till Mother laid her hand upon his shoulder and +asked him kindly what was the matter. Then he drew the storekeeper's +bill from his pocket, and handed it to her, and she too sat down and +gazed into the fire. + +That was OUR first harvest. + + + + +Chapter III. + +Before We Got The Deeds + + +Our selection adjoined a sheep-run on the Darling Downs, and boasted of +few and scant improvements, though things had gradually got a little +better than when we started. A verandahless four-roomed slab-hut now +standing out from a forest of box-trees, a stock-yard, and six acres +under barley were the only evidence of settlement. A few horses--not +ours--sometimes grazed about; and occasionally a mob of cattle--also +not ours--cows with young calves, steers, and an old bull or two, would +stroll around, chew the best legs of any trousers that might be hanging +on the log reserved as a clothes-line, then leave in the night and be +seen no more for months--some of them never. + +And yet we were always out of meat! + +Dad was up the country earning a few pounds--the corn drove him up when +it did n't bring what he expected. All we got out of it was a bag of +flour--I do n't know what the storekeeper got. Before he left we put +in the barley. Somehow, Dad did n't believe in sowing any more crops, +he seemed to lose heart; but Mother talked it over with him, and when +reminded that he would soon be entitled to the deeds he brightened up +again and worked. How he worked! + +We had no plough, so old Anderson turned over the six acres for us, and +Dad gave him a pound an acre--at least he was to send him the first six +pounds got up country. Dad sowed the seed; then he, Dan and Dave yoked +themselves to a large dry bramble each and harrowed it in. From the +way they sweated it must have been hard work. Sometimes they would sit +down in the middle of the paddock and "spell" but Dad would say +something about getting the deeds and they'd start again. + +A cockatoo-fence was round the barley; and wire-posts, a long distance +apart, round the grass-paddock. We were to get the wire to put in when +Dad sent the money; and apply for the deeds when he came back. Things +would be different then, according to Dad, and the farm would be worked +properly. We would break up fifty acres, build a barn, buy a reaper, +ploughs, cornsheller, get cows and good horses, and start two or three +ploughs. Meanwhile, if we (Dan, Dave and I) minded the barley he was +sure there'd be something got out of it. + +Dad had been away about six weeks. Travellers were passing by every +day, and there was n't one that did n't want a little of something or +other. Mother used to ask them if they had met Dad? None ever did +until an old grey man came along and said he knew Dad well--he had +camped with him one night and shared a damper. Mother was very pleased +and brought him in. We had a kangaroo-rat (stewed) for dinner that day. +The girls did n't want to lay it on the table at first, but Mother said +he would n't know what it was. The traveller was very hungry and liked +it, and when passing his plate the second time for more, said it was +n't often he got any poultry. + +He tramped on again, and the girls were very glad he did n't know it +was a rat. But Dave was n't so sure that he did n't know a rat from a +rooster, and reckoned he had n't met Dad at all. + +The seventh week Dad came back. He arrived at night, and the lot of us +had to get up to find the hammer to knock the peg out of the door and +let him in. He brought home three pounds--not enough to get the wire +with, but he also brought a horse and saddle. He did n't say if he +bought them. It was a bay mare, a grand animal for a journey--so Dad +said--and only wanted condition. Emelina, he called her. No mistake, +she was a quiet mare! We put her where there was good feed, but she +was n't one that fattened on grass. Birds took kindly to her--crows +mostly--and she could n't go anywhere but a flock of them accompanied +her. Even when Dad used to ride her (Dan or Dave never rode her) they +used to follow, and would fly on ahead to wait in a tree and "caw" when +he was passing beneath. + +One morning when Dan was digging potatoes for dinner--splendid potatoes +they were, too, Dad said; he had only once tasted sweeter ones, but +they were grown in a cemetery--he found the kangaroos had been in the +barley. We knew what THAT meant, and that night made fires round it, +thinking to frighten them off, but did n't--mobs of them were in at +daybreak. Dad swore from the house at them, but they took no notice; +and when he ran down, they just hopped over the fence and sat looking +at him. Poor Dad! I do n't know if he was knocked up or if he did n't +know any more, but he stopped swearing and sat on a stump looking at a +patch of barley they had destroyed, and shaking his head. Perhaps he +was thinking if he only had a dog! We did have one until he got a +bait. Old Crib! He was lying under the table at supper-time when he +took the first fit, and what a fright we got! He must have reared +before stiffening out, because he capsized the table into Mother's lap, +and everything on it smashed except the tin-plates and the pints. The +lamp fell on Dad, too, and the melted fat scalded his arm. Dad dragged +Crib out and cut off his tail and ears, but he might as well have taken +off his head. + +Dad stood with his back to the fire while Mother was putting a stitch +in his trousers. "There's nothing for it but to watch them at night," +he was saying, when old Anderson appeared and asked "if I could have +those few pounds." Dad asked Mother if she had any money in the house? +Of course she had n't. Then he told Anderson he would let him have it +when he got the deeds. Anderson left, and Dad sat on the edge of the +sofa and seemed to be counting the grains on a corn-cob that he lifted +from the floor, while Mother sat looking at a kangaroo-tail on the +table and did n't notice the cat drag it off. At last Dad said, "Ah, +well!--it won't be long now, Ellen, before we have the deeds!" + +We took it in turns to watch the barley. Dan and the two girls watched +the first half of the night, and Dad, Dave and I the second. Dad +always slept in his clothes, and he used to think some nights that the +others came in before time. It was terrible going out, half awake, to +tramp round that paddock from fire to fire, from hour to hour, shouting +and yelling. And how we used to long for daybreak! Whenever we sat +down quietly together for a few minutes we would hear the dull THUD! +THUD! THUD!--the kangaroo's footstep. + +At last we each carried a kerosene tin, slung like a kettle-drum, and +belted it with a waddy--Dad's idea. He himself manipulated an old bell +that he had found on a bullock's grave, and made a splendid noise with +it. + +It was a hard struggle, but we succeeded in saving the bulk of the +barley, and cut it down with a scythe and three reaping-hooks. The +girls helped to bind it, and Jimmy Mulcahy carted it in return for +three days' binding Dad put in for him. The stack was n't built +twenty-four hours when a score of somebody's crawling cattle ate their +way up to their tails in it. We took the hint and put a sapling fence +round it. + +Again Dad decided to go up country for a while. He caught Emelina +after breakfast, rolled up a blanket, told us to watch the stack, and +started. The crows followed. + +We were having dinner. Dave said, "Listen!" We listened, and it +seemed as though all the crows and other feathered demons of the wide +bush were engaged in a mighty scrimmage. "Dad's back!" Dan said, and +rushed out in the lead of a stampede. + +Emelina was back, anyway, with the swag on, but Dad was n't. We caught +her, and Dave pointed to white spots all over the saddle, and +said--"Hanged if they have n't been ridin' her!"--meaning the crows. + +Mother got anxious, and sent Dan to see what had happened. Dan found +Dad, with his shirt off, at a pub on the main road, wanting to fight +the publican for a hundred pounds, but could n't persuade him to come +home. Two men brought him home that night on a sheep-hurdle, and he +gave up the idea of going away. + +After all, the barley turned out well--there was a good price that +year, and we were able to run two wires round the paddock. + +One day a bulky Government letter came. Dad looked surprised and +pleased, and how his hand trembled as he broke the seal! "THE DEEDS!" +he said, and all of us gathered round to look at them. Dave thought +they were like the inside of a bear-skin covered with writing. + +Dad said he would ride to town at once, and went for Emelina. + +"Could n't y' find her, Dad?" Dan said, seeing him return without the +mare. + +Dad cleared his throat, but did n't answer. Mother asked him. + +"Yes, I FOUND her," he said slowly, "DEAD." + +The crows had got her at last. + +He wrapped the deeds in a piece of rag and walked. + +There was nothing, scarcely, that he did n't send out from town, and +Jimmy Mulcahy and old Anderson many and many times after that borrowed +our dray. + +Now Dad regularly curses the deeds every mail-day, and wishes to Heaven +he had never got them. + + + + +Chapter IV. + +When the Wolf was at the Door. + + +There had been a long stretch of dry weather, and we were cleaning out +the waterhole. Dad was down the hole shovelling up the dirt; Joe +squatted on the brink catching flies and letting them go again without +their wings--a favourite amusement of his; while Dan and Dave cut a +drain to turn the water that ran off the ridge into the hole--when it +rained. Dad was feeling dry, and told Joe to fetch him a drink. + +Joe said: "See first if this cove can fly with only one wing." Then he +went, but returned and said: "There's no water in the bucket--Mother +used the last drop to boil th' punkins," and renewed the fly-catching. +Dad tried to spit, and was going to say something when Mother, half-way +between the house and the waterhole, cried out that the grass paddock +was all on fire. "So it is, Dad!" said Joe, slowly but surely +dragging the head off a fly with finger and thumb. + +Dad scrambled out of the hole and looked. "Good God!" was all he said. +How he ran! All of us rushed after him except Joe--he could n't run +very well, because the day before he had ridden fifteen miles on a poor +horse, bare-back. When near the fire Dad stopped running to break a +green bush. He hit upon a tough one. Dad was in a hurry. The bush was +n't. Dad swore and tugged with all his might. Then the bush broke and +Dad fell heavily upon his back and swore again. + +To save the cockatoo fence that was round the cultivation was what was +troubling Dad. Right and left we fought the fire with boughs. Hot! +It was hellish hot! Whenever there was a lull in the wind we worked. +Like a wind-mill Dad's bough moved--and how he rushed for another when +one was used up! Once we had the fire almost under control; but the +wind rose again, and away went the flames higher and faster than ever. + +"It's no use," said Dad at last, placing his hand on his head, and +throwing down his bough. We did the same, then stood and watched the +fence go. After supper we went out again and saw it still burning. Joe +asked Dad if he did n't think it was a splendid sight? Dad did n't +answer him--he did n't seem conversational that night. + +We decided to put the fence up again. Dan had sharpened the axe with a +broken file, and he and Dad were about to start when Mother asked them +what was to be done about flour? She said she had shaken the bag to +get enough to make scones for that morning's breakfast, and unless some +was got somewhere there would be no bread for dinner. + +Dad reflected, while Dan felt the edge on the axe with his thumb. + +Dad said, "Won't Missus Dwyer let you have a dishful until we get some?" + +"No," Mother answered; "I can't ask her until we send back what we owe +them." + +Dad reflected again. "The Andersons, then?" he said. + +Mother shook her head and asked what good there was it sending to them +when they, only that morning, had sent to her for some? + +"Well, we must do the best we can at present," Dad answered, "and I'll +go to the store this evening and see what is to be done." + +Putting the fence up again in the hurry that Dad was in was the very +devil! He felled the saplings--and such saplings!--TREES many of them +were--while we, "all of a muck of sweat," dragged them into line. Dad +worked like a horse himself, and expected us to do the same. "Never +mind staring about you," he'd say, if he caught us looking at the sun +to see if it were coming dinner-time--"there's no time to lose if we +want to get the fence up and a crop in." + +Dan worked nearly as hard as Dad until he dropped the butt-end of a +heavy sapling on his foot, which made him hop about on one leg and say +that he was sick and tired of the dashed fence. Then he argued with +Dad, and declared that it would be far better to put a wire-fence up at +once, and be done with it, instead of wasting time over a thing that +would only be burnt down again. "How long," he said, "will it take to +get the posts? Not a week," and he hit the ground disgustedly with a +piece of stick he had in his hand. + +"Confound it!" Dad said, "have n't you got any sense, boy? What earthly +use would a wire-fence be without any wire in it?" + +Then we knocked off and went to dinner. + +No one appeared in any humour to talk at the table. Mother sat +silently at the end and poured out the tea while Dad, at the head, +served the pumpkin and divided what cold meat there was. Mother would +n't have any meat--one of us would have to go without if she had taken +any. + +I don't know if it was on account of Dan arguing with him, or if it was +because there was no bread for dinner, that Dad was in a bad temper; +anyway, he swore at Joe for coming to the table with dirty hands. Joe +cried and said that he could n't wash them when Dave, as soon as he had +washed his, had thrown the water out. Then Dad scowled at Dave, and +Joe passed his plate along for more pumpkin. + +Dinner was almost over when Dan, still looking hungry, grinned and +asked Dave if he was n't going to have some BREAD? Whereupon Dad +jumped up in a tearing passion. "D--n your insolence!" he said to Dan, +"make a jest of it, would you?" + +"Who's jestin'?" Dan answered and grinned again. + +"Go!" said Dad, furiously, pointing to the door, "leave my roof, you +thankless dog!" + +Dan went that night. + +It was only upon Dad promising faithfully to reduce his account within +two months that the storekeeper let us have another bag of flour on +credit. And what a change that bag of flour wrought! How cheerful the +place became all at once! And how enthusiastically Dad spoke of the +farm and the prospects of the coming season! + +Four months had gone by. The fence had been up some time and ten acres +of wheat put in; but there had been no rain, and not a grain had come +up, or was likely to. + +Nothing had been heard of Dan since his departure. Dad spoke about him +to Mother. "The scamp!" he said, "to leave me just when I wanted +help--after all the years I've slaved to feed him and clothe him, see +what thanks I get! but, mark my word, he'll be glad to come back yet." +But Mother would never say anything against Dan. + +The weather continued dry. The wheat did n't come up, and Dad became +despondent again. + +The storekeeper called every week and reminded Dad of his promise. "I +would give it you willingly," Dad would say, "if I had it, Mr. Rice; +but what can I do? You can't knock blood out of a stone." + +We ran short of tea, and Dad thought to buy more with the money +Anderson owed him for some fencing he had done; but when he asked for +it, Anderson was very sorry he had n't got it just then, but promised +to let him have it as soon as he could sell his chaff. When Mother +heard Anderson could n't pay, she DID cry, and said there was n't a bit +of sugar in the house, nor enough cotton to mend the children's bits of +clothes. + +We could n't very well go without tea, so Dad showed Mother how to make +a new kind. He roasted a slice of bread on the fire till it was like a +black coal, then poured the boiling water over it and let it "draw" +well. Dad said it had a capital flavour--HE liked it. + +Dave's only pair of pants were pretty well worn off him; Joe had n't a +decent coat for Sunday; Dad himself wore a pair of boots with soles +tied on with wire; and Mother fell sick. Dad did all he could--waited +on her, and talked hopefully of the fortune which would come to us some +day; but once, when talking to Dave, he broke down, and said he did +n't, in the name of the Almighty God, know what he would do! Dave +could n't say anything--he moped about, too, and home somehow did n't +seem like home at all. + +When Mother was sick and Dad's time was mostly taken up nursing her; +when there was nothing, scarcely, in the house; when, in fact, the wolf +was at the very door;--Dan came home with a pocket full of money and +swag full of greasy clothes. How Dad shook him by the hand and +welcomed him back! And how Dan talked of "tallies", "belly-wool", and +"ringers" and implored Dad, over and over again, to go shearing, or +rolling up, or branding--ANYTHING rather than work and starve on the +selection. + +That's fifteen years ago, and Dad is still on the farm. + + + + +Chapter V. + +The Night We Watched For Wallabies. + + +It had been a bleak July day, and as night came on a bitter westerly +howled through the trees. Cold! was n't it cold! The pigs in the sty, +hungry and half-fed (we wanted for ourselves the few pumpkins that had +survived the drought) fought savagely with each other for shelter, and +squealed all the time like--well, like pigs. The cows and calves left +the place to seek shelter away in the mountains; while the draught +horses, their hair standing up like barbed-wire, leaned sadly over the +fence and gazed up at the green lucerne. Joe went about shivering in +an old coat of Dad's with only one sleeve to it--a calf had fancied the +other one day that Dad hung it on a post as a mark to go by while +ploughing. + +"My! it'll be a stinger to-night," Dad remarked to Mrs. Brown--who sat, +cold-looking, on the sofa--as he staggered inside with an immense log +for the fire. A log! Nearer a whole tree! But wood was nothing in +Dad's eyes. + +Mrs. Brown had been at our place five or six days. Old Brown called +occasionally to see her, so we knew they could n't have quarrelled. +Sometimes she did a little house-work, but more often she did n't. We +talked it over together, but could n't make it out. Joe asked Mother, +but she had no idea--so she said. We were full up, as Dave put it, of +Mrs. Brown, and wished her out of the place. She had taken to ordering +us about, as though she had something to do with us. + +After supper we sat round the fire--as near to it as we could without +burning ourselves--Mrs. Brown and all, and listened to the wind +whistling outside. Ah, it was pleasant beside the fire listening to +the wind! When Dad had warmed himself back and front he turned to us +and said: + +"Now, boys, we must go directly and light some fires and keep those +wallabies back." + +That was a shock to us, and we looked at him to see if he were really +in earnest. He was, and as serious as a judge. + +"TO-NIGHT!" Dave answered, surprisedly--"why to-night any more than +last night or the night before? Thought you had decided to let them +rip?" + +"Yes, but we might as well keep them off a bit longer." + +"But there's no wheat there for them to get now. So what's the good of +watching them? There's no sense in THAT." + +Dad was immovable. + +"Anyway"--whined Joe--"I'M not going--not a night like this--not when I +ain't got boots." + +That vexed Dad. "Hold your tongue, sir!" he said--"you'll do as you're +told." + +But Dave had n't finished. "I've been following that harrow since +sunrise this morning," he said, "and now you want me to go chasing +wallabies about in the dark, a night like this, and for nothing else +but to keep them from eating the ground. It's always the way here, the +more one does the more he's wanted to do," and he commenced to cry. +Mrs. Brown had something to say. SHE agreed with Dad and thought we +ought to go, as the wheat might spring up again. + +"Pshah!" Dave blurted out between his sobs, while we thought of telling +her to shut her mouth. + +Slowly and reluctantly we left that roaring fireside to accompany Dad +that bitter night. It WAS a night!--dark as pitch, silent, forlorn and +forbidding, and colder than the busiest morgue. And just to keep +wallabies from eating nothing! They HAD eaten all the wheat--every +blade of it--and the grass as well. What they would start on +next--ourselves or the cart-harness--was n't quite clear. + +We stumbled along in the dark one behind the other, with our hands +stuffed into our trousers. Dad was in the lead, and poor Joe, +bare-shinned and bootless, in the rear. Now and again he tramped on a +Bathurst-burr, and, in sitting down to extract the prickle, would +receive a cluster of them elsewhere. When he escaped the burr it was +only to knock his shin against a log or leave a toe-nail or two +clinging to a stone. Joe howled, but the wind howled louder, and blew +and blew. + +Dave, in pausing to wait on Joe, would mutter: + +"To HELL with everything! Whatever he wants bringing us out a night +like this, I'm DAMNED if I know!" + +Dad could n't see very well in the dark, and on this night could n't +see at all, so he walked up against one of the old draught horses that +had fallen asleep gazing at the lucerne. And what a fright they both +got! The old horse took it worse than Dad--who only tumbled down--for +he plunged as though the devil had grabbed him, and fell over the +fence, twisting every leg he had in the wires. How the brute +struggled! We stood and listened to him. After kicking panels of the +fence down and smashing every wire in it, he got loose and made off, +taking most of it with him. + +"That's one wallaby on the wheat, anyway," Dave muttered, and we +giggled. WE understood Dave; but Dad did n't open his mouth. + +We lost no time lighting the fires. Then we walked through the "wheat" +and wallabies! May Satan reprove me if I exaggerate their number by +one solitary pair of ears--but from the row and scatter they made there +were a MILLION. + +Dad told Joe, at last, he could go to sleep if he liked, at the fire. +Joe went to sleep--HOW, I don't know. Then Dad sat beside him, and for +long intervals would stare silently into the darkness. Sometimes a +string of the vermin would hop past close to the fire, and another time +a curlew would come near and screech its ghostly wail, but he never +noticed them. Yet he seemed to be listening. + +We mooched around from fire to fire, hour after hour, and when we +wearied of heaving fire-sticks at the enemy we sat on our heels and +cursed the wind, and the winter, and the night-birds alternately. It +was a lonely, wretched occupation. + +Now and again Dad would leave his fire to ask us if we could hear a +noise. We could n't, except that of wallabies and mopokes. Then he +would go back and listen again. He was restless, and, somehow, his +heart was n't in the wallabies at all. Dave could n't make him out. + +The night wore on. By-and-by there was a sharp rattle of wires, then a +rustling noise, and Sal appeared in the glare of the fire. "DAD!" she +said. That was all. Without a word, Dad bounced up and went back to +the house with her. + +"Something's up!" Dave said, and, half-anxious, half-afraid, we gazed +into the fire and thought and thought. Then we stared, nervously, into +the night, and listened for Dad's return, but heard only the wind and +the mopoke. + +At dawn he appeared again, with a broad smile on his face, and told us +that mother had got another baby--a fine little chap. Then we knew why +Mrs. Brown had been staying at our place. + + + + +Chapter VI. + +Good Old Bess. + + +Supper was over at Shingle Hut, and we were all seated round the +fire--all except Joe. He was mousing. He stood on the sofa with one +ear to the wall in a listening attitude, and brandished a table-fork. +There were mice--mobs of them--between the slabs and the paper--layers +of newspapers that had been pasted one on the other for years until +they were an inch thick; and whenever Joe located a mouse he drove the +fork into the wall and pinned it--or reckoned he did. + +Dad sat pensively at one corner of the fire-place--Dave at the other +with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his palms. + +"Think you could ride a race, Dave?" asked Dad. + +"Yairs," answered Dave, without taking his eyes off the fire, or his +chin from his palms--"could, I suppose, if I'd a pair o' lighter boots +'n these." + +Again they reflected. + +Joe triumphantly held up the mutilated form of a murdered mouse and +invited the household to "Look!" No one heeded him. + +"Would your Mother's go on you?" + +"Might," and Dave spat into the fire. + +"Anyway," Dad went on, "we must have a go at this handicap with the old +mare; it's worth trying for, and, believe me, now! she'll surprise a +few of their flash hacks, will Bess." + +"Yairs, she can go all right." And Dave spat again into the fire. + +"GO! I've never known anything to keep up with her. Why, bless my +soul, seventeen years ago, when old Redwood owned her, there was n't a +horse in the district could come within coo-ee of her. All she wants +is a few feeds of corn and a gallop or two, and mark my words she'll +show some of them the way." + +Some horse-races were being promoted by the shanty-keeper at the +Overhaul--seven miles from our selection. They were the first of the +kind held in the district, and the stake for the principal event was +five pounds. It was n't because Dad was a racing man or subject to +turf hallucinations in any way that he thought of preparing Bess for +the meeting. We sadly needed those five pounds, and, as Dad put it, if +the mare could only win, it would be an easier and much quicker way of +making a bit of money than waiting for a crop to grow. + +Bess was hobbled and put into a two-acre paddock near the house. We +put her there because of her wisdom. She was a chestnut, full of +villainy, an absolutely incorrigible old rogue. If at any time she was +wanted when in the grass paddock, it required the lot of us from Dad +down to yard her, as well as the dogs, and every other dog in the +neighbourhood. Not that she had any brumby element in her--she would +have been easier to yard if she had--but she would drive steadily +enough, alone or with other horses, until she saw the yard, when she +would turn and deliberately walk away. If we walked to head her she +beat us by half a length; if we ran she ran, and stopped when we +stopped. That was the aggravating part of her! When it was only to go +to the store or the post-office that we wanted her, we could have +walked there and back a dozen times before we could run her down; but, +somehow, we generally preferred to work hard catching her rather than +walk. + +When we had spent half the day hunting for the curry-comb, which we did +n't find, Dad began to rub Bess down with a corn-cob--a shelled +one--and trim her up a bit. He pulled her tail and cut the hair off +her heels with a knife; then he gave her some corn to eat, and told Joe +he was to have a bundle of thistles cut for her every night. Now and +again, while grooming her, Dad would step back a few paces and look +upon her with pride. + +"There's great breeding in the old mare," he would say, "great +breeding; look at the shoulder on her, and the loin she has; and where +did ever you see a horse with the same nostril? Believe me, she'll +surprise a few of them!" + +We began to regard Bess with profound respect; hitherto we had been +accustomed to pelt her with potatoes and blue-metal. + +The only thing likely to prejudice her chance in the race, Dad +reckoned, was a small sore on her back about the size of a foal's foot. +She had had that sore for upwards of ten years to our knowledge, but +Dad hoped to have it cured before the race came off with a +never-failing remedy he had discovered--burnt leather and fat. + +Every day, along with Dad, we would stand on the fence near the house +to watch Dave gallop Bess from the bottom of the lane to the +barn--about a mile. We could always see him start, but immediately +after he would disappear down a big gully, and we would see nothing +more of the gallop till he came to within a hundred yards of us. And +would n't Bess bend to it once she got up the hill, and fly past with +Dave in the stirrups watching her shadow!--when there was one: she was +a little too fine to throw a shadow always. And when Dave and Bess had +got back and Joe had led her round the yard a few times, Dad would rub +the corn-cob over her again and apply more burnt-leather and fat to her +back. + +On the morning preceding the race Dad decided to send Bess over three +miles to improve her wind. Dave took her to the crossing at the +creek--supposed to be three miles from Shingle Hut, but it might have +been four or it might have been five, and there was a stony ridge on +the way. + +We mounted the fence and waited. Tommy Wilkie came along riding a +plough-horse. He waited too. + +"Ought to be coming now," Dad observed, and Wilkie got excited. He +said he would go and wait in the gully and race Dave home. "Race him +home!" Dad chuckled, as Tommy cantered off, "he'll never see the way +Bess goes." Then we all laughed. + +Just as someone cried "Here he is!" Dave turned the corner into the +lane, and Joe fell off the fence and pulled Dad with him. Dad damned +him and scrambled up again as fast as he could. After a while Tommy +Wilkie hove in sight amid a cloud of dust. Then came Dave at scarcely +faster than a trot, and flogging all he knew with a piece of greenhide +plough-rein. Bess was all-out and floundering. There was about two +hundred yards yet to cover. Dave kept at her--THUD! THUD! Slower and +slower she came. "Damn the fellow!" Dad said; "what's he beating her +for?" "Stop it, you fool!" he shouted. But Dave sat down on her for +the final effort and applied the hide faster and faster. Dad crunched +his teeth. Once--twice--three times Bess changed her stride, then +struck a branch-root of a tree that projected a few inches above +ground, and over she went--CRASH! Dave fell on his head and lay spread +out, motionless. We picked him up and carried him inside, and when +Mother saw blood on him she fainted straight off without waiting to +know if it were his own or not. Both looked as good as dead; but Dad, +with a bucket of water, soon brought them round again. + +It was scarcely dawn when we began preparing for a start to the races. +Dave, after spending fully an hour trying in vain to pull on Mother's +elastic-side boots, decided to ride in his own heavy bluchers. We went +with Dad in the dray. Mother would n't go; she said she did n't want +to see her son get killed, and warned Dad that if anything happened the +blame would for ever be on his head. + +We arrived at the Overhaul in good time. Dad took the horse out of the +dray and tied him to a tree. Dave led Bess about, and we stood and +watched the shanty-keeper unpacking gingerbeer. Joe asked Dad for +sixpence to buy some, but Dad had n't any small change. We remained in +front of the booth through most of the day, and ran after any corks +that popped out and handed them in again to the shanty-keeper. He did +n't offer us anything--not a thing! + +"Saddle up for the Overhaul Handicap!" was at last sung out, and Dad, +saddle on arm, advanced to where Dave was walking Bess about. They +saddled up and Dave mounted, looking as pale as death. + +"I don't like ridin' in these boots a bit," he said, with a quiver in +his voice. + +"Wot's up with 'em?" Dad asked. + +"They're too big altogether." + +"Well, take 'em off then!" + +Dave jumped down and pulled them off-leaving his socks on. + +More than a dozen horses went out, and when the starter said "Off!" did +n't they go! Our eyes at once followed Bess. Dave was at her right +from the jump--the very opposite to what Dad had told him. In the +first furlong she put fully twenty yards of daylight between herself +and the field--she came after the field. At the back of the course you +could see the whole of Kyle's selection and two of Jerry Keefe's +hay-stacks between her and the others. We did n't follow her any +further. + +After the race was won and they had cheered the winner, Dad was n't to +be found anywhere. + +Dave sat on the grass quite exhausted. "Ain't y' goin' to pull the +saddle off?" Joe asked. + +"No," he said. "I AIN'T. You don't want everyone to see her back, do +you?" + +Joe wished he had sixpence. + +About an hour afterwards Dad came staggering along arm-in-arm with +another man--an old fencing-mate of his, so he made out. + +"Thur yar," he said, taking off his hat and striking Bess on the rump +with it; "besh bred mare in the worl'." + +The fencing-mate looked at her, but did n't say anything; he could n't. + +"Eh?" Dad went on; "say sh'ain't? L'ere-ever y' name is--betcher pound +sh'is." + +Then a jeering and laughing crowd gathered round, and Dave wished he +had n't come to the races. + +"She ain't well," said a tall man to Dad--"short in her gallops." Then +a short, bulky individual without whiskers shoved his face up into +Dad's and asked him if Bess was a mare or a cow. Dad became excited, +and only that old Anderson came forward and took him away there must +have been a row. + +Anderson put him in the dray and drove it home to Shingle Hut. + +Dad reckons now that there is nothing in horse-racing, and declares it +a fraud. He says, further, that an honest man, by training and racing +a horse, is only helping to feed and fatten the rogues and vagabonds +that live on the sport. + + + + +Chapter VII. + +Cranky Jack. + + +It was early in the day. Traveller after traveller was trudging by +Shingle Hut. One who carried no swag halted at the rails and came in. +He asked Dad for a job. "I dunno," Dad answered--"What wages would you +want?" The man said he would n't want any. Dad engaged him at once. + +And SUCH a man! Tall, bony, heavy-jawed, shaven with a reaping-hook, +apparently. He had a thick crop of black hair--shaggy, unkempt, and +full of grease, grass, and fragments of dry gum-leaves. On his head +were two old felt hats--one sewn inside the other. On his back a shirt +made from a piece of blue blanket, with white cotton stitches striding +up and down it like lines of fencing. His trousers were gloom itself; +they were a problem, and bore reliable evidence of his industry. No +ordinary person would consider himself out of work while in them. And +the new-comer was no ordinary person. He seemed to have all the woe of +the world upon him; he was as sad and weird-looking as a widow out in +the wet. + +In the yard was a large heap of firewood--remarkable truth!--which Dad +told him to chop up. He began. And how he worked! The axe rang +again--particularly when it left the handle--and pieces of wood +scattered everywhere. Dad watched him chopping for a while, then went +with Dave to pull corn. + +For hours the man chopped away without once looking at the sun. Mother +came out. Joy! She had never seen so much wood cut before. She was +delighted. She made a cup of tea and took it to the man, and +apologised for having no sugar to put in it. He paid no attention to +her; he worked harder. Mother waited, holding the tea in her hand. A +lump of wood nearly as big as a shingle flew up and shaved her left +ear. She put the tea on the ground and went in search of eggs for +dinner. (We were out of meat--the kangaroo-dog was lame. He had got +"ripped" the last time we killed.) + +The tea remained on the ground. Chips fell into it. The dog saw it. +He limped towards it eagerly, and dipped the point of his nose in it. +It burnt him. An aged rooster strutted along and looked sideways at +it. HE distrusted it and went away. It attracted the pig--a sow with +nine young ones. She waddled up, and poked the cup over with her nose; +then she sat down on it, while the family joyously gathered round the +saucer. Still the man chopped on. + +Mother returned--without any eggs. She rescued the crockery from the +pigs and turned curiously to the man. She said, "Why, you've let them +take the tea!" No answer. She wondered. + +Suddenly, and for the fiftieth time, the axe flew off. The man held +the handle and stared at the woodheap. Mother watched him. He removed +his hats, and looked inside them. He remained looking inside them. + +Mother watched him more closely. His lips moved. He said, "LISTEN TO +THEM! THEY'RE COMING! I KNEW THEY'D FOLLOW!" + +"Who?" asked Mother, trembling slightly. + +"THEY'RE IN THE WOOD!" he went on. "Ha, ha! I've got them. They'll +never get out; NEVER GET OUT!" + +Mother fled, screaming. She ran inside and called the children. Sal +assisted her. They trooped in like wallabies--all but Joe. He was +away earning money. He was getting a shilling a week from Maloney, for +chasing cockatoos from the corn. + +They closed and barricaded the doors, and Sal took down the gun, which +Mother made her hide beneath the bed. They sat listening, anxiously +and intently. The wind began to rise. A lump of soot fell from the +chimney into the fireplace--where there was no fire. Mother shuddered. +Some more fell. Mother jumped to her feet. So did Sal. They looked +at each other in dismay. The children began to cry. The chain for +hanging the kettle on started swinging to and fro. Mother's knees gave +way. The chain continued swinging. A pair of bare legs came down into +the fireplace--they were curled round the chain. Mother collapsed. +Sal screamed, and ran to the door, but could n't open it. The legs +left the chain and dangled in the air. Sal called "Murder!" + +Her cry was answered. It was Joe, who had been over at Maloney's +making his fortune. He came to the rescue. He dropped out of the +chimney and shook himself. Sal stared at him. He was calm and covered +from head to foot with soot and dirt. He looked round and said, +"Thought yuz could keep me out, did'n'y'?" Sal could only look at him. +"I saw yuz all run in," he was saying, when Sal thought of Mother, and +sprang to her. Sal shook her, and slapped her, and threw water on her +till she sat up and stared about. Then Joe stared. + +Dad came in for dinner--which, of course, was n't ready. Mother began +to cry, and asked him what he meant by keeping a madman on the place, +and told him she KNEW he wanted to have them all murdered. Dad did n't +understand. Sal explained. Then he went out and told the man to +"Clear!" The man simply said, "No." + +"Go on, now!" Dad said, pointing to the rails. The man smiled at the +wood-heap as he worked. Dad waited. "Ain't y' going?" he repeated. + +"Leave me alone when I'm chopping wood for the missus," the man +answered; then smiled and muttered to himself. Dad left him alone and +went inside wondering. + +Next day Mother and Dad were talking at the barn. Mother, bare-headed, +was holding some eggs in her apron. Dad was leaning on a hoe. + +"I am AFRAID of him," Mother said; "it's not right you should keep him +about the place. No one's safe with such a man. Some day he'll take +it in his head to kill us all, and then--" + +"Tut, tut, woman; poor old Jack! he's harmless as a baby." + +"All right," (sullenly); "you'll see!" + +Dad laughed and went away with the hoe on his shoulder to cut burr. + +Middle of summer. Dad and Dave in the paddock mowing lucerne. Jack +sinking post-holes for a milking-yard close to the house. Joe at +intervals stealing behind him to prick him with straws through a rent +in the rear of his patched moleskins. Little Bill--in readiness to +run--standing off, enjoying the sport. + +Inside the house sat Mother and Sal, sewing and talking of Maloney's +new baby. + +"Dear me," said Mother; "it's the tiniest mite of a thing I ever saw; +why, bless me, anyone of y' at its age would have made three of--" + +"MIND, Mother!" Sal shrieked, jumping up on the sofa. Mother screamed +and mounted the table. Both gasped for breath, and leaning cautiously +over peeped down at a big black snake which had glided in at the front +door. Then, pale and scared-looking, they stared across at each other. + +The snake crawled over to the safe and drank up some milk which had +been spilt on the floor. Mother saw its full length and groaned. The +snake wriggled to the leg of the table. + +"Look out!" cried Sal, gathering up her skirts and dancing about on the +sofa. + +Mother squealed hysterically. + +Joe appeared. He laughed. + +"You wretch!" Mother yelled. "Run!--RUN, and fetch your father!" + +Joe went and brought Jack. + +"Oh-h, my God!"--Mother moaned, as Jack stood at the door, staring +strangely at her. "Kill it!--why don't he kill it?" + +Jack did n't move, but talked to himself. Mother shuddered. + +The reptile crawled to the bedroom door. Then for the first time the +man's eyes rested upon it. It glided into the bedroom, and Mother and +Sal ran off for Dad. + +Jack fixed his eyes on the snake and continued muttering to himself. +Several times it made an attempt to mount the dressing-table. Finally +it succeeded. Suddenly Jack's demeanour changed. He threw off his +ragged hat and talked wildly. A fearful expression filled his ugly +features. His voice altered. + +"You're the Devil!" he said; "THE DEVIL! THE DEVIL! The missus +brought you--ah-h-h!" + +The snake's head passed behind the looking-glass. Jack drew nearer, +clenching his fists and gesticulating. As he did he came full before +the looking-glass and saw, perhaps for the first time in his life, his +own image. An unearthly howl came from him. "ME FATHER!" he shouted, +and bolted from the house. + +Dad came in with the long-handled shovel, swung it about the room, and +smashed pieces off the cradle, and tore the bed-curtains down, and made +a great noise altogether. Finally, he killed the snake and put it on +the fire; and Joe and the cat watched it wriggle on the hot coals. + +Meanwhile, Jack, bare-headed, rushed across the yard. He ran over +little Bill, and tumbled through the wire-fence on to the broad of his +back. He roared like a wild beast, clutched at space, spat, and kicked +his heels in the air. + +"Let me up!---AH-H-H!--let go me throat!" he hissed. + +The dog ran over and barked at him. He found his feet again, and, +making off, ran through the wheat, glancing back over his shoulder as +he tore along. He crossed into the grass paddock, and running to a big +tree dodged round and round it. Then from tree to tree he went, and +that evening at sundown, when Joe was bringing the cows home, Jack was +still flying from "his father". + +After supper. + +"I wonder now what the old fool saw in that snake to send him off his +head like that?" Dad said, gazing wonderingly into the fire. "He sees +plenty of them, goodness knows." + +"That was n't it. It was n't the snake at all," Mother said; "there +was madness in the man's eyes all the while. I saw it the moment he +came to the door." She appealed to Sal. + +"Nonsense!" said Dad; "NONSENSE!" and he tried to laugh. + +"Oh, of course it's NONSENSE," Mother went on; "everything I say is +nonsense. It won't be nonsense when you come home some day and find us +all on the floor with our throats cut." + +"Pshaw!" Dad answered; "what's the use of talking like that?" Then to +Dave: "Go out and see if he's in the barn!" + +Dave fidgetted. He did n't like the idea. Joe giggled. + +"Surely you're not FRIGHTENED?" Dad shouted. + +Dave coloured up. + +"No--don't think so," he said; and, after a pause, "YOU go and see." + +It was Dad's turn to feel uneasy. He pretended to straighten the fire, +and coughed several times. "Perhaps it's just as well," he said, "to +let him be to-night." + +Of course, Dad was n't afraid; he SAID he was n't, but he drove the +pegs in the doors and windows before going to bed that night. + +Next morning, Dad said to Dave and Joe, "Come 'long, and we'll see +where he's got to." + +In a gully at the back of the grass-paddock they found him. He was +ploughing--sitting astride the highest limb of a fallen tree, and, in a +hoarse voice and strange, calling out--"Gee, Captain!--come here, +Tidy!--WA-AY!" + +"Blowed if I know," Dad muttered, coming to a standstill. "Wonder if +he is clean mad?" + +Dave was speechless, and Joe began to tremble. + +They listened. And as the man's voice rang out in the quiet gully and +the echoes rumbled round the ridge and the affrighted birds flew up, +the place felt eerie somehow. + +"It's no use bein' afraid of him," Dad went on. "We must go and bounce +him, that's all." But there was a tremor in Dad's voice which Dave did +n't like. + +"See if he knows us, anyway."--and Dad shouted, "HEY-Y!" + +Jack looked up and immediately scrambled from the limb. That was +enough for Dave. He turned and made tracks. So did Dad and Joe. They +ran. No one could have run harder. Terror overcame Joe. He squealed +and grabbed hold of Dad's shirt, which was ballooning in the wind. + +"Let go!" Dad gasped. "DAMN Y', let me GO! "--trying to shake him +off. But Joe had great faith in his parent, and clung to him closely. + +When they had covered a hundred yards or so, Dave glanced back, and +seeing that Jack was n't pursuing them, stopped and chuckled at the +others. + +"Eh?" Dad said, completely winded--"Eh?" Then to Dave, when he got +some breath: + +"Well, you ARE an ass of a fellow. (PUFF!). What th' DEVIL did y' RUN +f'?" + +"Wot did I run f'? What did YOU run f'?" + +"Bah!" and Dad boldly led the way back. + +"Now look here (turning fiercely upon Joe), don't you come catching +hold of me again, or if y' DO I'll knock y'r d--d head off!...Clear +home altogether, and get under the bed if y're as frightened as THAT." + +Joe slunk behind. + +But when Dad DID approach Jack, which was n't until he had talked a +great deal to him across a big log, the latter did n't show any desire +to take life, but allowed himself to be escorted home and locked in the +barn quietly enough. + +Dad kept Jack confined in the barn several days, and if anyone +approached the door or the cracks he would ask: + +"Is me father there yet?" + +"Your father's dead and buried long ago, man," Dad used to tell him. + +"Yes," he would say, "but he's alive again. The missus keeps him in +there"--indicating the house. + +And sometimes when Dad was not about Joe would put his mouth to a crack +and say: + +"Here's y'r FATHER, Jack!" Then, like a caged beast, the man would +howl and tramp up and down, his eyes starting out of his head, while +Joe would bolt inside and tell Mother that "Jack's getting out,", and +nearly send her to her grave. + +But one day Jack DID get out, and, while Mother and Sal were ironing +came to the door with the axe on his shoulder. + +They dropped the irons and shrank into a corner and cowered +piteously--too scared even to cry out. + +He took no notice of them, but, moving stealthily on tip-toes, +approached the bedroom door and peeped in. He paused just a moment to +grip the axe with both hands. Then with a howl and a bound he entered +the room and shattered the looking-glass into fragments. + +He bent down and looked closely at the pieces. + +"He's dead now," he said calmly, and walked out. Then he went to work +at the post-holes again, just as though nothing had happened. + +Fifteen years have passed since then, and the man is still at Shingle +Hut. He was the best horse Dad ever had. He slaved from daylight till +dark; keeps no Sunday; knows no companion; lives chiefly on meat and +machine oil; domiciles in the barn; and has never asked for a rise in +his wages. His name we never knew. We call him "Jack." The neighbours +called him "CRANKY Jack." + + + + +Chapter VIII. + +A Kangaroo-Hunt from Shingle Hut. + + +We always looked forward to Sunday. It was our day of sport. Once, I +remember, we thought it would never come. We longed restlessly for it, +and the more we longed the more it seemed to linger. + +A meeting of selectors had been held; war declared against the +marsupial; and a hunt on a grand scale arranged for this particular +Sabbath. Of course those in the neighbourhood hunted the kangaroo +every Sunday, but "on their own," and always on foot, which had its +fatigues. This was to be a raid EN MASSE and on horseback. The whole +country-side was to assemble at Shingle Hut and proceed thence. It +assembled; and what a collection! Such a crowd! such gear! such a tame +lot of horses! and such a motley swarm of lean, lank, lame +kangaroo-dogs! + +We were not ready. The crowd sat on their horses and waited at the +slip-rails. Dogs trooped into the yard by the dozen. One pounced on a +fowl; another lamed the pig; a trio put the cat up a peach-tree; one +with a thirst mounted the water-cask and looked down it, while the bulk +of the brutes trotted inside and disputed with Mother who should open +the safe. + +Dad loosed our three, and pleased they were to feel themselves free. +They had been chained up all the week, with scarcely anything to eat. +Dad did n't believe in too much feeding. He had had wide experience in +dogs and coursing "at home" on his grandfather's large estates, and +always found them fleetest when empty. OURS ought to have been fleet +as locomotives. + +Dave, showing a neat seat, rode out of the yard on Bess, fresh and fat +and fit to run for a kingdom. They awaited Dad. He was standing +beside HIS mount--Farmer, the plough-horse, who was arrayed in winkers +with green-hide reins, and an old saddle with only one flap. He was +holding an earnest argument with Joe...Still the crowd waited. Still +Dad and Joe argued the point...There was a murmur and a movement and +much merriment. Dad was coming; so was Joe--perched behind him, "double +bank," rapidly wiping the tears from his eyes with his knuckles. + +Hooray! They were off. Paddy Maloney and Dave took the lead, heading +for kangaroo country along the foot of Dead Man's Mountain and through +Smith's paddock, where there was a low wire fence to negotiate. Paddy +spread his coat over it and jumped his mare across. He was a horseman, +was Pat. The others twisted a stick in the wires, and proceeded +carefully to lead their horses over. When it came to Farmer's turn he +hesitated. Dad coaxed him. Slowly he put one leg across, as if +feeling his way, and paused again. Joe was on his back behind the +saddle. Dad tugged hard at the winkers. Farmer was inclined to +withdraw his leg. Dad was determined not to let him. Farmer's heel +got caught against the wire, and he began to pull back and grunt--so +did Dad. Both pulled hard. Anderson and old Brown ran to Dad's +assistance. The trio planted their heels in the ground and leaned back. + +Joe became afraid. He clutched at the saddle and cried, "Let me off!" +"Stick to him!" said Paddy Maloney, hopping over the fence, "Stick to +him!" He kicked Farmer what he afterwards called "a sollicker on the +tail." Again he kicked him. Still Farmer strained and hung back. Once +more he let him have it. Then--off flew the winkers, and over went Dad +and Anderson and old Brown, and down rolled Joe and Farmer on the other +side of the fence. The others leant against their horses and laughed +the laugh of their lives. "Worse 'n a lot of d--d jackasses," Dad was +heard to say. They caught Farmer and led him to the fence again. He +jumped it, and rose feet higher than he had any need to, and had not +old Brown dodged him just when he did he would be a dead man now. + +A little further on the huntsmen sighted a mob of kangaroos. Joy and +excitement. A mob? It was a swarm! Away they hopped. Off scrambled +the dogs, and off flew Paddy Maloney and Dave--the rest followed +anyhow, and at varying speeds. + +That all those dogs should have selected and followed the same kangaroo +was sad and humiliating. And such a waif of a thing, too! Still, they +stuck to it. For more than a mile, down a slope, the weedy marsupial +outpaced them, but when it came to the hill the daylight between +rapidly began to lessen. A few seconds more and all would have been +over, but a straggling, stupid old ewe, belonging to an unneighbourly +squatter, darted up from the shade of a tree right in the way of +Maloney's Brindle, who was leading. Brindle always preferred mutton to +marsupial, so he let the latter slide and secured the ewe. The +death-scene was most imposing. The ground around was strewn with small +tufts of white wool. There was a complete circle of eager, wriggling +dogs--all jammed together, heads down, and tails elevated. Not a scrap +of the ewe was visible. Paddy Maloney jumped down and proceeded to +batter the brutes vigorously with a waddy. As the others arrived, they +joined him. The dogs were hungry, and fought for every inch of the +sheep. Those not laid out were pulled away, and when old Brown had +dragged the last one off by the hind legs, all that was left of that +ewe was four feet and some skin. + +Dad shook his head and looked grave--so did Anderson. After a short +rest they decided to divide into parties and work the ridges. A start +was made. Dad's contingent--consisting of himself and Joe, Paddy +Maloney, Anderson, old Brown, and several others--started a mob. This +time the dogs separated and scampered off in all directions. In quick +time Brown's black slut bailed up an "old man" full of fight. Nothing +was more desirable. He was a monster, a king kangaroo; and as he +raised himself to his full height on his toes and tail he looked +formidable--a grand and majestic demon of the bush. The slut made no +attempt to tackle him; she stood off with her tongue out. Several +small dogs belonging to Anderson barked energetically at him, even +venturing occasionally to run behind and bite his tail. But, further +than grabbing them in his arms and embracing them, he took no notice. +There he towered, his head back and chest well out, awaiting the +horsemen. They came, shouting and hooraying. He faced them defiantly. +Anderson, aglow with excitement, dismounted and aimed a lump of rock at +his head, which laid out one of the little dogs. They pelted him with +sticks and stones till their arms were tired, but they might just as +well have pelted a dead cow. Paddy Maloney took out his stirrup. +"Look out!" he cried. They looked out. Then, galloping up, he swung +the iron at the marsupial, and nearly knocked his horse's eye out. + +Dad was disgusted. He and Joe approached the enemy on Farmer. Dad +carried a short stick. The "old man" looked him straight in the face. +Dad poked the stick at him. He promptly grabbed hold of it, and a +piece of Dad's hand as well. Farmer had not been in many battles--no +Defence Force man ever owned him. He threw up his head and snorted, +and commenced a retreat. The kangaroo followed him up and seized Dad +by the shirt. Joe evinced signs of timidity. He lost faith in Dad, +and, half jumping, half falling, he landed on the ground, and set out +speedily for a tree. Dad lost the stick, and in attempting to brain +the brute with his fist he overbalanced and fell out of the saddle. He +struggled to his feet, and clutched his antagonist affectionately by +both paws--standing well away. Backwards and forwards and round and +round they moved. "Use your knife!" Anderson called out, getting +further away himself. But Dad dared not relax his grip. Paddy Maloney +ran behind the brute several times to lay him out with a waddy, but +each time he turned and fled before striking the blow. Dad thought to +force matters, and began kicking his assailant vigorously in the +stomach. Such dull, heavy thuds! The kangaroo retaliated, putting Dad +on the defensive. Dad displayed remarkable suppleness about the hips. +At last the brute fixed his deadly toe in Dad's belt. + +It was an anxious moment, but the belt broke, and Dad breathed freely +again. He was acting entirely on the defensive, but an awful +consciousness of impending misfortune assailed him. His belt was gone, +and--his trousers began to slip--slip--slip! He called wildly to the +others for God's sake to do something. They helped with advice. He +yelled "Curs!" and "Cowards!" back at them. Still, as he danced around +with his strange and ungainly partner, his trousers kept +slipping--slipping. For the fiftieth time and more he glanced eagerly +over his shoulder for some haven of safety. None was near. And +then--oh, horror!--down THEY slid calmly and noiselessly. Poor Dad! +He was at a disadvantage; his leg work was hampered. He was hobbled. +Could he only get free of them altogether! But he could n't--his feet +were large. He took a lesson from the foe and jumped--jumped this way +and that way, and round about, while large drops of perspiration rolled +off him. The small dogs displayed renewed and ridiculous ferocity, +often mistaking Dad for the marsupial. At last Dad became +exhausted--there was no spring left in him. Once he nearly went down. +Twice he tripped. He staggered again--down he was going--down--down, +down and down he fell! But at the same moment, and, as though they had +dropped from the clouds, Brindle and five or six other dogs pounced on +the "old man." The rest may be imagined. + +Dad lay on the ground to recover his wind, and when he mounted Farmer +again and silently turned for home, Paddy Maloney was triumphantly +seated on the carcase of the fallen enemy, exultingly explaining how he +missed the brute's head with the stirrup-iron, and claiming the tail. + + + + +Chapter IX. + +Dave's Snakebite. + + +One hot day, as we were finishing dinner, a sheriff's bailiff rode up +to the door. Norah saw him first. She was dressed up ready to go over +to Mrs. Anderson's to tea. Sometimes young Harrison had tea at +Anderson's--Thursdays, usually. This was Thursday; and Norah was +starting early, because it was "a good step of a way". + +She reported the visitor. Dad left the table, munching some bread, and +went out to him. Mother looked out of the door; Sal went to the +window; Little Bill and Tom peeped through a crack; Dave remained at +his dinner; and Joe knavishly seized the opportunity of exploring the +table for leavings, finally seating himself in Dad's place, and +commencing where Dad had left off. + +"Jury summons," said the meek bailiff, extracting a paper from his +breast-pocket, and reading, "Murtagh Joseph Rudd, selector, Shingle +Hut...Correct?" + +Dad nodded assent. + +"Got any water?" + +There was n't a drop in the cask, so Dad came in and asked Mother if +there was any tea left. She pulled a long, solemn, Sunday-school face, +and looked at Joe, who was holding the teapot upside-down, shaking the +tea-leaves into his cup. + +"Tea, Dad?" he chuckled--"by golly!" + +Dad did n't think it worth while going out to the bailiff again. He +sent Joe. + +"Not any at all?" + +"Nothink," said Joe. + +"H'm! Nulla bona, eh?" And the Law smiled at its own joke and went off +thirsty. + +Thus it was that Dad came to be away one day when his great presence of +mind and ability as a bush doctor was most required at Shingle Hut. + +Dave took Dad's place at the plough. One of the horses--a colt that +Dad bought with the money he got for helping with Anderson's crop--had +only just been broken. He was bad at starting. When touched with the +rein he would stand and wait until the old furrow-horse put in a few +steps; then plunge to get ahead of him, and if a chain or a +swingle-tree or something else did n't break, and Dave kept the plough +in, he ripped and tore along in style, bearing in and bearing out, and +knocking the old horse about till that much-enduring animal became as +cranky as himself, and the pace terrible. Down would go the +plough-handles, and, with one tremendous pull on the reins, Dave would +haul them back on to their rumps. Then he would rush up and kick the +colt on the root of the tail, and if that did n't make him put his leg +over the chains and kick till he ran a hook into his heel and lamed +himself, or broke something, it caused him to rear up and fall back on +the plough and snort and strain and struggle till there was not a +stitch left on him but the winkers. + +Now, if Dave was noted for one thing more than another it was for his +silence. He scarcely ever took the trouble to speak. He hated to be +asked a question, and mostly answered by nodding his head. Yet, though +he never seemed to practise, he could, when his blood was fairly up, +swear with distinction and effect. On this occasion he swore through +the whole afternoon without repeating himself. + +Towards evening Joe took the reins and began to drive. He had n't gone +once around when, just as the horses approached a big dead tree that +had been left standing in the cultivation, he planted his left foot +heavily upon a Bathurst-burr that had been cut and left lying. It +clung to him. He hopped along on one leg, trying to kick it off; still +it clung to him. He fell down. The horses and the tree got mixed up, +and everything was confusion. + +Dave abused Joe remorselessly. "Go on!" he howled, waving in the air a +fistful of grass and weeds which he had pulled from the nose of the +plough; "clear out of this altogether!--you're only a damn nuisance." + +Joe's eyes rested on the fistful of grass. They lit up suddenly. + +"L-l-look out, Dave," he stuttered; "y'-y' got a s-s-snake." + +Dave dropped the grass promptly. A deaf-adder crawled out of it. Joe +killed it. Dave looked closely at his hand, which was all scratches +and scars. He looked at it again; then he sat on the beam of the +plough, pale and miserable-looking. + +"D-d-did it bite y', Dave?" No answer. + +Joe saw a chance to distinguish himself, and took it. He ran home, +glad to be the bearer of the news, and told Mother that "Dave's got bit +by a adder--a sudden-death adder--right on top o' the finger." + +How Mother screamed! "My God! whatever shall we do? Run quick," she +said, "and bring Mr. Maloney. Dear! oh dear! oh dear!" + +Joe had not calculated on this injunction. He dropped his head and +said sullenly: "Wot, walk all the way over there?" + +Before he could say another word a tin-dish left a dinge on the back of +his skull that will accompany him to his grave if he lives to be a +thousand. + +"You wretch, you! Why don't you run when I tell you?" + +Joe sprang in the air like a shot wallaby. + +"I'll not go AT ALL now--y' see!" he answered, starting to cry. Then +Sal put on her hat and ran for Maloney. + +Meanwhile Dave took the horses out, walked inside, and threw himself on +the sofa without uttering a word. He felt ill. + +Mother was in a paroxysm of fright. She threw her arms about +frantically and cried for someone to come. At last she sat down and +tried to think what she could do. She thought of the very thing, and +ran for the carving-knife, which she handed to Dave with shut eyes. He +motioned her with a disdainful movement of the elbow to take it away. + +Would Maloney never come! He was coming, hat in hand, and running for +dear life across the potato-paddock. Behind him was his man. Behind +his man--Sal, out of breath. Behind her, Mrs. Maloney and the children. + +"Phwat's the thrubble?" cried Maloney. "Bit be a dif--adher? O, be +the tares of war!" Then he asked Dave numerous questions as to how it +happened, which Joe answered with promptitude and pride. Dave simply +shrugged his shoulders and turned his face to the wall. Nothing was to +be got out of him. + +Maloney held a short consultation with himself. Then--"Hould up yer +hand!" he said, bending over Dave with a knife. Dave thrust out his +arm violently, knocked the instrument to the other side of the room, +and kicked wickedly. + +"The pison's wurrkin'," whispered Maloney quite loud. + +"Oh, my gracious!" groaned Mother. + +"The poor crathur," said Mrs. Maloney. + +There was a pause. + +"Phwhat finger's bit?" asked Maloney. Joe thought it was the littlest +one of the lot. + +He approached the sofa again, knife in hand. + +"Show me yer finger," he said to Dave. + +For the first time Dave spoke. He said: + +"Damn y'--what the devil do y' want? Clear out and lea' me 'lone." + +Maloney hesitated. There was a long silence. Dave commenced breathing +heavily. + +"It's maikin' 'm slape," whispered Maloney, glancing over his shoulder +at the women. + +"Don't let him! Don't let him!" Mother wailed. + +"Salvation to 's all!" muttered Mrs. Maloney, piously crossing herself. + +Maloney put away the knife and beckoned to his man, who was looking on +from the door. They both took a firm hold of Dave and stood him upon +his feet. He looked hard and contemptuously at Maloney for some +seconds. Then with gravity and deliberation Dave said: "Now wot 'n th' +devil are y' up t'? Are y' mad?" + +"Walk 'm along, Jaimes--walk 'm--along," was all Maloney had to say. +And out into the yard they marched him. How Dave did struggle to get +away!--swearing and cursing Maloney for a cranky Irishman till he +foamed at the mouth, all of which the other put down to snake-poison. +Round and round the yard and up and down it they trotted him till long +after dark, until there was n't a struggle left in him. + +They placed him on the sofa again, Maloney keeping him awake with a +strap. How Dave ground his teeth and kicked and swore whenever he felt +that strap! And they sat and watched him. + +It was late in the night when Dad came from town. He staggered in with +the neck of a bottle showing out of his pocket. In his hand was a +piece of paper wrapped round the end of some yards of sausage. The dog +outside carried the other end. + +"An' 'e ishn't dead?" Dad said, after hearing what had befallen Dave. +"Don' b'leevsh id--wuzhn't bit. Die 'fore shun'own ifsh desh ad'er +bish 'm." + +"Bit!" Dave said bitterly, turning round to the surprise of everyone. +"I never said I was BIT. No one said I was--only those snivelling +idiots and that pumpkin-headed Irish pig there." + +Maloney lowered his jaw and opened his eyes. + +"Zhackly. Did'n' I (HIC) shayzo, 'Loney? Did'n' I, eh, ol' wom'n!" +Dad mumbled, and dropped his chin on his chest. + +Maloney began to take another view of the matter. He put a leading +question to Joe. + +"He MUSTER been bit," Joe answered, "'cuz he had the d-death adder in +his hand." + +More silence. + +"Mush die 'fore shun'own," Dad murmured. + +Maloney was thinking hard. At last he spoke. "Bridgy!" he cried, +"where's th' childer?" Mrs. Maloney gathered them up. + +Just then Dad seemed to be dreaming. He swayed about. His head hung +lower, and he muttered, "Shen'l'm'n, yoush disharged wish shanksh +y'cun'ry." + +The Maloneys left. + +Dave is still alive and well, and silent as ever; and if any one +question is more intolerable and irritating to him than another, it is +to be asked if he remembers the time he was bitten by deaf-adder. + + + + +Chapter X. + +Dad And The Donovans. + + +A sweltering summer's afternoon. A heat that curled and withered the +very weeds. The corn-blades drooping, sulking still. Mother and Sal +ironing, mopping their faces with a towel and telling each other how +hot it was. The dog stretched across the doorway. A child's bonnet on +the floor--the child out in the sun. Two horsemen approaching the +slip-rails. + +Dad had gone down the gully to Farmer, who had been sick for four days. +The ploughing was at a standstill in consequence, for we had only two +draught-horses. Dad erected a shelter over him, made of boughs, to +keep the sun off. Two or three times a day he cut greenstuff for +him--which the cows ate. He humped water to him which he sullenly +refused to drink; and did all in his power to persuade Farmer to get up +and go on with the ploughing. I don't know if Dad knew anything of +mesmerism, but he used to stand for long intervals dumbly staring the +old horse full in the eyes till in a commanding voice he would bid him, +"Get up!" But Farmer lacked the patriotism of the back-block poets. He +was obdurate, and not once did he "awake," not to mention "arise". + +This afternoon, as Dad approached his dumb patient, he suddenly put +down the bucket of water which he was carrying and ran, shouting +angrily. A flock of crows flew away from Farmer and "cawed" from a +tree close by. Dad was excited, and when he saw that one of the +animal's eyes was gone and a stream of blood trickled over its nose he +sat down and hid his face in his big rough hands. + +"CAW, CAW!" came from the tree. + +Dad rose and looked up. + +"CURSE you!" he hissed--"you black wretches of hell!" + +"CAW, CAW, CAW" + +He ran towards the tree as though he would hurl it to the ground, and +away flew the crows. + +Joe arrived. + +"W-w-wuz they at him, Dad?" + +Dad turned on him, trembling with rage. + +"Oh, YOU son of the Devil!" he commenced. "YOU worthless pup, you! +Look there! Do you see that?" (He pointed to the horse.) "Did n't I +tell you to mind him? Did n'--" + +"Yes," snivelled Joe; "but Anderson's dog had a k-k-k-angaroo bailed +up." + +"DAMN you, be off out of this!" And Dad aimed a block of wood at Joe +which struck him on the back as he made away. But nothing short of two +broken legs would stop Joe, who the next instant had dashed among the +corn like an emu into a scrub. + +Dad returned to the house, foaming and vowing to take the gun and shoot +Joe down like a wallaby. But when he saw two horses hanging up he +hesitated and would have gone away again had Mother not called out that +he was wanted. He went in reluctantly. + +Red Donovan and his son, Mick, were there. Donovan was the publican, +butcher, and horse-dealer at the Overhaul. He was reputed to be +well-in, though some said that if everybody had their own he would n't +be worth much. He was a glib-tongued Irishman who knew everything--or +fondly imagined he did--from the law to horse-surgery. There was money +to be made out of selections, he reckoned, if selectors only knew how +to make it--the majority, he proclaimed, did n't know enough to get +under a tree when it rained. As a dealer, he was a hard nut, never +giving more than a "tenner" for a twenty pound beast, or selling a ten +pound one for less than twenty pounds. And few knew Donovan better +than did Dad, or had been taken in by him oftener; but on this occasion +Dad was in no easy or benevolent frame of mind. + +He sat down, and they talked of crops and the weather, and beat about +the bush until Donovan said: + +"Have you any fat steers to sell?" + +Dad had n't. "But," he added, "I can sell you a horse." + +"Which one?" asked Donovan, for he knew the horses as well as Dad +did--perhaps better. + +"The bay--Farmer." + +"How much?" + +"Seven pounds." Now, Farmer was worth fourteen pounds, if worth a +shilling--that is, before he took sick--and Donovan knew it well. + +"Seven," he repeated ponderingly. "Give you six." + +Never before did Dad show himself such an expert in dissimulation. He +shook his head knowingly, and enquired of Donovan if he would take the +horse for nothing. + +"Split the difference, then--make it six-ten?" + +Dad rose and looked out the window. + +"There he is now," he remarked sadly, "in the gully there." + +"Well, what's it to be--six-ten or nothing?" renewed Donovan. + +"All right, then," Dad replied, demurely, "take him!" + +The money was paid there and then and receipts drawn up. Then, saying +that Mick would come for the horse on the day following, and after +offering a little gratuitous advice on seed-wheat and pig-sticking, the +Donovans left. + +Mick came the next day, and Dad showed him Farmer, under the bushes. +He was n't dead, because when Joe sat on him he moved. "There he is," +said Dad, grinning. + +Mick remained seated on his horse, bewildered-looking, staring first at +Farmer, then at Dad. + +"Well?" Dad remarked, still grinning. Then Mick spoke feelingly. + +"YOU SWINDLING OLD CRAWLER!" he said, and galloped away. It was well +for him he got a good start. + +For long after that we turned the horses and cows into the little +paddock at night, and if ever the dog barked Dad would jump up and go +out in his shirt. + +We put them back into the paddock again, and the first night they were +there two cows got out and went away, taking with them the chain that +fastened the slip-rails. We never saw or heard of them again; but Dad +treasured them in his heart. Often, when he was thoughtful, he would +ponder out plans for getting even with the Donovans--we knew it was +the Donovans. And Fate seemed to be of Dad's mind; for the Donovans +got into "trouble,", and were reported to be "doing time." That pleased +Dad; but the vengeance was a little vague. He would have liked a +finger in the pie himself. + +Four years passed. It was after supper, and we were all husking corn +in the barn. Old Anderson and young Tom Anderson and Mrs. Maloney were +helping us. We were to assist them the following week. The barn was +illuminated by fat-lamps, which made the spiders in the rafters uneasy +and disturbed the slumbers of a few fowls that for months had insisted +on roosting on the cross-beam. + +Mrs. Maloney was arguing with Anderson. She was claiming to have +husked two cobs to his one, when the dogs started barking savagely. +Dad crawled from beneath a heap of husks and went out. The night was +dark. He bade the dogs "Lie down." They barked louder. "Damn +you--lie down!" he roared. They shut up. Then a voice from the +darkness said: + +"Is that you, Mr. Rudd?" + +Dad failed to recognise it, and went to the fence where the visitor +was. He remained there talking for fully half-an-hour. Then he +returned, and said it was young Donovan. + +"DONOVAN! MICK Donovan?" exclaimed Anderson. And Mother and Mrs. +Maloney and Joe echoed "MICK Donovan?" They WERE surprised. + +"He's none too welcome," said Anderson, thinking of his horses and +cows. Mother agreed with him, while Mrs. Maloney repeated over and over +again that she was always under the impression that Mick Donovan was in +gaol along with his bad old father. Dad was uncommunicative. There +was something on his mind. He waited till the company had gone, then +consulted with Dave. + +They were outside, in the dark, and leant on the dray. Dad said in a +low voice: "He's come a hundred mile to-day, 'n' his horse is +dead-beat, 'n' he wants one t' take him t' Back Creek t'morrer 'n' +leave this one in his place...Wot d'y' think?" Dave seemed to think a +great deal, for he said nothing. + +"Now," continued Dad, "it's me opinion the horse is n't his; it's one +he's shook--an' I've an idea." Then he proceeded to instruct Dave in +the idea. A while later he called Joe and drilled him in the idea. + +That night, young Donovan stayed at Shingle Hut. In the morning Dad +was very affable. He asked Donovan to come and show him his horse, as +he must see it before thinking of exchanging. They proceeded to the +paddock together. The horse was standing under a tree, tired-looking. +Dad stood and looked at Donovan for fully half-a-minute without +speaking. + +"Why, damn it!" he exclaimed, at last, "that's MY OWN horse...You don't +mean...S'help me! Old Bess's foal!" Donovan told him he was making a +mistake. + +"Mistake be hanged!" replied Dad, walking round the animal. "Not much +of a mistake about HIM!" + +Just here Dave appeared, as was proper. + +"Do you know this horse?" Dad asked him. "Yes, of course," he +answered, surprisedly, with his eyes open wide, "Bess's foal!--of +course it is." + +"There you are!" said Dad, grinning triumphantly. + +Donovan seemed uneasy. + +Joe in his turn appeared. Dad put the same question to him. Of course +Joe knew Bess's foal--"the one that got stole." + +There was a silence. + +"Now," said Dad, looking very grave, "what have y' got t' say? Who'd +y' get him off? Show's y'r receipt." + +Donovan had nothing to say; he preferred to be silent. + +"Then," Dad went on, "clear out of this as fast as you can go, an' +think y'rself lucky." + +He cleared, but on foot. + +Dad gazed after him, and, as he left the paddock, said: + +"One too many f' y' that time, Mick Donovan!" Then to Dave, who was +still looking at the horse: "He's a stolen one right enough, but he's +a beauty, and we'll keep him; and if the owner ever comes for him, +well--if he is the owner--he can have him, that's all." + +We had the horse for eighteen months and more. One day Dad rode him to +town. He was no sooner there than a man came up and claimed him. Dad +objected. The man went off and brought a policeman. "Orright"--Dad +said--"TAKE him." The policeman took him. He took Dad too. The +lawyer got Dad off, but it cost us five bags of potatoes. Dad did n't +grudge them, for he reckoned we'd had value. Besides, he was even with +the Donovans for the two cows. + + + + +Chapter XI. + +A Splendid Year For Corn. + + +We had just finished supper. Supper! dry bread and sugarless tea. Dad +was tired out and was resting at one end of the sofa; Joe was stretched +at the other, without a pillow, and his legs tangled up among Dad's. +Bill and Tom squatted in the ashes, while Mother tried to put the +fat-lamp into burning order by poking it with a table-fork. + +Dad was silent; he seemed sad, and lay for some time gazing at the +roof. He might have been watching the blaze of the glorious moon or +counting the stars through the gaps in the shingles, but he was +n't--there was no such sentiment in Dad. He was thinking how his long +years of toil and worry had been rewarded again and again by +disappointment--wondering if ever there would be a turn in his luck, +and how he was going to get enough out of the land that season to pay +interest and keep Mother and us in bread and meat. + +At last he spoke, or rather muttered disjointedly, "Plen-ty--to eat--in +the safe." Then suddenly, in a strange and hollow voice, he shouted, +"THEY' RE DEAD--ALL OF THEN! I STARVED THEM!" + +Mother DID get a fright. She screamed. Then Dad jumped up, rubbing +his eyes, and asked what was the matter. Nothing was the matter THEN. +He had dozed and talked in his sleep, that was all; he had n't starved +anyone. Joe did n't jump up when Mother screamed--not altogether; he +raised himself and reached for Dad's pillow, then lay down and snored +serenely till bed-time. + +Dad sat gloomily by the fire and meditated. Mother spoke pleadingly to +him and asked him not to fret. He ran his fingers uneasily through his +hair and spat in the ashes. "Don't fret? When there's not a bit to +eat in the place--when there's no way of getting anything, and +when--merciful God!--every year sees things worse than they were +before." + +"It's only fancy," Mother went on. "And you've been brooding and +brooding till it seems far worse than it really is." + +"It's no fancy, Ellen." Then, after a pause--"Was the thirty acres of +wheat that did n't come up fancy? Is it only fancy that we've lost +nearly every beast in the paddock? Was the drought itself a fancy? +No--no." And he shook his head sadly and stared again into the fire. + + +Dad's inclination was to leave the selection, but Mother pleaded for +another trial of it--just one more. She had wonderful faith in the +selection, had Mother. She pleaded until the fire burned low, then Dad +rose and said: "Well, we'll try it once more with corn, and if nothing +comes of it why then we MUST give it up." Then he took the spade and +raked the fire together and covered it with ashes--we always covered +the fire over before going to bed so as to keep it alight. Some +mornings, though, it would be out, when one of us would have to go +across to Anderson's and borrow a fire-stick. Any of us but Joe--he +was sent only once, and on that occasion he stayed at Anderson's to +breakfast, and on his way back successfully burnt out two grass +paddocks belonging to a J.P. + +So we began to prepare the soil for another crop of corn, and Dad +started over the same old ground with the same old plough. How I +remember that old, screwed and twisted plough! The land was very hard, +and the horses out of condition. We wanted a furrow-horse. Smith had +one--a good one. "Put him in the furrow," he said to Dad, "and you +can't PULL him out of it." Dad wished to have such a horse. Smith +offered to exchange for our roan saddle mare--one we found running in +the lane, and advertised as being in our paddock, and no one claimed +it. Dad exchanged. + +He yoked the new horse to the plough, and it took to the furrow +splendidly--but that was all; it did n't take to anything else. Dad +gripped the handles--"Git up!" he said, and tapped Smith's horse with +the rein. Smith's horse pranced and marked time well, but did n't +tighten the chains. Dad touched him again. Then he stood on his +fore-legs and threw about a hundredweight of mud that clung to his +heels at Dad's head. That aggravated Dad, and he seized the +plough-scraper, and, using both hands, calmly belted Smith's horse over +the ribs for two minutes, by the sun. He tried him again. The horse +threw himself down in the furrow. Dad took the scraper again, welted +him on the rump, dug it into his back-bone, prodded him in the side, +then threw it at him disgustedly. Then Dad sat down awhile and +breathed heavily. He rose again and pulled Smith's horse by the head. +He was pulling hard when Dave and Joe came up. Joe had a bow-and-arrow +in his hand, and said, "He's a good furrer 'orse, eh, Dad? Smith SAID +you could n't pull him out of it." + +Shall I ever forget the look on Dad's face! He brandished the scraper +and sprang wildly at Joe and yelled, "Damn y', you WHELP! what do you +want here?" + +Joe left. The horse lay in the furrow. Blood was dropping from its +mouth. Dave pointed it out, and Dad opened the brute's jaws and +examined them. No teeth were there. He looked on the ground round +about--none there either. He looked at the horse's mouth again, then +hit him viciously with his clenched fist and said, "The old ----, he +never DID have any!" At length he unharnessed the brute as it +lay--pulled the winkers off, hurled them at its head, kicked it +once--twice--three times--and the furrow-horse jumped up, trotted away +triumphantly, and joyously rolled in the dam where all our water came +from, drinking-water included. + +Dad went straightaway to Smith's place, and told Smith he was a dirty, +mean, despicable swindler--or something like that. Smith smiled. Dad +put one leg through the slip-rails and promised Smith, if he'd only +come along, to split palings out of him. But Smith did n't. The +instinct of self-preservation must have been deep in that man Smith. +Then Dad went home and said he would shoot the ---- horse there and +then, and went looking for the gun. The horse died in the paddock of +old age, but Dad never ploughed with him again. + +Dad followed the plough early and late. One day he was giving the +horses a spell after some hours' work, when Joe came to say that a +policeman was at the house wanting to see him. Dad thought of the roan +mare, and Smith, and turned very pale. Joe said: "There's "Q.P." on +his saddle-cloth; what's that for, Dad?" But he did n't answer--he was +thinking hard. "And," Joe went on, "there's somethin' sticking out of +his pocket--Dave thinks it'll be 'ancuffs." Dad shuddered. On the way +to the house Joe wished to speak about the policeman, but Dad seemed to +have lock-jaw. When he found the officer of the law only wanted to know +the number of stock he owned, he talked freely--he was delighted. He +said, "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," and "Jusso, sir," to everything the +policeman said. + +Dad wished to learn some law. He said: "Now, tell me this: supposing +a horse gets into my paddock--or into your paddock--and I advertise +that horse and nobody claims him, can't I put my brand on him?" The +policeman jerked back his head and stared at the shingles long enough +to recall all the robberies he had committed, and said: "Ye +can--that's so--ye can." + +"I knew it," answered Dad; "but a lawyer in town told Maloney, over +there, y' could n't." + +"COULD N'T?" And the policeman laughed till he nearly had the house +down, only stopping to ask, while the tears ran over his well-fed +cheeks, "Did he charge him forrit?" and laughed again. He went away +laughing, and for all I know the wooden-head may be laughing yet. + +Everything was favourable to a good harvest. The rain fell just when +it was wanted, and one could almost see the corn growing. How it +encouraged Dad, and what new life it seemed to give him! In the cool +of the evenings he would walk along the headlands and admire the +forming cobs, and listen to the rustling of the rows of drooping blades +as they swayed and beat against each other in the breeze. Then he +would go home filled with fresh hopes and talk of nothing but the good +prospect of that crop. + +And how we worked! Joe was the only one who played. I remember him +finding something on a chain one day. He had never seen anything like +it before. Dad told him it was a steel-trap and explained the working +of it. Joe was entranced--an invaluable possession! A treasure, he +felt, that the Lord must specially have sent him to catch things with. +He caught many things with it--willie-wagtails, laughing-jackasses, +fowls, and mostly the dog. Joe was a born naturalist--a perfect +McCooey in his way, and a close observer of the habits and customs of +animals and living things. He observed that whenever Jacob Lipp came +to our place he always, when going home, ran along the fence and +touched the top of every post with his hand. The Lipps had newly +arrived from Germany, and their selection adjoined ours. Jacob was +their "eldest", about fourteen, and a fat, jabbering, jolly-faced youth +he was. He often came to our place and followed Joe about. Joe never +cared much for the company of anyone younger than himself, and +therefore fiercely resented the indignity. Jacob could speak only +German--Joe understood only pure unadulterated Australian. Still Jacob +insisted on talking and telling Joe his private affairs. + +This day, Mrs. Lipp accompanied Jacob. She came to have a "yarn" with +Mother. They did n't understand each other either; but it did n't +matter much to them--it never does matter much to women whether they +understand or not; anyway, they laughed most of the time and seemed to +enjoy themselves greatly. Outside Jacob and Joe mixed up in an +argument. Jacob shoved his face close to Joe's and gesticulated and +talked German at the rate of two hundred words a minute. Joe thought +he understood him and said: "You want to fight?" Jacob seemed to have +a nightmare in German. + +"Orright, then," Joe said, and knocked him down. + +Jacob seemed to understand Australian better when he got up, for he ran +inside, and Joe put his ear to a crack, but did n't hear him tell +Mother. + +Joe had an idea. He would set the steel-trap on a wire-post and catch +Jacob. He set it. Jacob started home. One, two, three posts he hit. +Then he hit the trap. It grabbed him faithfully by three fingers. + +Angels of Love! did ever a boy of fourteen yell like it before! He +sprang in the air--threw himself on the ground like a roped +brumby--jumped up again and ran all he knew, frantically wringing the +hand the trap clung to. What Jacob reckoned had hold of him Heaven +only can tell. His mother thought he must have gone mad and ran after +him. Our Mother fairly tore after her. Dad and Dave left a dray-load +of corn and joined in the hunt. Between them they got Jacob down and +took him out of the trap. Dad smashed the infernal machine, and then +went to look for Joe. But Joe was n't about. + +The corn shelled out 100 bags--the best crop we had ever had; but when +Dad came to sell it seemed as though every farmer in every farming +district on earth had had a heavy crop, for the market was +glutted--there was too much corn in Egypt--and he could get no price +for it. At last he was offered Ninepence ha'penny per bushel, +delivered at the railway station. Ninepence ha'penny per bushel, +delivered at the railway station! Oh, my country! and fivepence per +bushel out of that to a carrier to take it there! AUSTRALIA, MY MOTHER! + +Dad sold--because he could n't afford to await a better market; and +when the letter came containing a cheque in payment, he made a +calculation, then looked pitifully at Mother, and muttered--"SEVEN +POUN'S TEN!" + + + + +Chapter XII. + +Kate's Wedding. + + +Our selection was a great place for dancing. We could all dance--from +Dan down--and there was n't a figure or a movement we did n't know. We +learned young. Mother was a firm believer in early tuition. She used +to say it was nice for young people to know how to dance, and be able +to take their part when they went out anywhere, and not be awkward and +stupid-looking when they went into society. It was awful, she thought, +to see young fellows and big lumps of girls like the Bradys stalk into +a ballroom and sit the whole night long in a corner, without attempting +to get up. She did n't know how mothers COULD bring children up so +ignorantly, and did n't wonder at some of them not being able to find +husbands for their daughters. + +But we had a lot to feel thankful for. Besides a sympathetic mother, +every other facility was afforded us to become accomplished. Abundance +of freedom; enthusiastic sisters; and no matter how things were +going--whether the corn would n't come up, or the wheat had failed, or +the pumpkins had given out, or the water-hole run dry--we always had a +concertina in the house. It never failed to attract company. Paddy +Maloney and the well-sinkers, after belting and blasting all day long, +used to drop in at night, and throw the table outside, and take the +girls up, and prance about the floor with them till all hours. + +Nearly every week Mother gave a ball. It might have been every night +only for Dad. He said the jumping about destroyed the +ground-floor--wore it away and made the room like a well. And whenever +it rained hard and the water rushed in he had to bail it out. Dad +always looked on the dark side of things. He had no ear for music +either. His want of appreciation of melody often made the home +miserable when it might have been the merriest on earth. Sometimes it +happened that he had to throw down the plough-reins for half-an-hour or +so to run round the wheat-paddock after a horse or an old cow; then, if +he found Dave, or Sal, or any of us, sitting inside playing the +concertina when he came to get a drink, he would nearly go mad. + +"Can't y' find anything better t' do than everlastingly playing at that +damn thing?" he would shout. And if we did n't put the instrument down +immediately he would tear it from our hands and pitch it outside. If +we DID lay it down quietly he would snatch it up and heave it out just +as hard. The next evening he would devote all his time to patching the +fragments together with sealing-wax. + +Still, despite Dad's antagonism, we all turned out good players. It +cost us nothing either. We learnt from each other. Kate was the first +that learnt. SHE taught Sal. Sal taught Dave, and so on. Sandy +Taylor was Kate's tutor. He passed our place every evening going to +his selection, where he used to sleep at night (fulfilling conditions), +and always stopped at the fence to yarn with Kate about dancing. Sandy +was a fine dancer himself, very light on his feet and easy to waltz +with--so the girls made out. When the dancing subject was exhausted +Sandy would drag some hair out of his horse's mane and say, "How's the +concertina?" "It's in there," Kate would answer. Then turning round +she would call out, "J--OE, bring the concer'." + +In an instant Joe would strut along with it. And Sandy, for the +fiftieth time, would examine it and laugh at the kangaroo-skin straps +that Dave had tacked to it, and the scraps of brown paper that were +plastered over the ribs of it to keep the wind in; and, cocking his +left leg over the pommel of his saddle, he would sound a full blast on +it as a preliminary. Then he would strike up "The Rocky Road to +Dublin", or "The Wind Among the Barley,", or some other beautiful air, +and grind away untiringly until it got dark--until mother came and +asked him if he would n't come in and have supper. Of course, he +always would. After supper he would play some more. Then there would +be a dance. + +A ball was to be held at Anderson's one Friday night, and only Kate and +Dave were asked from our place. Dave was very pleased to be invited; +it was the first time he had been asked anywhere, and he began to +practise vigorously. The evening before the ball Dad sent him to put +the draught horses in the top paddock. He went off merrily with them. +The sun was just going down when he let them go, and save the noise of +the birds settling to rest the paddock was quiet. Dave was filled with +emotion and enthusiastic thoughts about the ball. + +He threw the winkers down and looked around. For a moment or two he +stood erect, then he bowed gracefully to the saplings on his right, +then to the stumps and trees on his left, and humming a tune, ambled +across a small patch of ground that was bare and black, and pranced +back again. He opened his arms and, clasping some beautiful imaginary +form in them, swung round and round like a windmill. Then he paused +for breath, embraced his partner again, and "galloped" up and down. +And young Johnson, who had been watching him in wonder from behind a +fence, bolted for our place. + +"Mrs. Rudd! Mrs. Rudd!" he shouted from the verandah. Mother went out. + +"Wot's--wot's up with Dave?" + +Mother turned pale. + +"There's SOMETHING--!" + +"My God!" Mother exclaimed--"WHATEVER has happened?" + +Young Johnson hesitated. He was in doubt. + +"Oh! What IS it?" Mother moaned. + +"Well" (he drew close to her) "he's--he's MAD!" + +"OH-H!" + +"He IS. I seen 'im just now up in your paddick, an' he's clean off +he's pannikin." + +Just then Dave came down the track whistling. Young Johnson saw him +and fled. + +For some time Mother regarded Dave with grave suspicion, then she +questioned him closely. + +"Yairs," he said, grinning hard, "I was goin' through th' FUST SET." + +It was when Kate was married to Sandy Taylor that we realised what a +blessing it is to be able to dance. How we looked forward to that +wedding! We were always talking about it, and were very pleased it +would be held in our own house, because all of us could go then. None +of us could work for thinking of it--even Dad seemed to forget his +troubles about the corn and Mick Brennan's threat to summon him for +half the fence. Mother said we would want plenty of water for the +people to drink, so Sandy yoked his horse to the slide, and he, Dad, +and Joe started for the springs. + +The slide was the fork of a tree, alias a wheel-less water-trolly. The +horse was hitched to the butt end, and a batten nailed across the +prongs kept the cask from slipping off going uphill. Sandy led the way +and carried the bucket; Dad went ahead to clear the track of stones; +and Joe straddled the cask to keep her steady. + +It always took three to work the slide. + +The water they brought was a little thick--old Anderson had been down +and stirred it up pulling a bullock out; but Dad put plenty ashes in +the cask to clear it. + +Each of us had his own work to do. Sandy knocked the partition down +and decorated the place with boughs; Mother and the girls cooked and +covered the walls with newspapers, and Dad gathered cow-dung and did +the floor. + +Two days before the wedding. All of us were still working hard. Dad +was up to his armpits in a bucket of mixture, with a stack of cow-dung +on one side, and a heap of sand and the shovel on the other. Dave and +Joe were burning a cow that had died just in front of the house, and +Sandy had gone to town for his tweed trousers. + +A man in a long, black coat, white collar, and new leggings rode up, +spoke to Dad, and got off. Dad straightened up and looked awkward, +with his arms hanging wide and the mixture dripping from them. Mother +came out. The cove shook hands with her, but he did n't with Dad. They +went inside--not Dad, who washed himself first. + +Dave sent Joe to ask Dad who the cove was. Dad spoke in a whisper and +said he was Mr. Macpherson, the clergyman who was to marry Kate and +Sandy. Dave whistled and piled more wood on the dead cow. Mother came +out and called Dave and Joe. Dave would n't go, but sent Joe. + +Dave threw another log on the cow, then thought he would see what was +going on inside. + +He stood at the window and looked in. He could n't believe his eyes at +first, and put his head right in. There were Dad, Joe, and the lot of +them down on their marrow-bones saying something after the parson. +Dave was glad that he did n't go in. + +How the parson prayed! Just when he said "Lead us not into temptation" +the big kangaroo-dog slipped in and grabbed all the fresh meat on the +table; but Dave managed to kick him in the ribs at the door. Dad +groaned and seemed very restless. + +When the parson had gone Dad said that what he had read about "reaping +the same as you sow" was all rot, and spoke about the time when we +sowed two bushels of barley in the lower paddock and got a big stack of +rye from it. + +The wedding was on a Wednesday, and at three o'clock in the afternoon. +Most of the people came before dinner; the Hamiltons arrived just after +breakfast. Talk of drays!--the little paddock could n't hold them. + +Jim Mullins was the only one who came in to dinner; the others mostly +sat on their heels in a row and waited in the shade of the wire-fence. +The parson was the last to come, and as he passed in he knocked his +head against the kangaroo-leg hanging under the verandah. Dad saw it +swinging, and said angrily to Joe: "Did n't I tell you to take that +down this morning?" + +Joe unhooked it and said: "But if I hang it anywhere else the dog'll +get it." + +Dad tried to laugh at Joe, and said, loudly, "And what else is it for?" +Then he bustled Joe off before he could answer him again. + +Joe did n't understand. + +Then Dad said (putting the leg in a bag): "Do you want everyone to +know we eat it, ---- you?" + +Joe understood. + +The ceremony commenced. Those who could squeeze inside did so--the +others looked in at the window and through the cracks in the chimney. + +Mrs. M'Doolan led Kate out of the back-room; then Sandy rose from the +fire-place and stood beside her. Everyone thought Kate looked very +nice----and orange blossoms! You'd think she was an orange-tree with a +new bed-curtain thrown over it. Sandy looked well, too, in his +snake-belt and new tweeds; but he seemed uncomfortable when the pin +that Dave put in the back of his collar came out. + +The parson did n't take long; and how they scrambled and tumbled over +each other at the finish! Charley Mace said that he got the first +kiss; Big George said HE did; and Mrs. M'Doolan was certain she would +have got it only for the baby. + +Fun! there WAS fun! The room was cleared and they promenaded for a +dance--Sandy and Kate in the lead. They continued promenading until +one of the well-sinkers called for the concertina--ours had been +repaired till you could get only three notes out of it; but Jim Burke +jumped on his horse and went home for his accordion. + +Dance! they did dance!--until sun-rise. But unless you were dancing +you could n't stay inside, because the floor broke up, and talk about +dust!--before morning the room was like a drafting-yard. + +It was a great wedding; and though years have since passed, all the +neighbours say still it was the best they were ever at. + + + + +Chapter XIII. + +The Summer Old Bob Died. + + +It was a real scorcher. A soft, sweltering summer's day. The air +quivered; the heat drove the fowls under the dray and sent the old dog +to sleep upon the floor inside the house. The iron on the skillion +cracked and sweated--so did Dad and Dave down the paddock, +grubbing--grubbing, in 130 degrees of sunshine. They were clearing a +piece of new land--a heavily-timbered box-tree flat. They had been at +it a fortnight, and if any music was in the ring of the axe or the +rattle of the pick when commencing, there was none now. + +Dad wished to be cheerful and complacent. He said (putting the pick +down and dragging his flannel off to wring it): "It's a good thing to +sweat well." Dave did n't say anything. I don't know what he thought, +but he looked up at Dad--just looked up at him--while the perspiration +filled his eyes and ran down over his nose like rain off a shingle; +then he hitched up his pants and "wired in" again. + +Dave was a philosopher. He worked away until the axe flew off the +handle with a ring and a bound, and might have been lost in the long +grass for ever only Dad stopped it with his shin. I fancy he did n't +mean to stop it when I think how he jumped--it was the only piece of +excitement there had been the whole of that relentlessly solemn +fortnight. Dad got vexed--he was in a hurry with the grubbing--and +said he never could get anything done without something going wrong. +Dave was n't sorry the axe came off--he knew it meant half-an-hour in +the shade fixing it on again. "Anyway," Dad went on, "we'll go to +dinner now." + +On the way to the house he several times looked at the sky--that +cloudless, burning sky--and said--to no one in particular, "I wish to +God it would rain!" It sounded like an aggravated prayer. Dave did +n't speak, and I don't think Dad expected he would. + +Joe was the last to sit down to dinner, and he came in steaming hot. +He had chased out of sight a cow that had poked into the cultivation. +Joe mostly went about with green bushes in his hat, to keep his head +cool, and a few gum-leaves were now sticking in his moist and matted +hair. + +"I put her out, Dad!" he said, casting an eager glare at everything on +the table. "She tried to jump and got stuck on the fence, and broke it +all down. On'y I could n't get anything, I'd er broke 'er head--there +was n't a thing, on'y dead cornstalks and cow-dung about." Then he +lunged his fork desperately at a blowfly that persistently hovered +about his plate, and commenced. + +Joe had a healthy appetite. He had charged his mouth with a load of +cold meat, when his jaws ceased work, and, opening his mouth as though +he were sleepy, he leaned forward and calmly returned it all to the +plate. Dad got suspicious and asked Joe what was up; but Joe only +wiped his mouth, looked sideways at his plate, and pushed it away. + +All of us stopped eating then, and stared at each other. Mother said, +"Well, I--I wrapped a cloth round it so nothing could get in, and put +it in the safe--I don't know where on earth to put the meat, I'm sure; +if I put it in a bag and hang it up that thief of a dog gets it." + +"Yes," Dad observed, "I believe he'd stick his nose into hell itself, +Ellen, if he thought there was a bone there--and there ought to be lots +by this time." Then he turned over the remains of that cold meat, and, +considering we had all witnessed the last kick of the slaughtered +beast, it was surprising what animation this part of him yet retained. +In vain did Dad explore for a really dead piece--there was life in all +of it. + +Joe was n't satisfied. He said he knew where there was a lot of eggs, +and disappeared down the yard. Eggs were not plentiful on our +selection, because we too often had to eat the hens when there was no +meat--three or four were as many as we ever saw at one time. So on +this day, when Joe appeared with a hatful, there was excitement. He +felt himself a hero. We thought him a little saviour. + +"My!" said Mother, "where did you get all those?" + +"Get 'em! I've had these planted for three munce--they're a nest I +found long ago; I thought I would n't say anythink till we really +wanted 'em." + +Just then one of the eggs fell out of the hat and went off "pop" on the +floor. + +Dave nearly upset the table, he rose so suddenly; and covering his nose +with one hand he made for the door; then he scowled back over his +shoulder at Joe. He utterly scorned his brother Joe. All of us +deserted the table except Dad--he stuck to his place manfully; it took +a lot to shift HIM. + +Joe must have had a fine nerve. "That's on'y one bad 'n'," he said, +taking the rest to the fireplace where the kettle stood. Then Dad, who +had remained calm and majestic, broke out. "Damn y', boy!" he yelled, +"take th' awful things outside--YOU tinker!" Joe took them out and +tried them all, but I forget if he found a good one. + +Dad peered into the almost-empty water-cask and again muttered a short +prayer for rain. He decided to do no more grubbing that day, but to +run wire around the new land instead. The posts had been in the ground +some time, and were bored. Dave and Sarah bored them. Sarah was as +good as any man--so Dad reckoned. She could turn her hand to anything, +from sewing a shirt to sinking a post-hole. She could give Dave inches +in arm measurements, and talk about a leg! She HAD a leg--a beauty! +It was as thick at the ankle as Dad's was at the thigh, nearly. + +Anyone who would know what real amusement is should try wiring posts. +What was to have been the top wire (the No. 8 stuff) Dad commenced to +put in the bottom holes, and we ran it through some twelve or fifteen +posts before he saw the mistake--then we dragged it out slowly and +savagely; Dad swearing adequately all the time. + +At last everything went splendidly. We dragged the wire through panel +after panel, and at intervals Dad would examine the blistering sky for +signs of rain. Once when he looked up a red bullock was reaching for +his waistcoat, which hung on a branch of a low tree. Dad sang out. +The bullock poked out his tongue and reached higher. Then Dad told Joe +to run. Joe ran--so did the bullock, but faster, and with the +waistcoat that once was a part of Mother's shawl half-way down his +throat. Had the shreds and ribbons that dangled to it been a little +longer, he might have trodden on them and pulled it back, but he did +n't. Joe deemed it his duty to follow that red bullock till it dropped +the waistcoat, so he hammered along full split behind. Dad and Dave +stood watching until pursued and pursuer vanished down the gully; then +Dad said something about Joe being a fool, and they pulled at the wire +again. They were nearing a corner post, and Dad was hauling the wire +through the last panel, when there came the devil's own noise of +galloping hoofs. Fifty or more cattle came careering along straight +for the fence, bellowing and kicking up their heels in the air, as +cattle do sometimes after a shower of rain. Joe was behind +them--considerably--still at full speed and yelping like a dog. Joe +loved excitement. + +For weeks those cattle had been accustomed to go in and out between the +posts; and they did n't seem to have any thoughts of wire as they +bounded along. Dave stood with gaping mouth. Dad groaned, and the +wire's-end he was holding in his hand flew up with a whiz and took a +scrap of his ear away. The cattle got mixed up in the wires. Some +toppled over; some were caught by the legs; some by the horns. They +dragged the wire twenty and thirty yards away, twisted it round logs, +and left a lot of the posts pointing to sunset. + +Oh, Dad's language then! He swung his arms about and foamed at the +mouth. Dave edged away from him. + +Joe came up waving triumphantly a chewed piece of the waistcoat. +"D-d-did it g-give them a buster, Dad?" he said, the sweat running over +his face as though a spring had broken out on top of his head. Dad +jumped a log and tried to unbuckle his strap and reach for Joe at the +same time, but Joe fled. + +That threw a painful pall over everything. Dad declared he was sick +and tired of the whole thing, and would n't do another hand's-turn. +Dave meditated and walked along the fence, plucking off scraps of skin +and hair that here and there clung to the bent and battered wire. + +We had just finished supper when old Bob Wren, a bachelor who farmed +about two miles from us, arrived. He used to come over every +mail-night and bring his newspaper with him. Bob could n't read a +word, so he always got Dad to spell over the paper to him. WE did n't +take a newspaper. + +Bob said there were clouds gathering behind Flat Top when he came in, +and Dad went out and looked, and for the fiftieth time that day prayed +in his own way for rain. Then he took the paper, and we gathered at +the table to listen. "Hello," he commenced, "this is M'Doolan's paper +you've got, Bob." + +Bob rather thought it was n't. + +"Yes, yes, man, it IS," Dad put in; "see, it's addressed to him." + +Bob leaned over and LOOKED at the address, and said: "No, no, that's +mine; it always comes like that." Dad laughed. We all laughed. He +opened it, anyway. He had n't read for five minutes when the light +flickered nearly out. Sarah reckoned the oil was about done, and +poured water in the lamp to raise the kerosene to the wick, but that +did n't last long, and, as there was no fat in the house, Dad squatted +on the floor and read by the firelight. + +He plodded through the paper tediously from end to end, reading the +murders and robberies a second time. The clouds that old Bob said were +gathering when he came in were now developing to a storm, for the wind +began to rise, and the giant iron-bark tree that grew close behind the +house swayed and creaked weirdly, and threw out those strange sobs and +moans that on wild nights bring terror to the hearts of bush children. +A glimmer of lightning appeared through the cracks in the slabs. Old +Bob said he would go before it came on, and started into the inky +darkness. + +"It's coming!" Dad said, as he shut the door and put the peg in after +seeing old Bob out. And it came--in no time. A fierce wind struck the +house. Then a vivid flash of lightning lit up every crack and hole, +and a clap of thunder followed that nearly shook the place down. + +Dad ran to the back door and put his shoulder against it; Dave stood to +the front one; and Sarah sat on the sofa with her arms around Mother, +telling her not to be afraid. The wind blew furiously--its one aim +seemed the shifting of the house. Gust after gust struck the walls and +left them quivering. The children screamed. Dad called and shouted, +but no one could catch a word he said. Then there was one tremendous +crack--we understood it--the iron-bark tree had gone over. At last, +the shingled roof commenced to give. Several times the ends rose (and +our hair too) and fell back into place again with a clap. Then it went +clean away in one piece, with a rip like splitting a ribbon, and there +we stood, affrighted and shelterless, inside the walls. Then the wind +went down and it rained--rained on us all night. + +Next morning Joe had been to the new fence for the axe for Dad, and was +off again as fast as he could run, when he remembered something and +called out, "Dad, old B-B-Bob's just over there, lyin' down in the +gully." + +Dad started up. "It's 'im all right--I w-w-would n'ter noticed, only +Prince s-s-smelt him." + +"Quick and show me where!" Dad said. + +Joe showed him. + +"My God!" and Dad stood and stared. Old Bob it was--dead. Dead as +Moses. + +"Poor old Bob!" Dad said. "Poor-old-fellow!" Joe asked what could +have killed him? "Poor-old-Bob!" + +Dave brought the dray, and we took him to the house--or what remained +of it. + +Dad could n't make out the cause of death--perhaps it was lightning. +He held a POST-MORTEM, and, after thinking hard for a long while, told +Mother he was certain, anyway, that old Bob would never get up again. +It was a change to have a dead man about the place, and we were very +pleased to be first to tell anyone who did n't know the news about old +Bob. + +We planted him on his own selection beneath a gum-tree, where for years +and years a family of jackasses nightly roosted, Dad remarking: "As +there MIGHT be a chance of his hearin', it'll be company for the poor +old cove." + + + + +Chapter XIV. + +When Dan Came Home. + + +One night after the threshing. Dad lying on the sofa, thinking; the +rest of us sitting at the table. Dad spoke to Joe. + +"How much," he said, "is seven hundred bushels of wheat at six +shillings?" + +Joe, who was looked upon as the brainy one of our family, took down his +slate with a hint of scholarly ostentation. + +"What did y' say, Dad--seven 'undred BAGS?" + +"Bushels! BUSHELS!" + +"Seven 'un-dered bush-els-of wheat--WHEAT was it, Dad?" + +"Yes, WHEAT!" + +"Wheat at...At WHAT, Dad?" + +"Six shillings a bushel." + +"Six shil-lings-a.... A, Dad? We've not done any at A; she's on'y +showed us PER!" + +"PER bushel, then!" + +"Per bush-el. That's seven 'undered bushels of wheat at six shillin's +per bushel. An' y' wants ter know, Dad--?" + +"How much it'll be, of course." + +"In money, Dad, or--er----?" + +"Dammit, yes; MONEY!" Dad raised his voice. + +For a while, Joe thought hard, then set to work figuring and rubbing +out, figuring and rubbing out. The rest of us eyed him, envious of his +learning. + +Joe finished the sum. + +"Well?" from Dad. + +Joe cleared his throat. We listened. + +"Nine thousan' poun'." + +Dave laughed loud. Dad said, "Pshaw!" and turned his face to the wall. +Joe looked at the slate again. + +"Oh! I see," he said, "I did n't divide by twelve t' bring t' pounds," +and laughed himself. + +More figuring and rubbing out. + +Finally Joe, in loud, decisive tones, announced, "FOUR thousand, NO +'undered an' twenty poun', fourteen shillin's an'--" + +"Bah! YOU blockhead!" Dad blurted out, and jumped off the sofa and +went to bed. + +We all turned in. + +We were not in bed long when the dog barked and a horse entered the +yard. There was a clink of girth-buckles; a saddle thrown down; then a +thump, as though with a lump of blue-metal, set the dog yelping +lustily. We lay listening till a voice called out at the door--"All in +bed?" Then we knew it was Dan, and Dad and Dave sprang out in their +shirts to let him in. All of us jumped up to see Dan. This time he had +been away a long while, and when the slush-lamp was lit and fairly +going, how we stared and wondered at his altered looks! He had grown a +long whisker, and must have stood inches higher than Dad. + +Dad was delighted. He put a fire on, made tea, and he and Dan talked +till near daybreak--Dad of the harvest, and the Government dam that was +promised, and the splendid grass growing in the paddock; Dan of the +great dry plains, and the shearing-sheds out back, and the chaps he had +met there. And he related in a way that made Dad's eyes glisten and +Joe's mouth open, how, with a knocked-up wrist, he shore beside Proctor +and big Andy Purcell, at Welltown, and rung the shed by half a sheep. + +Dad ardently admired Dan. + +Dan was only going to stay a short while at home, he said, then was off +West again. Dad tried to persuade him to change his mind; he would +have him remain and help to work the selection. But Dan only shook his +head and laughed. + +Dan accompanied Dad to the plough every morning, and walked cheerfully +up and down the furrows all day, talking to him. Sometimes he took a +turn at the plough, and Dad did the talking. Dad just loved Dan's +company. + +A few days went by. Dan still accompanied Dad to the plough; but did +n't walk up and down with him. He selected a shade close by, and +talked to Dad from there as he passed on his rounds. Sometimes Dan +used to forget to talk at all--he would be asleep--and Dad would wonder +if he was unwell. Once he advised him to go up to the house and have a +good camp. Dan went. He stretched himself on the sofa, and smoked and +spat on the floor and played the concertina--an old one he won in a +raffle. + +Dan did n't go near the plough any more. He stayed inside every day, +and drank the yeast, and provided music for the women. Sometimes he +would leave the sofa, and go to the back-door and look out, and watch +Dad tearing up and down the paddock after the plough; then he'd yawn, +and wonder aloud what the diggins it was the old man saw in a game like +that on a hot day; and return to the sofa, tired. But every evening +when Dad knocked off and brought the horses to the barn Dan went out +and watched him unharnessing them. + +A month passed. Dad was n't so fond of Dan now, and Dan never talked +of going away. One day Anderson's cows wandered into our yard and +surrounded the hay-stack. Dad saw them from the paddock and cooeed, +and shouted for those at the house to drive them away. They did n't +hear him. Dad left the plough and ran up and pelted Anderson's cows +with stones and glass-bottles, and pursued them with a pitch-fork till, +in a mad rush to get out, half the brutes fell over the fence and made +havoc with the wire. Dad spent an hour mending it; then went to the +verandah and savagely asked Mother if she had lost her ears. Mother +said she had n't. "Then why the devil could n't y' hear me singin' +out?" Mother thought it must have been because Dan was playing the +concertina. "Oh, DAMN his concertina!" Dad squealed, and kicked Joe's +little kitten, that was rubbing itself fondly against his leg, clean +through the house. + +Dan found the selection pretty slow--so he told Mother--and thought he +would knock about a bit. He went to the store and bought a supply of +ammunition, which he booked to Dad, and started shooting. He stood at +the door and put twenty bullets into the barn; then he shot two bears +near the stock-yard with twenty more bullets, and dragged both bears +down to the house and left them at the back-door. They stayed at the +back-door until they went very bad; then Dad hooked himself to them and +dragged them down the gully. + +Somehow, Dad began to hate Dan! He scarcely ever spoke to him now, and +at meal-times never spoke to any of us. Dad was a hard man to +understand. We could n't understand him. "And with DAN at home, too!" +Sal used to whine. Sal verily idolised Dan. Hero-worship was strong +in Sal. + +One night Dad came in for supper rather later than usual. He'd had a +hard day, and was done up. To make matters worse, when he was taking +the collar off Captain the brute tramped heavily on his toe, and took +the nail off. Supper was n't ready. The dining-room was engaged. Dan +was showing Sal how the Prince of Wales schottische was danced in the +huts Out Back. For music, Sal was humming, and the two were flying +about the room. Dad stood at the door and looked on, with blood in his +eye. + +"Look here!" he thundered suddenly, interrupting Dan--"I've had enough +of you!" The couple stopped, astonished, and Sal cried, "DAD!" But +Dad was hot. "Out of this!" (placing his hand on Dan, and shoving +him). "You've loafed long enough on me! Off y' go t' th' devil!" + +Dan went over to Anderson's and Anderson took him in and kept him a +week. Then Dan took Anderson down at a new game of cards, and went away +West again. + + + + +Chapter XV. + +Our Circus. + + +Dave had been to town and came home full of circus. He sat on the +ground beside the tubs while Mother and Sal were washing, and raved +about the riding and the tumbling he had seen. He talked +enthusiastically to Joe about it every day for three weeks. Dave rose +very high in Joe's estimation. + +Raining. All of us inside. Sal on the sofa playing the concertina; +Dad squatting on the edge of a flat stone at the corner of the +fireplace; Dave on another opposite; both gazing into the fire, which +was almost out, and listening intently to the music; the dog, dripping +wet, coiled at their feet, shivering; Mother sitting dreamily at the +table, her palm pressed against her cheek, also enjoying the music. + +Sal played on until the concertina broke. Then there was a silence. + +For a while Dave played with a piece of charcoal. At last he spoke. + +"Well," he said, looking at Dad, "what about this circus?" + +Dad chuckled. + +"But what d' y' THINK?" + +"Well" (Dad paused), "yes" (chuckled again)--"very well." + +"A CIRCUS!" Sal put in--"a PRETTY circus YOUS'D have!" + +Dave fired up. + +"YOU go and ride the red heifer, strad-legs, same as y' did yesterday," +he snarled, "an' let all the country see y'." + +Sal blushed. + +Then to Dad: + +"I'm certain, with Paddy Maloney in it, we could do it right enough, +and make it pay, too." + +"Very well, then," said Dad, "very well. There's th' tarpaulin there, +and plenty bales and old bags whenever you're ready." + +Dave was delighted, and he and Dad and Joe ran out to see where the +tent could be pitched, and ran in again wetter than the dog. + +One day a circus-tent went up in our yard. It attracted a lot of +notice. Two of the Johnsons and old Anderson and others rode in on +draught-horses and inspected it. And Smith's spring-cart horse, that +used to be driven by every day, stopped in the middle of the lane and +stared at it; and, when Smith stood up and belted him with the double +of the reins, he bolted and upset the cart over a stump. It was n't a +very white tent. It was made of bags and green bushes, and Dad and +Dave and Paddy Maloney were two days putting it up. + +We all assisted in the preparations for the circus. Dad built seats +out of forked sticks and slabs, and Joe gathered jam-tins which Mother +filled with fat and moleskin wicks to light up with. + +Everyone in the district knew about our circus, and longed for the +opening night. It came. A large fire near the slip-rails, shining +across the lane and lighting up a corner of the wheat-paddock, showed +the way in. + +Dad stood at the door to take the money. The Andersons--eleven of +them--arrived first. They did n't walk straight in. They hung about +for a while. Then Anderson sidled up to Dad and talked into his ear. +"Oh! that's all right," Dad said, and passed them all in without taking +any money. + +Next came the Maloneys, and, as Paddy belonged to the circus, they also +walked in without paying, and secured front seats. + +Then Jim Brown and Sam Holmes, and Walter Nutt, and Steve Burton, and +eight others strolled along. Dad owed all of them money for binding, +which they happened to remember. "In yous go," Dad said, and in the +lot went. The tent filled quickly, and the crowd awaited the opening +act. + +Paddy Maloney came forward with his hair oiled and combed, and rang the +cow-bell. + +Dave, bare-footed and bare-headed, in snow-white moles and red shirt, +entered standing majestically upon old Ned's back. He got a great +reception. But Ned was tired and refused to canter. He jogged lazily +round the ring. Dave shouted at him and rocked about. He was very +unsteady. Paddy Maloney flogged Ned with the leg-rope. But Ned had +been flogged often before. He got slower and slower. Suddenly, he +stood and cocked his tail, and to prevent himself falling, Dave jumped +off. Then the audience yelled while Dave dragged Ned into the +dressing-room and punched him on the nose. + +Paddy Maloney made a speech. He said: "Well, the next item on the +programme'll knock y' bandy. Keep quiet, you fellows, now, an' y'll +see somethin'." + +They saw Joe. He stepped backwards into the ring, pulling at a string. +There was something on the string. "Come on!" Joe said, tugging. The +"something" would n't come. "Chuck 'im in!" Joe called out. Then the +pet kangaroo was heaved in through the doorway, and fell on its head +and raised the dust. A great many ugly dogs rushed for it savagely. +The kangaroo jumped up and bounded round the ring. The dogs pursued +him noisily. "GERROUT!" Joe shouted, and the crowd stood up and became +very enthusiastic. The dogs caught the kangaroo, and were dragging him +to earth when Dad rushed in and kicked them in twos to the top of the +tent. Then, while Johnson expostulated with Dad for laming his brindle +slut, the kangaroo dived through a hole in the tent and rushed into the +house and into the bedroom, and sprang on the bed among a lot of babies +and women's hats. + +When the commotion subsided Paddy Maloney rang the cow-bell again, and +Dave and "Podgy," the pet sheep, rode out on Nugget. Podgy sat with +hind-legs astride the horse and his head leaning back against Dave's +chest. Dave (standing up) bent over him with a pair of shears in his +hand. He was to shear Podgy as the horse cantered round. + +Paddy Maloney touched Nugget with the whip, and off he +went--"rump-ti-dee, dump-ti-dee." Dave rolled about a lot the first +time round, but soon got his equilibrium. He brandished the shears and +plunged the points of them into Podgy's belly-wool--also into Podgy's +skin. "Bur-UR-R!" Podgy blurted and struggled violently. Dave began +to topple about. He dropped the shears. The audience guffawed. Then +Dave jumped; but Podgy's horns got caught in his clothes and made +trouble. Dave hung on one side of the horse and the sheep dangled on +the other. Dave sang out, so did Podgy. And the horse stopped and +snorted, then swung furiously round and round until five or six pairs +of hands seized his head and held him. + +Dave did n't repeat the act. He ran away holding his clothes together. + +It was a very successful circus. Everyone enjoyed it and wished to see +it again--everyone but the Maloneys. They said it was a swindle, and +ran Dad down because he did n't divide with Paddy the 3s. 6d. he took +at the door. + + + + +Chapter XVI. + +When Joe Was In Charge. + + +Joe was a naturalist. He spent a lot of time--time that Dad considered +should have been employed cutting burr or digging potatoes--in +ear-marking bears and bandicoots, and catching goannas and letting them +go without their tails, or coupled in pairs with pieces of greenhide. +The paddock was full of goannas in harness and slit-eared bears. THEY +belonged to Joe. + +Joe also took an interest in snakes, and used to poke amongst logs and +brush-fences in search of rare specimens. Whenever he secured a good +one he put it in a cage and left it there until it died or got out, or +Dad threw it, cage and all, right out of the parish. + +One day, while Mother and Sal were out with Dad, Joe came home with a +four-foot black snake in his hand. It was a beauty. So sleek and +lithe and lively! He carried it by the tail, its head swinging close +to his bare leg, and the thing yearning for a grab at him. But Joe +understood the ways of a reptile. + +There was no cage--Dad had burnt the last one--so Joe walked round the +room wondering where to put his prize. The cat came out of the bedroom +and mewed and followed him for the snake. He told her to go away. She +did n't go. She reached for the snake with her paw. It bit her. She +spat and sprang in the air and rushed outside with her back up. Joe +giggled and wondered how long the cat would live. + +The Rev. Macpherson, on his way to christen M'Kenzie's baby, called in +for a drink, and smilingly asked after Joe's health. + +"Hold this kuk-kuk-cove, then," Joe said, handing the parson the +reptile, which was wriggling and biting at space, "an' I'll gug-gug-get +y' one." But when Mr. Macpherson saw the thing was alive he jumped back +and fell over the dog which was lying behind him in the shade. Bluey +grabbed him by the leg, and the parson jumped up in haste and made for +his horse--followed by Bluey. Joe cried, "KUM 'ere!"--then turned +inside. + +Mother and Sal entered. They had come to make Dad and themselves a cup +of tea. They quarrelled with Joe, and he went out and started playing +with the snake. He let it go, and went to catch it by the tail again, +but the snake caught HIM--by the finger. + +"He's bit me!" Joe cried, turning pale. Mother screeched, and Sal +bolted off for Dad, while the snake glided silently up the yard. + +Anderson, passing on his old bay mare, heard the noise, and came in. +He examined Joe's finger, bled the wound, and was bandaging the arm +when Dad rushed in. + +"Where is he?" he said. "Oh, you d--d whelp! You wretch of a boy! MY +God!" + +"'Twasn' MY fault." And Joe began to blubber. + +But Anderson protested. There was no time, he said, to be lost +barneying; and he told Dad to take his old mare Jean and go at once for +Sweeney. Sweeney was the publican at Kangaroo Creek, with a reputation +for curing snake-bite. Dad ran out, mounted Jean and turned her head +for Sweeney's. But, at the slip-rails, Jean stuck him up, and would n't +go further. Dad hit her between the ears with his fist, and got down +and ran back. + +"The boy'll be dead, Anderson," he cried, rushing inside again. + +"Come on then," Anderson said, "we'll take off his finger." + +Joe was looking drowsy. But, when Anderson took hold of him and placed +the wounded finger on a block, and Dad faced him with the hammer and a +blunt, rusty old chisel, he livened up. + +"No, Dad, NO!" he squealed, straining and kicking like an old man +kangaroo. Anderson stuck to him, though, and with Sal's assistance held +his finger on the block till Dad carefully rested the chisel on it and +brought the hammer down. It did n't sever the finger--it only scraped +the nail off--but it did make Joe buck. He struggled desperately and +got away. + +Anderson could n't run at all; Dad was little faster; Sal could run +like a greyhound in her bare feet, but, before she could pull her boots +off, Joe had disappeared in the corn. + +"Quick!" Dad shouted, and the trio followed the patient. They hunted +through the corn from end to end, but found no trace of him. Night +came. The search continued. They called, and called, but nothing +answered save the ghostly echoes, the rustling of leaves, the slow, +sonorous notes of a distant bear, or the neighing of a horse in the +grass-paddock. + +At midnight they gave up, and went home, and sat inside and listened, +and looked distracted. + +While they sat, "Whisky," a blackfellow from Billson's station, dropped +in. He was taking a horse down to town for his boss, and asked Dad if +he could stay till morning. Dad said he could. He slept in Dave's +bed; Dave slept on the sofa. + +"If Joe ain't dead, and wuz t' come in before mornin'," Dave said, +"there won't be room for us all." + +And before morning Joe DID come in. He entered stealthily by the +back-door, and crawled quietly into bed. + +At daybreak Joe awoke, and nudged his bed-mate and said: + +"Dave, the cocks has crowed!" No answer. He nudged him again. + +"Dave, the hens is all off the roost!" Still no reply. + +Daylight streamed in through the cracks. Joe sat up--he was at the +back--and stared about. He glanced at the face of his bed-mate and +chuckled and said: + +"Who's been blackenin' y', Dave?" + +He sat grinning awhile, then stood up, and started pulling on his +trousers, which he drew from under his pillow. He had put one leg into +them when his eyes rested on a pair of black feet uncovered at the foot +of the bed. He stared at them and the black face again--then plunged +for the door and fell. Whisky was awake and grinned over the side of +the bed at him. + +"Wot makit you so fritent like that?" he said, grinning more. + +Joe ran into Mother's room and dived in behind her and Dad. Dad swore, +and kicked Joe and jammed him against the slabs with his heels, saying: + +"My GAWD! You DEVIL of a feller, how (KICK) dare you (KICK) run (KICK) +run (KICK, KICK, KICK) away yesterday, eh?" (KICK). + +But he was very glad to see Joe all the same; we all felt that Shingle +Hut would not have been the same place at all without Joe. + +It was when Dad and Dave were away after kangaroo-scalps that Joe was +most appreciated. Mother and Sal felt it such a comfort to have a man +in the house--even if it was only Joe. + +Joe was proud of his male prerogatives. He looked after the selection, +minded the corn, kept Anderson's and Dwyer's and Brown's and old Mother +Murphy's cows out of it, and chased goannas away from the front door +the same as Dad used to do--for Joe felt that he was in Dad's place, +and postponed his customary familiarities with the goannas. + +It was while Joe was in charge that Casey came to our place. A +starved-looking, toothless little old man with a restless eye, +talkative, ragged and grey; he walked with a bend in his back (not a +hump), and carried his chin in the air. We never saw a man like him +before. He spoke rapidly, too, and watched us all as he talked. Not +exactly a "traveller;" he carried no swag or billycan, and wore a pair +of boots much too large. He seemed to have been "well brought up"--he +took off his hat at the door and bowed low to Mother and Sal, who were +sitting inside, sewing. They gave a start and stared. The dog, lying +at Mother's feet, rose and growled. Bluey was n't used to the ways of +people well brought up. + +The world had dealt harshly with Casey, and his story went to Mother's +heart. "God buless y'," he said when she told him he could have some +dinner; "but I'll cut y' wood for it; oh, I'll cut y' wood!" And he +went to the wood-heap and started work. A big heap and a blunt axe; +but it did n't matter to Casey. He worked hard, and did n't stare +about, and did n't reduce the heap much, either; and when Sal called +him to dinner he could n't hear--he was too busy. Joe had to go and +bring him away. + +Casey sat at the table and looked up at the holes in the roof, through +which the sun was shining. + +"Ought t' be a cool house," he remarked. + +Mother said it was. + +"Quite a bush house." + +"Oh, yes," Mother said--"we're right in the bush here." + +He began to eat and, as he ate, talked cheerfully of selections and +crops and old times and bad times and wire fences and dead cattle. +Casey was a versatile ancient. When he was finished he shifted to the +sofa and asked Mother how many children she had. Mother considered and +said, "Twelve." He thought a dozen enough for anyone, and, said that +HIS mother, when he left home, had twenty-one--all girls but him. That +was forty years ago, and he did n't know how many she had since. +Mother and Sal smiled. They began to like old Casey. + +Casey took up his hat and went outside, and did n't say "Good-day" or +"Thanks" or anything. He did n't go away, either. He looked about the +yard. A panel in the fence was broken. It had been broken for five +years. Casey seemed to know it. He started mending that panel. He +was mending it all the evening. + +Mother called to Joe to bring in some wood. Casey left the fence, +hurried to the wood-heap, carried in an armful, and asked Mother if she +wanted more. Then he returned to the fence. + +"J-OE," Mother screeched a little later, "look at those cows tryin' to +eat the corn." + +Casey left the fence again and drove the cows away, and mended the wire +on his way back. + +At sundown Casey was cutting more wood, and when we were at supper he +brought it in and put some on the fire, and went out again slowly. + +Mother and Sal talked about him. + +"Better give him his supper," Sal said, and Mother sent Joe to invite +him in. He did n't come in at once. Casey was n't a forward man. He +stayed to throw some pumpkin to the pigs. + +Casey slept in the barn that night. He slept in it the next night, +too. He did n't believe in shifting from place to place, so he stayed +with us altogether. He took a lively interest in the selection. The +house, he said, was in the wrong place, and he showed Mother where it +ought to have been built. He suggested shifting it, and setting a +hedge and ornamental trees in front and fruit trees at the back, and +making a nice place of it. Little things like that pleased Mother. +"Anyway," she would sometimes say to Sal, "he's a useful old man, and +knows how to look after things about the place." Casey did. Whenever +any watermelons were ripe, he looked after THEM and hid the skins in +the ground. And if a goanna or a crow came and frightened a hen from +her nest Casey always got the egg, and when he had gobbled it up he +would chase that crow or goanna for its life and shout lustily. + +Every day saw Casey more at home at our place. He was a very kind man, +and most obliging. If a traveller called for a drink of water, Casey +would give him a cup of milk and ask him to wait and have dinner. If +Maloney, or old Anderson, or anybody, wished to borrow a horse, or a +dray, or anything about the place, Casey would let them have it with +pleasure, and tell them not to be in a hurry about returning it. + +Joe got on well with Casey. Casey's views on hard work were the same +as Joe's. Hard work, Joe thought, was n't necessary on a selection. + +Casey knew a thing or two--so he said. One fine morning, when all the +sky was blue and the butcher-birds whistling strong, Dwyer's cows +smashed down a lot of the fence and dragged it into the corn. Casey, +assisted by Joe, put them all in the yard, and hammered them with +sticks. Dwyer came along. + +"Those cattle belong to me," he said angrily. + +"They belongs t' ME," Casey answered, "until you pay damages." Then he +put his back to the slip-rails and looked up aggressively into Dwyer's +face. Dwyer was a giant beside Casey. Dwyer did n't say anything--he +was n't a man of words--but started throwing the rails down to let the +cows out. Casey flew at him. Dwyer quietly shoved him away with his +long, brown arm. Casey came again and fastened on to Dwyer. Joe +mounted the stockyard. Dwyer seized Casey with both hands; then there +was a struggle--on Casey's part. Dwyer lifted him up and carried him +away and set him down on his back, then hastened to the rails. But +before he could throw them down Casey was upon him again. Casey never +knew when he was beaten. Dwyer was getting annoyed. He took Casey by +the back of the neck and squeezed him. Casey humped his shoulders and +gasped. Dwyer stared about. A plough-rein hung on the yard. Dwyer +reached for it. Casey yelled, "Murder!" Dwyer fastened one end of the +rope round Casey's body--under the arms--and stared about again. And +again "Murder!" from Casey. Joe jumped off the yard to get further +away. A tree, with a high horizontal limb, stood near. Dad once used +it as a butcher's gallows. Dwyer gathered the loose rein into a coil +and heaved it over the limb, and hauled Casey up. Then he tied the end +of the rope to the yard and drove out the cows. + +"When y' want 'im down," Dwyer said to Joe as he walked away, "cut the +rope." + +Casey groaned, and one of his boots dropped off. Then he began to spin +round--to wind up and unwind and wind up again. Joe came near and eyed +the twirling form with joy. + +Mother and Sal arrived, breathless and excited. They screeched at Joe. + +"Undo th' r-r-rope," Joe said, "an' he'll come w-w--WOP." + +Sal ran away and procured a sheet, and Mother and she held it under +Casey, and told Joe to unfasten the rope and lower him as steadily as +he could. Joe unfastened the rope, but somehow it pinched his fingers +and he let go, and Casey fell through the sheet. For three weeks Casey +was an invalid at our place. He would have been invalided there for +the rest of his days only old Dad came home and induced him to leave. +Casey did n't want to go; but Dad had a persuasive way with him that +generally proved effectual. + +Singularly enough, Dad complained that kangaroos were getting scarce +where he was camped; while our paddocks were full of them. Joe started +a mob nearly every day, as he walked round overseeing things; and he +pondered. Suddenly he had an original inspiration--originality was +Joe's strong point. He turned the barn into a workshop, and buried +himself there for two days. For two whole days he was never "at +home,", except when he stepped out to throw the hammer at the dog for +yelping for a drink. The greedy brute! it was n't a week since he'd +had a billyful--Joe told him. On the morning of the third day the +barn-door swung open, and forth came a kangaroo, with the sharpened +carving knife in its paws. It hopped across the yard and sat up, bold +and erect, near the dog-kennel. Bluey nearly broke his neck trying to +get at it. The kangaroo said: "Lay down, you useless hound!" and +started across the cultivation!, heading for the grass-paddock in long, +erratic jumps. Half-way across the cultivation it spotted a mob of +other kangaroos, and took a firmer grip of the carver. + +Bluey howled and plunged until Mother came out to see what was the +matter. She was in time to see a solitary kangaroo hop in a drunken +manner towards the fence, so she let the dog go and cried, "Sool him, +Bluey! Sool him!" Bluey sooled him, and Mother followed with the axe +to get the scalp. As the dog came racing up, the kangaroo turned and +hissed, "G' home, y' mongrel!" Bluey took no notice, and only when he +had nailed the kangaroo dextrously by the thigh and got him down did it +dawn upon the marsupial that Bluey was n't in the secret. Joe tore off +his head-gear, called the dog affectionately by name, and yelled for +help; but Bluey had not had anything substantial to eat for over a +week, and he worried away vigorously. + +Then the kangaroo slashed out with the carving-knife, and hacked a junk +off Bluey's nose. Bluey shook his head, relaxed his thigh-grip, and +grabbed the kangaroo by the ribs. How that kangaroo did squeal! +Mother arrived. She dropped the axe, threw up both hands, and +shrieked. "Pull him off! he's eating me!" gasped the kangaroo. Mother +shrieked louder, and wrung her hands; but it had no effect on Bluey. +He was a good dog, was Bluey! + +At last, Mother got him by the tail and dragged him off, but he took a +mouthful of kangaroo with him as he went. + +Then the kangaroo raised itself slowly on to its hands and knees. It +was very white and sick-looking, and Mother threw her arms round it and +cried, "Oh, Joe! My child! my child!" + +It was several days before Joe felt better. When he did, Bluey and he +went down the gully together, and, after a while, Joe came back--like +Butler--alone. + + + + +Chapter XVII. + +Dad's "Fortune." + + +Dad used to say that Shingle Hut was the finest selection on Darling +Downs; but WE never could see anything fine about it--except the +weather in drought time, or Dad's old saddle mare. SHE was very fine. +The house was built in a gully so that the bailiffs (I suppose) or the +blacks--who were mostly dead--could n't locate it. An old wire-fence, +slanting all directions, staggered past the front door. At the rear, +its foot almost in the back door, sloped a barren ridge, formerly a +squatter's sheep-yard. For the rest there were sky, wallaby-scrub, +gum-trees, and some acres of cultivation. But Dad must have seen +something in it, or he would n't have stood feasting his eyes on the +wooded waste after he had knocked off work of an evening. In all his +wanderings--and Dad had been almost everywhere; swimming flooded creeks +and rivers, humping his swag from one end of Australia to the other; at +all games going except bank-managing and bushranging--he had seen no +place timbered like Shingle Hut. + +"Why," he used to say, "it's a fortune in itself. Hold on till the +country gets populated, and firewood is scarce, there'll be money in it +then--mark my words!" + +Poor Dad! I wonder how long he expected to live? + +At the back of Shingle Hut was a tract of Government land--mostly +mountains--marked on the map as the Great Dividing Range. Splendid +country, Dad considered it--BEAUTIFUL country--and part of a grand +scheme he had in his head. I defy you to find a man more full of +schemes than Dad was. + +The day had been hot. Inside, the mosquitoes were bad; and, after +supper, Dad and Dave were outside, lying on some bags. They had been +grubbing that day, and were tired. The night was nearly dark. Dad lay +upon his back, watching the stars; Dave upon his stomach, his head +resting on his arms. Both silent. One of the draught-horses cropped +the couch-grass round about them. Now and again a flying-fox circled +noiselessly overhead, and "MOPOKE!--MOPOKE!" came dismally from the +ridge and from out the lonely-looking gully. A star fell, lighting up +a portion of the sky, but Dad did not remark it. In a while he said: + +"How old are you, Dave?" Dave made a mental calculation before +answering. + +"S'pose I must be eighteen now ...Why?" + +A silence. + +"I've been thinking of that land at the back--if we had that I believe +we could make money." + +"Yairs--if we HAD." + +Another silence. + +"Well, I mean to have it, and that before very long." + +Dave raised his head, and looked towards Dad. + +"There's four of you old enough to take up land, and where could you +get better country than that out there for cattle? Why" (turning on +his side and facing Dave) "with a thousand acres of that stocked with +cattle and this kept under cultivation we'd make money--we'd be RICH in +a very few years." + +Dave raised himself on his elbow. + +"Yairs--with CATTLE," he said. + +"Just so" (Dad sat up with enthusiasm), "but to get the LAND is the +first thing, and that's easy enough ONLY" (lowering his voice) "it'll +have to be done QUIETLY and without letting everyone 'round know we're +going in for it." ("Oh! yairs, o' course," from Dave.) "THEN" (and Dad +lifted his voice and leaned over) "run a couple of wires round it, put +every cow we've here on it straight away; get another one or two when +the barley's sold, and let them breed." + +"'Bout how many'd that be t' start 'n?" + +"Well, EIGHT good cows at the least--plenty, too. It's simply +WONDERFUL how cattle breed if they're let alone. Look at Murphy, for +instance. Started on that place with two young heifers--those two old +red cows that you see knocking about now. THEY'RE the mothers of all +his cattle. Anderson just the same...Why, God bless my soul! we would +have a better start than any one of them ever had--by a long way." + +Dave sat up. He began to share Dad's enthusiasm. + +"Once get it STOCKED, and all that is to be done then is simply to look +after the fence, ride about among the cattle every day, see they're +right, brand the calves, and every year muster the mob, draft out the +fat bullocks, whip them into town, and get our seven and eight pounds a +head for them." + +"That'd suit me down to the ground, ridin' about after cattle," Dave +said. + +"Yes, get our seven and eight pounds, maybe nine or ten pounds a-piece. +And could ever we do that pottering about on the place?" Dad leaned +over further and pressed Dave's knee with his hand. + +"Mind you!" (in a very confidential tone) "I'm not at all satisfied the +way we're dragging along here. It's utter nonsense, and, to speak the +truth" (lowering his voice again) "I'VE BEEN SICK OF THE WHOLE DAMN +THING LONG AGO." + +A minute or two passed. + +"It would n't matter," Dad continued, "if there was no way of doing +better; but there IS. The thing only requires to be DONE, and why not +DO it?" He paused for an answer. + +"Well," Dave said, "let us commence it straight off--t'morror. It's +the life that'd suit ME." + +"Of course it WOULD...and there's money in it...no mistake about it!" + +A few minutes passed. Then they went inside, and Dad took Mother into +his confidence, and they sat up half the night discussing the scheme. + +Twelve months later. The storekeeper was at the house wanting to see +Dad. Dad was n't at home. He never was when the storekeeper came; he +generally contrived to be away, up the paddock somewhere or amongst the +corn--if any was growing. The storekeeper waited an hour or so, but +Dad did n't turn up. When he was gone, though, Dad walked in and asked +Mother what he had said. Mother was seated on the sofa, +troubled-looking. + +"He must be paid by next week," she said, bursting into tears, "or the +place'll be sold over our heads." + +Dad stood with his back to the fire-place, his hand locked behind him, +watching the flies swarming on the table. + +Dave came in. He understood the situation at a glance. The scene was +not new to him. He sat down, leant forward, picked a straw off the +flor and twisted it round and round his finger, reflecting. + +Little Bill put his head on Mother's lap, and asked for a piece of +bread...He asked a second time. + +"There IS no bread, child," she said. + +"But me wants some, mumma." + +Dad went outside and Dave followed. They sat on their heels, their +backs to the barn, thoughtfully studying the earth. + +"It's the same thing"--Dad said, reproachfully--"from one year's end to +the other...alwuz a BILL!" + +"Thought last year we'd be over all this by now!" from Dave. + +"So we COULD...Can NOW...It only wants that land to be taken up; and, +as I've said often and often, these cows taken----" + +Dad caught sight of the storekeeper coming back, and ran into the barn. + +Six months later. Dinner about ready. "Take up a thousand acres," Dad +was saying; "take it up----" + +He was interrupted by a visitor. + +"Are you Mister Rudd?" Dad said he was. + +"Well, er--I've a FI. FA. against y'." + +Dad didn't understand. + +The Sheriff's officer drew a document from his inside breast-pocket and +proceeded to read: + +"To Mister James Williams, my bailiff. Greeting: By virtue of Her +Majesty's writ of FIERI FACIAS, to me directed, I command you that of +the goods and chattels, money, bank-note or notes or other property of +Murtagh Joseph Rudd, of Shingle Hut, in my bailiwick, you cause to be +made the sum of forty pounds ten shillings, with interest thereon," &c. + +Dad understood. + +Then the bailiff's man rounded up the cows and the horses, and Dad and +the lot of us leant against the fence and in sadness watched Polly and +old Poley and the rest for the last time pass out the slip-rails. + +"That puts an end to the land business!" Dave said gloomily. + +But Dad never spoke. + + + + +Chapter XVIII. + +We Embark in the Bear Industry. + + +When the bailiff came and took away the cows and horses, and completely +knocked the bottom out of Dad's land scheme, Dad did n't sit in the +ashes and sulk. He was n't that kind of person. He DID at times say +he was tired of it all, and often he wished it far enough, too! But, +then, that was all mere talk on Dad's part. He LOVED the selection. +To every inch--every stick of it--he was devoted. 'T was his creed. +He felt certain there was money in it--that out of it would come his +independence. Therefore, he did n't rollup and, with Mother by the hand +and little Bill on his back, stalk into town to hang round and abuse +the bush. He walked up and down the yard thinking and thinking. Dad +was a man with a head. + +He consulted Mother and Dave, and together they thought more. + +"The thing is," Dad said, "to get another horse to finish the bit of +ploughing. We've got ONE; Anderson will lend the grey mare, I know." + +He walked round the room a few times. + +"When that's done, I think I see my way clear; but THAT'S the trouble." + +He looked at Dave. Dave seemed as though he had a solution. But Joe +spoke. + +"Kuk-kuk-could n't y' b-reak in some kang'roos, Dad? There's pul-lenty +in th' pup-paddick." + +"Could n't you shut up and hold your tongue and clear out of this, you +brat?" Dad roared. And Joe hung his head and shut up. + +"Well, y' know"--Dave drawled--"there's that colt wot Maloney offered +us before to quieten. Could get 'im. 'E's a big lump of a 'orse if y' +could do anythin' with 'im. THEY gave 'im best themselves." + +Dad's eyes shone. + +"That's th' horse," he cried. "GET him! To-morrow first thing go for +him! I'LL make something of him!" + +"Don't know"--Dave chuckled--"he's a----" + +"Tut, tut; you fetch him." + +"Oh, I'll FETCH 'im." And Dave, on the strength of having made a +valuable suggestion, dragged Joe off the sofa and stretched himself +upon it. + +Dad went on thinking awhile. "How much," he at last asked, "did +Johnson get for those skins?" + +"Which?" Dave answered. "Bears or kangaroos?" + +"Bears." + +"Five bob, was n't it? Six for some." + +"What, A-PIECE?" + +"Yairs." + +"Why, God bless my soul, what have we been thinking about? FIVE +SHILLINGS? Are you sure?" + +"Yairs, rather." + +"What, bear-skins worth that and the paddock here and the lanes and the +country over-run with them--FULL of the damn things--HUNDREDS of +them--and we, all this time--all these years--working and slaving and +scraping and-and" (he almost shouted), "DAMN me! What asses we HAVE +been, to be sure." (Dave stared at him.) "Bear-skins FIVE SHILLINGS +each, and----" + +"That's all right enough," Dave interrupted, "but----" + +"Of COURSE it's all right enough NOW," Dad yelled, "now when we see it." + +"But look!" and Dave sat up and assumed an arbitrary attitude. He was +growing suspicious of Dad's ideas. "To begin with, how many bears do +you reckon on getting in a day?" + +"In a day"--reflectively--"twenty at the least." + +"Twenty. Well, say we only got HALF that, how much d' y' make?" + +"MAKE?" (considering). "Two pounds ten a day...fifteen or twenty +pounds a week...yes, TWENTY POUNDS, reckoning at THAT even. And do you +mean to tell ME that we would n't get more than TEN bears a day? Why +we'd get more than that in the lane--get more up ONE tree." + +Dave grinned. + +"Can't you SEE? DAMN it, boy, are you so DENSE?" + +Dave saw. He became enthusiastic. He wondered why it had never struck +us before. Then Dad smiled, and we sat to supper and talked about +bears. + +"We'll not bother with that horse NOW," said Dad; "the ploughing can +go; I'm DONE with it. We've had enough poking and puddling about. +We'll start this business straightaway." And the following morning, +headed by the dog and Dad, armed with a tomahawk, we started up the +paddock. + +How free we felt! To think we were finished for ever with the raking +and carting of hay--finished tramping up and down beside Dad, with the +plough-reins in our hands, flies in our eyes and burr in our +feet--finished being the target for Dad's blasphemy when the plough or +the horses or the harness went wrong--was delightful! And the +adventure and excitement which this new industry promised operated +strongly upon us. We rioted and careered like hunted brumbies through +the trees, till warned by Dad to "keep our eyes about;" then we settled +down, and Joe found the first bear. It was on an ironbark tree, around +the base of which we soon were clamouring. + +"Up y' go!" Dad said, cheerfully helping Dave and the tomahawk into the +first fork. + +Dave ascended and crawled cautiously along the limb the bear was on and +began to chop. WE armed ourselves with heavy sticks and waited. The +dog sat on his tail and stared and whined at the bear. The limb +cracked, and Dave ceased chopping and shouted "Look out!" We shouldered +arms. The dog was in a hurry. He sprang in the air and landed on his +back. But Dave had to make another nick or two. Then with a loud +crack the limb parted and came sweeping down. The dog jumped to meet +it. He met it, and was laid out on the grass. The bear scrambled to +its feet and made off towards Bill. Bill squealed and fell backwards +over a log. Dad rushed in and kicked the bear up like a football. It +landed near Joe. Joe's eyes shone with the hunter's lust of blood. He +swung his stick for a tremendous blow--swung it mightily and high--and +nearly knocked his parent's head off. When Dad had spat blood enough +to make sure that he had only lost one tooth, he hunted Joe; but Joe +was too fleet, as usual. + +Meanwhile, the bear had run up another tree--about the tallest old gum +in the paddock. Dad snapped his fingers angrily and cried: "Where the +devil was the DOG?" + +"Oh, where the devil wuz the DORG?" Dave growled, sliding down the +tree--"where th' devil wuz YOU? Where wuz the lot o' y'?" + +"Ah, well!" Dad said "--there's plenty more we can get. Come along." +And off we went. The dog pulled himself together and limped after us. + +Bears were plentiful enough, but we wandered far before we found +another on a tree that Dave could climb, and, when we DID, somehow or +other the limb broke when he put his weight on it, and down he came, +bear and all. Of course we were not ready, and that bear, like the +other, got up another tree. But Dave did n't. He lay till Dad ran +about two miles down a gully to a dam and filled his hat with muddy +water and came tearing back with it empty--till Anderson and Mother +came and helped to carry him home. + +We did n't go out any more after bears. Dave, when he was able, went +and got Maloney's colt and put him in the plough. And, after he had +kicked Dad and smashed all the swingle-trees about the place, and got +right out of his harness a couple of times and sulked for two days, he +went well enough beside Anderson's old grey mare. + +And that season, when everyone else's wheat was red with rust--when +Anderson and Maloney cut theirs for hay--when Johnson put a firestick +in his--ours was good to see. It ripened; and the rain kept off, and +we reaped 200 bags. Salvation! + + + + +Chapter XIX. + +Nell and Ned. + + +That harvest of two hundred bags of wheat was the turning-point in the +history of our selection. Things somehow seemed to go better; and +Dad's faith was gradually justified--to some extent. We accumulated +out-buildings and added two new rooms to the hut, and Dad was able to +lend old Anderson five pounds in return for a promise to pay seven +pounds ten shillings in six months' time. We increased the stock, too, +by degrees; and--crowning joy!--we got a horse or two you could ride to +the township. + +With Nell and Ned we reckoned we had two saddle-horses--those were +their names, Nell and Ned, a mare and a colt. Fine hacks they were, +too! Anybody could ride them, they were so quiet. Dad reckoned Ned was +the better of the two. He was well-bred, and had a pedigree and a +gentle disposition, and a bald-face, and a bumble-foot, and a raw +wither, and a sore back that gave him a habit of "flinching"--a habit +that discounted his uselessness a great deal, because, when we were n't +at home, the women could n't saddle him to run the cows in. Whenever +he saw the saddle or heard the girth-buckles rattle he would start to +flinch. Put the cloth on his back--folded or otherwise--and, no matter +how smart you might be, it would be off before you could cover it with +the saddle, and he would n't have flicked it with his tail, or pulled +it off with his teeth, or done anything to it. He just flinched--made +the skin on his back--where there was any--QUIVER. Throw on the saddle +without a cloth, and he would "give" in the middle like a broken +rail--bend till his belly almost touched the ground, and remain bent +till mounted; then he'd crawl off and gradually straighten up as he +became used to you. Were you tender-hearted enough to feel compunction +in sitting down hard on a six-year-old sore, or if you had an aversion +to kicking the suffering brute with both heels and belting his hide +with a yard or two of fencing-wire to get him to show signs of +animation, you would dismount and walk--perhaps, weep. WE always rode +him right out, though. + +As a two-year-old Ned was Dad's hope. Pointing proudly to the +long-legged, big-headed, ugly moke mooching by the door, smelling the +dust, he would say: "Be a fine horse in another year! Little +sleepy-looking yet; that's nothing!" + +"Stir him up a bit, till we see how he canters," he said to Joe one +day. And when Joe stirred him up--rattled a piece of rock on his jaw +that nearly knocked his head off--Dad took after Joe and chased him +through the potatoes, and out into the grass-paddock, and across +towards Anderson's; then returned and yarded the colt, and knocked a +patch of skin off him with a rail because he would n't stand in a +corner till he looked at his eye. "Would n't have anything happen to +that colt for a fortune!" he said to himself. Then went away, +forgetting to throw the rails down. Dave threw them down a couple of +days after. + +WE preferred Nell to Ned, but Dad always voted for the colt. "You can +trust him; he'll stand anywhere," he used to say. Ned WOULD! Once, +when the grass-paddock was burning, he stood until he took fire. Then +he stood while we hammered him with boughs to put the blaze out. It +took a lot to frighten Ned. His presence of mind rarely deserted him. +Once, though, he got a start. He was standing in the shade of a tree +in the paddock when Dad went to catch him. He seemed to be watching +Dad, but was n't. He was ASLEEP. "Well, old chap," said Dad, "how ARE +y'?" and proceeded to bridle him. Ned opened his mouth and received +the bit as usual, only some of his tongue came out and stayed out. +"Wot's up w' y'?" and Dad tried to poke it in with his finger, but it +came out further, and some chewed grass dropped into his hand. Dad +started to lead him then, or rather to PULL him, and at the first tug +he have the reins Ned woke with a snort and broke away. And when the +other horses saw him looking at Dad with his tail cocked, and his head +up, and the bridle-reins hanging, they went for their lives through the +trees, and Blossom's foal got staked. + +Another day Dad was out on Ned, looking for the red heifer, and came +across two men fencing--a tall, powerful-looking man with a beard, and +a slim young fellow with a smooth face. Also a kangaroo-pup. As Dad +slowly approached, Ned swaying from side to side with his nose to the +ground, the elder man drove the crowbar into the earth and stared as if +he had never seen a man on horseback before. The young fellow sat on a +log and stared too. The pup ran behind a tree and growled. + +"Seen any cattle round here?" Dad asked. + +"No," the man said, and grinned. + +"Did n't notice a red heifer?" + +"No," grinning more. + +The kangaroo-pup left the tree and sniffed at Ned's heels. + +"Won't kick, will he?" said the man. + +The young fellow broke into a loud laugh and fell off the log. + +"No," Dad replied--"he's PERFECTLY quiet." + +"He LOOKS quiet." + +The young fellow took a fit of coughing. + +After a pause. "Well, you did n't see any about, then?" and Dad +wheeled Ned round to go away. + +"No, I DID N'T, old man," the other answered, and snatched hold of +Ned's tail and hung back with all his might. Ned grunted and strained +and tore the ground up with his toes; Dad spurred and leathered him +with a strap, looking straight ahead. The man hung on. "Come 'long," +Dad said. The pup barked. "COME 'long with YER!" Dad said. The young +fellow fell off the log again. Ned's tail cracked. Dad hit him +between the ears. The tail cracked again. A piece of it came off; +then Ned stumbled and went on his head. "What the DEVIL----!" Dad +said, looking round. But only the young fellow was laughing. + +Nell was different from Ned. She was a bay, with yellow flanks and a +lump under her belly; a bright eye, lop ears, and heavy, hairy legs. +She was a very wise mare. It was wonderful how much she know. She +knew when she was wanted; and she would go away the night before and +get lost. And she knew when she was n't wanted; then she'd hang about +the back-door licking a hole in the ground where the dish-water was +thrown, or fossicking at the barn for the corn Dad had hidden, or +scratching her neck or her rump against the cultivation paddock +slip-rails. She always scratched herself against those +slip-rails--sometimes for hours--always until they fell down. Then +she'd walk in and eat. And how she COULD eat! + +As a hack, Nell was unreliable. You could n't reckon with certainty on +getting her to start. All depended on the humour she was in and the +direction you wished to take--mostly the direction. If towards the +grass-paddock or the dam, she was off helter-skelter. If it was n't, +she'd go on strike--put her head down and chew the bit. Then, when +you'd get to work on her with a waddy--which we always did--she'd walk +backwards into the house and frighten Mother, or into the waterhole and +dirty the water. Dad said it was the fault of the cove who broke her +in. Dad was a just man. The "cove" was a union shearer--did it for +four shillings and six pence. Wanted five bob, but Dad beat him down. +Anybody else would have asked a pound. + +When Nell DID make up her mind to go, it was with a rush, and, if the +slip-rails were on the ground, she'd refuse to take them. She'd stand +and look out into the lane. You'd have to get off and drag the rails +aside (about twenty, counting broken ones). Then she'd fancy they were +up, and would shake her head and mark time until you dug your heels +into her; then she'd gather herself together and jump high enough for a +show--over nothing! + +Dave was to ride Nell to town one Christmas to see the sports. He had +n't seen any sports before, and went to bed excited and rose in the +middle of the night to start. He dressed in the dark, and we heard him +going out, because he fell over Sandy and Kate. They had come on a +visit, and were sleeping on the floor in the front room. We also heard +him throw the slip-rails down. + +There was a heavy fog that morning. At breakfast we talked about Dave, +and Dad "s'posed" he would just about be getting in; but an hour or two +after breakfast the fog cleared, and we saw Dave in the lane hammering +Nell with a stick. Nell had her rump to the fence and was trying hard +to kick it down. Dad went to him. "Take her gently; take her GENTLY, +boy," he shouted. "PSHAW! take her GENTLY!" Dave shouted back. +"Here"--he jumped off her and handed Dad the reins--"take her away and +cut her throat." Then he cried, and then he picked up a big stone and +rushed at Nell's head. But Dad interfered. + +But the day Dad mounted Nell to bring a doctor to Anderson! She +started away smartly--the wrong road. Dad jerked her mouth and pulled +her round roughly. He was in a hurry--Nell was n't. She stood and +shook her head and switched her tail. Dad rattled a waddy on her and +jammed his heels hard against her ribs. She dropped her head and +cow-kicked. Then he coaxed her. "Come on, old girl," he said; "come +on,"--and patted her on the neck. She liked being patted. That +exasperated Dad. He hit her on the head with his fist. Joe ran out +with a long stick. He poked her in the flank. Nell kicked the stick +out of his hands and bolted towards the dam. Dad pulled and swore as +she bore him along. And when he did haul her in, he was two hundred +yards further from the doctor. Dad turned her round and once more used +the waddy. Nell was obdurate, Dad exhausted. Joe joined them, out of +breath. He poked Nell with the stick again. She "kicked up." Dad +lost his balance. Joe laughed. Dad said, "St-o-op!" Joe was +energetic. So was Nell. She kicked up again--strong--and Dad fell off. + +"Wot, could'n' y' s-s-s-stick to 'er, Dad?" Joe asked. + +"STICK BE DAMNED--run--CATCH her!--D----N y'!" + +Joe obeyed. + +Dad made another start, and this time Nell went willingly. Dad was +leading her! + +Those two old horses are dead now. They died in the summer when there +was lots of grass and water--just when Dad had broken them into +harness--just when he was getting a good team together to draw logs for +the new railway line! + + + + +Chapter XX. + +The Cow We Bought. + + +When Dad received two hundred pounds for the wheat he saw nothing but +success and happiness ahead. His faith in the farm and farming +swelled. Dad was not a pessimist--when he had two hundred pounds. + +"Say what they like," he held forth to Anderson and two other men +across the rails one evening--"talk how they will about it, there's +money to be made at farming. Let a man WORK and use his HEAD and know +what to sow and when to sow it, and he MUST do well." (Anderson stroked +his beard in grave silence; HE had had no wheat). "Why, once a farmer +gets on at all he's the most independent man in the whole country." + +"Yes! Once he DOES!" drawled one of the men,--a weird, withered fellow +with a scraggy beard and a reflective turn of mind. + +"Jusso," Dad went on, "but he must use his HEAD; it's all in th' +head." (He tapped his own skull with his finger). "Where would I be +now if I had n't used me head this last season?" + +He paused for an answer. None came. + +"I say," he continued, "it's a mistake to think nothing's to be made at +farming, and any man" ("Come to supper, D--AD!"--'t was Sal's voice) +"ought t' get on where there's land like this." + +"LAND!" said the same man--"where IS it?" + +"Where IS it?" Dad warmed up--"where IS N'T it? Is n't this land?" +(Looking all round.) "Is n't the whole country land from one end to +the other? And is there another country like it anywhere?" + +"There is n't!" said the man. + +"Is there any other country in th' WORLD" (Dad lifted his voice) "where +a man, if he likes, can live" ("Dad, tea!") "without a shilling in his +pocket and without doing a tap of work from one year's end to the +other?" + +Anderson did n't quite understand, and the weird man asked Dad if he +meant "in gaol." + +"I mean," Dad said, "that no man should starve in this country when +there's kangaroos and bears and"--(Joe came and stood beside Dad and +asked him if he was DEAF)--"and goannas and snakes in thousands. Look +here!" (still to the weird man), "you say that farming"--(Mother, +bare-headed, came out and stood beside Joe, and asked Anderson if Mrs. +Anderson had got a nurse yet, and Anderson smiled and said he believed +another son had just arrived, but he had n't seen it)--"that farming +don't pay"--(Sal came along and stood near Mother and asked Anderson +who the baby was like)--"don't pay in this country?" + +The man nodded. + +"It will pay any man who----" + +Interruption. + +Anderson's big dog had wandered to the house, and came back with nearly +all that was for supper in his mouth. + +Sal squealed. + +"DROP IT--DROP IT, Bob!" Anderson shouted, giving chase. Bob dropped +it on the road. + +"DAMN IT!" said Dad, glaring at Mother, "wot d' y' ALL want out +'ere?...Y-YOU brute!" (to the dog, calmly licking its lips). + +Then Anderson and the two men went away. + +But when we had paid sixty pounds to the storekeeper and thirty pounds +in interest; and paid for the seed and the reaping and threshing of the +wheat; and bought three plough-horses, and a hack for Dave; and a +corn-sheller, and a tank, and clothes for us all; and put rations in +the house; and lent Anderson five pounds; and improved Shingle Hut; and +so on; very little of the two hundred pounds was left. + +Mother spoke of getting a cow. The children, she said, could n't live +without milk and when Dad heard from Johnson and Dwyer that Eastbrook +dairy cattle were to be sold at auction, he said he would go down and +buy one. + +Very early. The stars had scarcely left the sky. There was a lot of +groping and stumbling about the room. Dad and Dave had risen and were +preparing to go to the sale. + +I don't remember if the sky was golden or gorgeous at all, or if the +mountain was clothed in mist, or if any fragrance came from the +wattle-trees when they were leaving; but Johnson, without hat or boots, +was picking splinters off the slabs of his hut to start his fire with, +and a mile further on Smith's dog was barking furiously. He was a +famous barker. Smith trained him to it to keep the wallabies off. +Smith used to chain him to a tree in the paddock and hang a piece of +meat to the branches, and leave him there all night. + +Dad and Dave rode steadily along and arrived at Eastbrook before +mid-day. The old station was on its last legs. "The flags were flying +half-mast high." A crowd of people were there. Cart-horses with +harness on, and a lot of tired-looking saddle-hacks, covered with dry +sweat, were fastened to cart-wheels, and to every available post and +place. Heaps of old iron, broken-down drays and buggies and +wheel-barrows, pumps and pieces of machinery, which Dad reckoned were +worth a lot of money, were scattered about. Dad yearned to gather them +all up and cart them home. Rows of unshaven men were seated high on +the rails of the yards. The yards were filled with cattle--cows, +heifers, bulls, and calves, all separate--bellowing, and, in a friendly +way, raking skins and hair off each other with their horns. + +The station-manager, with a handful of papers and a pencil behind his +ear, hurried here and there, followed by some of the crowd, who asked +him questions which he did n't answer. Dad asked him if this was the +place where the sale was to be. He looked all over Dad. + +A man rang a bell violently, shouting, "This way for the dairy cows!" +Dad went that way, closely followed by Dave, who was silent and +strange. A boy put a printed catalogue into Dad's hand, which he was +doubtful about keeping until he saw Andy Percil with one. Most of the +men seated on the rails jumped down into an empty yard and stood round +in a ring. In one corner the auctioneer mounted a box, and read the +conditions of sale, and talked hard about the breed of the cattle. +Then: + +"How much for the imported cow, Silky? No.1 on the catalogue. How +much to start her, gentlemen?" + +Silky rushed into the yard with a shower of sticks flying after her and +glared about, finally fixing her gaze on Dad, who was trying to find +her number in the catalogue. + +"A pure-bred 'Heereford,' four years old, by The Duke out of Dolly, to +calve on the eighth of next month," said the auctioneer. "How much to +start her?" + +All silent. Buyers looked thoughtful. The auctioneer ran his restless +eyes over them. + +Dad and Dave held a whispered consultation; then Dad made a movement. +The auctioneer caught his eye and leant forward. + +"FIVE BOB!" Dad shouted. There was a loud laugh. The auctioneer +frowned. "We're selling COWS, old man," he said, "not running a +shilling-table." + +More laughter. It reached Dave's heart, and he wished he had n't come +with Dad. + +Someone bid five pounds, someone else six; seven-eight-nine went round +quickly, and Silky was sold for ten pounds. + +"Beauty" rushed in. + +Two station-hands passed among the crowd, each with a bucket of beer +and some glasses. Dad hesitated when they came to him, and said he did +n't care about it. Dave the same. + +Dad ran "Beauty" to three pound ten shillings (all the money he had), +and she was knocked down at twelve pounds. + +Bidding became lively. + +Dave had his eye on the men with the beer--he was thirsty. He noticed +no one paid for what was drunk, and whispered his discovery to Dad. +When the beer came again, Dad reached out and took a glass. Dave took +one also. + +"Have another!" said the man. + +Dave grinned, and took another. + +Dad ran fifteen cows, successively, to three pounds ten shillings. + +The men with the beer took a liking to Dave. They came frequently to +him, and Dave began to enjoy the sale. + +Again Dad stopped bidding at three pounds ten shillings. + +Dave began to talk. He left his place beside Dad and, hat in hand, +staggered to the middle of the yard. "WOH!" he shouted, and made an +awkward attempt to embrace a red cow which was under the hammer. + +"SEV'N POUN'--SEV'N POUN'--SEV'N POUN'," shouted the auctioneer, +rapidly. "Any advance on sev'n POUN'?" + +"WENNY (hic) QUID," Dave said. + +"At sev'n poun' she's GOING?" + +"Twenny (hic) TWO quid," Dave said. + +"You have n't twenty-two PENCE," snorted the auctioneer. + +Then Dave caught the cow by the tail, and she pulled him about the yard +until two men took him away. + +The last cow put up was, so the auctioneer said, station-bred and in +full milk. She was a wild-looking brute, with three enormous teats and +a large, fleshy udder. The catalogue said her name was "Dummy." + +"How much for 'Dummy,' the only bargain in the mob--how much for her, +gentlemen?" + +Dad rushed "Dummy." "Three poun' ten," he said, eagerly. + +The auctioneer rushed Dad. "YOURS," he said, bringing his hammer down +with a bang; "you deserve her, old man!" And the station-manager +chuckled and took Dad's name--and Dad's money. + +Dad was very pleased, and eager to start home. He went and found Dave, +who was asleep in a hay-stack, and along with Steven Burton they drove +the cow home, and yarded her in the dark. + +Mother and Sal heard the noise, and came with a light to see Dad's +purchase, but as they approached "Dummy" threatened to carry the yard +away on her back, and Dad ordered them off. + +Dad secured the rails by placing logs and the harrow against them, then +went inside and told Mother what a bargain he'd made. + +In the morning Dad took a bucket and went to milk "Dummy." All of us +accompanied him. He crawled through the rails while "Dummy" tore the +earth with her fore-feet and threw lumps of it over the yard. But she +was n't so wild as she seemed, and when Dad went to work on her with a +big stick she walked into the bail quietly enough. Then he sat to milk +her, and when he took hold of her teats she broke the leg-rope and +kicked him clean off the block and tangled her leg in the bucket and +made a great noise with it. Then she bellowed and reared in the bail +and fell down, her head screwed the wrong way, and lay with her tongue +out moaning. + +Dad rose and spat out dirt. + +"Dear me!" Mother said, "it's a WILD cow y' bought." + +"Not at all," Dad answered; "she's a bit touchy, that's all." + +"She tut-tut--TUTCHED YOU orright, Dad," Joe said from the top of the +yard. + +Dad looked up. "Get down outer THAT!" he yelled. "No wonder the damn +cow's frightened." + +Joe got down. + +Dad brought "Dummy" to her senses with a few heavy kicks on her nose, +and proceeded to milk her again. "Dummy" kicked and kicked. Dad +tugged and tugged at her teats, but no milk came. Dad could n't +understand it. "Must be frettin'," he said. + +Joe owned a pet calf about a week old which lived on water and a long +rope. Dad told him to fetch it to see if it would suck. Joe fetched +it, and it sucked ravenously at "Dummy's" flank, and joyfully wagged +its tail. "Dummy" resented it. She plunged until the leg-rope parted +again, when the calf got mixed up in her legs, and she trampled it in +the ground. Joe took it away. Dad turned "Dummy" out and bailed her +up the next day--and every day for a week--with the same result. Then +he sent for Larry O'Laughlin, who posed as a cow doctor. + +"She never give a drop in her life," Larry said. "Them's BLIND tits +she have." + +Dad one day sold "Dummy" for ten shillings and bought a goat, which +Johnson shot on his cultivation and made Dad drag away. + + + + +Chapter XXI. + +The Parson and the Scone. + + +It was dinner-time. And were n't we hungry!--particularly Joe! He was +kept from school that day to fork up hay-work hard enough for a +man--too hard for some men--but in many things Joe was more than a +man's equal. Eating was one of them. We were all silent. Joe ate +ravenously. The meat and pumpkin disappeared, and the pile of hot +scones grew rapidly less. Joe regarded it with anxiety. He stole sly +glances at Dad and at Dave and made a mental calculation. Then he +fixed his eyes longingly on the one remaining scone, and ate faster and +faster....Still silence. Joe glanced again at Dad. + +The dogs outside barked. Those inside, lying full-stretch beneath the +table, instantly darted up and rushed out. One of them carried off +little Bill--who was standing at the table with his legs spread out +and a pint of tea in his hand--as far as the door on its back, and +there scraped him off and spilled tea over him. Dad spoke. He said, +"Damn the dogs!" Then he rose and looked out the window. We all +rose--all except Joe. Joe reached for the last scone. + +A horseman dismounted at the slip-rails. + +"Some stranger," Dad muttered, turning to re-seat himself. + +"Why, it's--it's the minister!" Sal cried--"the minister that married +Kate!" + +Dad nearly fell over. "Good God!" was all he said, and stared +hopelessly at Mother. The minister--for sure enough it was the Rev. +Daniel Macpherson--was coming in. There was commotion. Dave finished +his tea at a gulp, put on his hat, and left by the back-door. Dad +would have followed, but hesitated, and so was lost. Mother was +restless--"on pins and needles." + +"And there ain't a bite to offer him," she cried, dancing hysterically +about the table--"not a bite; nor a plate, nor a knife, nor a fork to +eat it with!" There was humour in Mother at times. It came from the +father's side. He was a dentist. + +Only Joe was unconcerned. He was employed on the last scone. He +commenced it slowly. He wished it to last till night. His mouth +opened and received it fondly. He buried his teeth in it and lingered +lovingly over it. Mother's eyes happened to rest on him. Her face +brightened. She flew at Joe and cried: + +"Give me that scone!--put it back on the table this minute!" + +Joe became concerned. He was about to protest. Mother seized him by +the hair (which had n't been cut since Dan went shearing) and hissed: + +"Put--it--back--sir!" Joe put it back. + +The minister came in. Dad said he was pleased to see him--poor +Dad!--and enquired if he had had dinner. The parson had not, but said +he did n't want any, and implored Mother not to put herself about on +his account. He only required a cup of tea--nothing else whatever. +Mother was delighted, and got the tea gladly. Still she was not +satisfied. She would be hospitable. She said: + +"Won't you try a scone with it, Mr. Macpherson?" And the parson said he +would--"just one." + +Mother passed the rescued scone along, and awkwardly apologised for the +absence of plates. She explained that the Andersons were threshing +their wheat, and had borrowed all our crockery and +cutlery--everybody's, in fact, in the neighbourhood--for the use of the +men. Such was the custom round our way. But the minister did n't +mind. On the contrary, he commended everybody for fellowship and +good-feeling, and felt sure that the district would be rewarded. + +It took the Rev. Macpherson no time to polish off the scone. When the +last of it was disappearing Mother became uneasy again. So did Dad. +He stared through the window at the parson's sleepy-looking horse, +fastened to the fence. Dad wished to heaven it would break away, or +drop dead, or do anything to provide him with an excuse to run out. +But it was a faithful steed. It stood there leaning on its forehead +against a post. There was a brief silence. + +Then the minister joked about his appetite--at which only Joe could +afford to smile--and asked, "May I trouble you for just another scone?" + +Mother muttered something like "Yes, of course," and went out to the +kitchen just as if there had been some there. Dad was very +uncomfortable. He patted the floor with the flat of his foot and +wondered what would happen next. Nothing happened for a good while. +The minister sipped and sipped his tea till none was left... + +Dad said: "I'll see what's keeping her," and rose--glad if ever man +was glad--to get away. He found Mother seated on the ironbark table in +the kitchen. They did n't speak. They looked at each other +sympathisingly. + +"Well?" Dad whispered at last; "what are you going to do?" Mother +shook her head. She did n't know. + +"Tell him straight there ain't any, an' be done with it," was Dad's +cheerful advice. Mother several times approached the door, but +hesitated and returned again. + +"What are you afraid of?" Dad would ask; "he won't eat y'." Finally she +went in. + +Then Dad tiptoed to the door and listened. He was listening eagerly +when a lump of earth--a piece of the cultivation paddock--fell +dangerously near his feet. It broke and scattered round him, and +rattled inside against the papered wall. Dad jumped round. A row of +jackasses on a tree near by laughed merrily. Dad looked up. They +stopped. Another one laughed clearly from the edge of the tall corn. +Dad turned his head. It was Dave. Dad joined him, and they watched +the parson mount his horse and ride away. + +Dad drew a deep and grateful breath. "Thank God!" he said. + + + + +Chapter XXII. + +Callaghan's Colt. + + +It was the year we put the bottom paddock under potatoes. Dad was +standing contemplating the tops, which were withering for want of rain. +He shifted his gaze to the ten acres sown with corn. A dozen stalks or +so were looking well; a few more, ten or twelve inches high, were +coming in cob; the rest had n't made an appearance. + +Dad sighed and turned away from the awful prospect. He went and looked +into the water-cask. Two butterflies, a frog or two, and some charcoal +were at the bottom. No water. He sighed again, took the yoke and two +kerosene-tins, and went off to the springs. + +About an hour and a half after he returned with two half-tins of muddy, +milky-looking water--the balance had been splashed out as he got +through the fences--and said to Mother (wiping the sweat off his face +with his shirt-sleeve)-- + +"Don't know, I'm SURE, what things are going t' come t';...no use doing +anything...there's no rain...no si----" he lifted his foot and with +cool exactness took a place-kick at the dog, which was trying to fall +into one of the kerosene-tins, head first, and sent it and the water +flying. "Oh you ----!" The rest is omitted in the interests of Poetry. + +Day after. Fearful heat; not a breath of air; fowl and beast sought +the shade; everything silent; the great Bush slept. In the west a +stray cloud or two that had been hanging about gathered, thickened, +darkened. + +The air changed. Fowl and beast left the shade; tree-tops began to +stir--to bend--to sway violently. Small branches flew down and rolled +before the wind. Presently it thundered afar off. Mother and Sal ran +out and gathered the clothes, and fixed the spout, and looked +cheerfully up at the sky. + +Joe sat in the chimney-corner thumping the ribs of a cattle-pup, and +pinching its ears to make it savage. He had been training the pup ever +since its arrival that morning. + +The plough-horses, yoked to the plough, stood in the middle of the +paddock, beating the flies off with their tails and leaning against +each other. + +Dad stood at the stock-yard--his brown arms and bearded chin resting on +a middle-rail--passively watching Dave and Paddy Maloney breaking-in a +colt for Callaghan--a weedy, wild, herring-gutted brute that might have +been worth fifteen shillings. Dave was to have him to hack about for +six months in return for the breaking-in. Dave was acquiring a local +reputation for his skill in handling colts. + +They had been at "Callaghan"--as they christened the colt--since +daylight, pretty well; and had crippled old Moll and lamed Maloney's +Dandy, and knocked up two they borrowed from Anderson--yarding the +rubbish; and there was n't a fence within miles of the place that he +had n't tumbled over and smashed. But, when they did get him in, they +lost no time commencing to quieten him. They cursed eloquently, and +threw the bridle at him, and used up all the missiles and bits of hard +mud and sticks about the yard, pelting him because he would n't stand. + +Dave essayed to rope him "the first shot," and nearly poked his eye out +with the pole; and Paddy Maloney, in attempting to persuade the +affrighted beast to come out of the cow-bail, knocked the cap of its +hip down with the milking-block. They caught him then and put the +saddle on. Callaghan trembled. When the girths were tightened they +put the reins under the leathers, and threw their hats at him, and +shouted, and "hooshed" him round the yard, expecting he would buck with +the saddle. But Callaghan only trotted into a corner and snorted. +Usually, a horse that won't buck with a saddle is a "snag." Dave knew +it. The chestnut he tackled for Brown did nothing with the saddle. HE +was a snag. Dave remembered him and reflected. Callaghan walked +boldly up to Dave, with his head high in the air, and snorted at him. +He was a sorry-looking animal--cuts and scars all over him; hip down; +patches and streaks of skin and hair missing from his head. "No buck +in him!" unctuously observed Dad, without lifting his chin off the +rail. "Ain't there?" said Paddy Maloney, grinning cynically. "Just +you wait!" + +It seemed to take the heart out of Dave, but he said nothing. He +hitched his pants and made a brave effort to spit--several efforts. +And he turned pale. + +Paddy was now holding Callaghan's head at arms'-length by the bridle +and one ear, for Dave to mount. + +A sharp crack of thunder went off right overhead. Dave did n't hear it. + +"Hello!" Dad said, "We're going to have it--hurry up!" + +Dave did n't hear him. He approached the horse's side and nervously +tried the surcingle--a greenhide one of Dad's workmanship. "Think +that'll hold?" he mumbled meekly. + +"Pshaw!" Dad blurted through the rails--"Hold! Of course it'll +hold--hold a team o' bullocks, boy." + +"'S all right, Dave; 's all right--git on!" From Paddy Maloney, +impatiently. + +Paddy, an out-and-out cur amongst horses himself, was anxious to be +relieved of the colt's head. Young horses sometimes knock down the man +who is holding them. Paddy was aware of it. + +Dave took the reins carefully, and was about to place his foot in the +stirrup when his restless eye settled on a wire-splice in the +crupper--also Dad's handiwork. He hesitated and commenced a remark. +But Dad was restless; Paddy Maloney anxious (as regarded himself); +besides, the storm was coming. + +Dad said: "Damn it, what are y' 'FRAID o', boy? THAT'll hold--jump on." + +Paddy said: "NOW, Dave, while I've 'is 'ead round." + +Joe (just arrived with the cattle-pup) chipped in. + +He said: "Wot, is he fuf-fuf-fuf-f-rikent of him, Dad?" + +Dave heard them. A tear like a hailstone dropped out of his eye. + +"It's all damn well t' TALK," he fired off; "come in and RIDE +th'----horse then, if y' s'----GAME!" + +A dead silence. + +The cattle-pup broke away from Joe and strolled into the yard. It +barked feebly at Callaghan, then proceeded to worry his heels. It +seemed to take Callaghan for a calf. Callaghan kicked it up against +the rails. It must have taken him for a cow then. + +Dave's blood was up. He was desperate. He grabbed the reins roughly, +put his foot in the stirrup, gripped the side of the pommel, and was on +before you could say "Woolloongabba." + +With equal alacrity, Paddy let the colt's head go and made tracks, +chuckling. The turn things had taken delighted him. Excitement (and +pumpkin) was all that kept Paddy alive. But Callaghan did n't +budge--at least not until Dave dug both heels into him. Then he made a +blind rush and knocked out a panel of the yard--and got away with Dave. +Off he went, plunging, galloping, pig-jumping, breaking loose limbs and +bark off trees with Dave's legs. A wire-fence was in his way. It +parted like the Red Sea when he came to it--he crashed into it and +rolled over. The saddle was dangling under his belly when he got up; +Dave and the bridle were under the fence. But the storm had come, and +such a storm! Hailstones as big as apples nearly--first one here and +there, and next moment in thousands. + +Paddy Maloney and Joe ran for the house; Dave, with an injured ankle +and a cut head, limped painfully in the same direction; but Dad saw the +plough-horses turning and twisting about in their chains and set out +for them. He might as well have started off the cross the continent. +A hailstone, large enough to kill a cow, fell with a thud a yard or two +in advance of him, and he slewed like a hare and made for the house +also. He was getting it hot. Now and again his hands would go up to +protect his head, but he could n't run that way--he could n't run much +any way. + +The others reached the house and watched Dad make from the back-door. +Mother called to him to "Run, run!" Poor Dad! He was running. Paddy +Maloney was joyful. He danced about and laughed vociferously at the +hail bouncing off Dad. Once Dad staggered--a hail-boulder had struck +him behind the ear--and he looked like dropping. Paddy hit himself on +the leg, and vehemently invited Dave to "Look, LOOK at him!" But Dad +battled along to the haystack, buried his head in it, and stayed there +till the storm was over--wriggling and moving his feet as though he +were tramping chaff. + +Shingles were dislodged from the roof of the house, and huge hailstones +pelted in and put the fire out, and split the table, and fell on the +sofa and the beds. + +Rain fell also, but we did n't catch any in the cask--the wind blew the +spout away. It was a curled piece of bark. Nevertheless, the storm +did good. We did n't lose ALL the potatoes. We got SOME out of them. +We had them for dinner one Sunday. + + + + +Chapter XXIII. + +The Agricultural Reporter. + + +It had been a dull, miserable day, and a cold westerly was blowing. +Dave and Joe were at the barn finishing up for the day. + +Dad was inside grunting and groaning with toothache. He had had it a +week, and was nearly mad. For a while he sat by the fire, prodding the +tooth with his pocket-knife; then he covered his jaw with his hand and +went out and walked about the yard. + +Joe asked him if he had seen Nell's foal anywhere that day. He did n't +answer. + +"Did y' see the brown foal any place ter-day, Dad?" + +"Damn the brown foal!"--and Dad went inside again. + +He walked round and round the table and in and out the back room till +Mother nearly cried with pity. + +"Is n't it any easier at all, Father?" she said commiseratingly. + +"How the devil can it be easier?...Oh-h!" + +The kangaroo-dog had coiled himself snugly on a bag before the fire. +Dad kicked him savagely and told him to get out. The dog slunk sulkily +to the door, his tail between his legs, and his back humped as if +expecting another kick. He got it. Dad sat in the ashes then, and +groaned lamentably. The dog walked in at the back door and dropped on +the bag again. + +Joe came in to say that "Two coves out there wants somethink." + +Dad paid no attention. + +The two "coves"--a pressman, in new leggings, and Canty, the +storekeeper--came in. Mother brought a light. Dad moaned, but did n't +look up. + +"Well, Mr. Rudd," the pressman commenced (he was young and +fresh-looking), "I'm from the (something-or-other) office. +I'm--er--after information about the crops round here. I +suppose--er----" + +"Oh-h-h!" Dad groaned, opening his mouth over the fire, and pressing +the tooth hard with his thumb. + +The pressman stared at him for awhile; then grinned at the storekeeper, +and made a derisive face at Dad's back. Then--"What have you got in +this season, Mr. Rudd? Wheat?" + +"I don't know....Oh-h--it's awful!" + +Another silence. + +"Did n't think toothache so bad as THAT," said the man of news, airily, +addressing Mother. "Never had it much myself, you see!" + +He looked at Dad again; then winked slyly at Canty, and said to Dad, in +an altered tone: "Whisky's a good thing for it, old man, if you've got +any." + +Nothing but a groan came from Dad, but Mother shook her head sadly in +the negative. + +"Any oil of tar?" + +Mother brightened up. "There's a little oil in the house," she said, +"but I don't know if we've any tar. Is there, Joe--in that old drum?" + +"Nurh." + +The Press looked out the window. Dad commenced to butcher his gums +with the pocket-knife, and threatened to put the fire out with blood +and saliva. + +"Let's have a look at the tooth, old man," the pressman said, +approaching Dad. + +Dad submitted. + +"Pooh!--I'll take that out in one act!"...To Joe--"Got a good strong +piece of string?" + +Joe could n't find a piece of string, but produced a kangaroo-tail +sinew that had been tied round a calf's neck. + +The pressman was enthusiastic. He buzzed about and talked dentistry in +a most learned manner. Then he had another squint at Dad's tooth. + +"Sit on the floor here," he said, "and I won't be a second. You'll +feel next to no pain." + +Dad complied like a lamb. + +"Hold the light down here, missis--a little lower. You gentlemen" (to +Canty and Dave) "look after his legs and arms. Now, let your head come +back--right back, and open your mouth--wide as you can." Dad obeyed, +groaning the whole time. It was a bottom-tooth, and the dentist stood +behind Dad and bent over him to fasten the sinew round it. Then, +twisting it on his wrist, he began to "hang on" with both hands. Dad +struggled and groaned--then broke into a bellow and roared like a wild +beast. But the dentist only said, "Keep him down!" and the others kept +him down. + +Dad's neck was stretching like a gander's, and it looked as if his head +would come off. The dentist threw his shoulders into it like a crack +oarsman--there was a crack, a rip, a tear, and, like a young tree +leaving the ground, two huge, ugly old teeth left Dad's jaw on the end +of that sinew. + +"Holy!" cried the dentist, surprised, and we stared. Little Bill made +for the teeth; so did Joe, and there was a fight under the table. + +Dad sat in a lump on the floor propping himself up with his hands; his +head dropped forward, and he spat feebly on the floor. + +The pressman laughed and slapped Dad on the back, and asked "How do you +feel, old boy?" Dad shook his head and spat and spat. But presently +he wiped his eyes with his shirt-sleeve and looked up. The pressman +told Mother she ought to be proud of Dad. Dad struggled to his feet +then, pale but smiling. The pressman shook hands with him, and in no +time Dad was laughing and joking over the operation. A pleased look +was in Mother's face; happiness filled the home again, and we grew +quite fond of that pressman--he was so jolly and affable, and made +himself so much at home, Mother said. + +"Now, sit over, and we'll have supper," said Dad, proud of having some +fried steak to offer the visitors. We had killed a cow the evening +before--one that was always getting bogged in the dam and taking up +much of Dad's time dragging her out and cutting greenstuff to keep her +alive. The visitors enjoyed her. The pressman wanted salt. None was +on the table. Dad told Joe to run and get some--to be quick. Joe went +out, but in a while returned. He stood at the door with the hammer in +his hand and said: + +"Did you shift the r-r-r-rock-salt from where S-Spotty was lickin' it +this evenin', Dave?" + +Dave reached for the bread. + +"Don't bother--don't bother about it," said the pressman. "Sit down, +youngster, and finish your supper." + +"No bother at all," Dad said; but Joe sat down, and Dad scowled at him. + +Then Dad got talking about wheat and wallabies--when, all at once, the +pressman gave a jump that rattled the things on the table. + +"Oh-h-h!...I'VE got it now!" he said, dropping his knife and fork and +clapping his hands over his mouth. "Ooh!" + +We looked at him. "Got what?" Dad asked, a gleam of satisfaction +appearing in his eyes. + +"The toothache!--the d----d toothache!...Oh-h!" + +"Ha! ha! Hoo! hoo! hoo!" Dad roared. In fact, we all roared--all but +the pressman. "OH-H!" he said, and went to the fire. Dad laughed some +more. + +We ate on. The pressman continued to moan. + +Dad turned on his seat. "What paper, mister, do you say you come from?" + +"OH-H!...Oh-h, Lord!" + +"Well, let me see; I'll have in altogether, I daresay, this year, about +thirty-five acres of wheat--I suppose as good a wheat----" + +"Damn the wheat!...OOH!" + +"Eh!" said Dad, "why, I never thought toothache was THET bad! You +reminds me of this old cow we be eatin'. SHE moaned just like thet all +the time she was layin' in the gully, afore I knocked 'er on the head." + +Canty, the storekeeper, looked up quickly, and the pressman looked +round slowly--both at Dad. + +"Here," continued Dad--"let's have a look at yer tooth, old man!" + +The pressman rose. His face was flushed and wild-looking. "Come on +out of this--for God's sake!" he said to Canty--"if you're ready." + +"What," said Dad, hospitably, "y're not going, surely!" But they were. +"Well, then--thirty-five acres of wheat, I have, and" (putting his head +out the door and calling after them) "NEXT year--next year, all being +well, please God, I'll have SIXTY!" + + + + +Chapter XXIV. + +A Lady at Shingle Hut. + + +Miss Ribbone had just arrived. + +She was the mistress of the local school, and had come to board with us +a month. The parents of the score of more of youngsters attending the +school had arranged to accommodate her, month about, and it was our +turn. And did n't Mother just load us up how we were to +behave--particularly Joe. + +Dad lumbered in the usual log for the fire, and we all helped him throw +it on--all except the schoolmistress. Poor thing! She would have +injured her long, miserable, putty-looking fingers! Such a contrast +between her and Sal! Then we sat down to supper--that old familiar +repast, hot meat and pumpkin. + +Somehow we did n't feel quite at home; but Dad got on well. He talked +away learnedly to Miss Ribbone about everything. Told her, without +swearing once, how, when at school in the old country, he fought the +schoolmaster and leathered him well. A pure lie, but an old favourite +of Dad's, and one that never failed to make Joe laugh. He laughed now. +And such a laugh!--a loud, mirthless, merciless noise. No one else +joined in, though Miss Ribbone smiled a little. When Joe recovered he +held out his plate. + +"More pumpkin, Dad." + +"If--what, sir?" Dad was prompting him in manners. + +"IF?" and Joe laughed again. "Who said 'if'?--I never." + +Just then Miss Ribbone sprang to her feet, knocking over the box she +had been sitting on, and stood for a time as though she had seen a +ghost. We stared at her. "Oh," she murmured at last, "it was the dog! +It gave me such a fright!" + +Mother sympathised with her and seated her again, and Dad fixed his eye +on Joe. + +"Did n't I tell you," he said, "to keep that useless damned mongrel of +a dog outside the house altogether--eh?--did n't I? Go this moment and +tie the brute up, you vagabond!" + +"I did tie him up, but he chewed the greenhide." + +"Be off with you, you--" (Dad coughed suddenly and scattered fragments +of meat and munched pumpkin about the table) "at once, and do as I tell +you, you----" + +"That'll do, Father--that'll do," Mother said gently, and Joe took +Stump out to the barn and kicked him, and hit him against the +corn-sheller, and threatened to put him through it if he did n't stop +squealing. + +He was a small dog, a dog that was always on the watch--for meat; a +shrewd, intelligent beast that never barked at anyone until he got +inside and well under the bed. Anyway, he had taken a fancy to Miss +Ribbone's stocking, which had fallen down while he was lying under the +table, and commenced to worry it. Then he discovered she had a calf, +and started to eat THAT. She did n't tell US though--she told Mrs. +Macpherson, who imparted the secret to mother. I suppose Stump did n't +understand stockings, because neither Mother nor Sal ever wore any, +except to a picnic or somebody's funeral; and that was very seldom. +The Creek was n't much of a place for sport. + +"I hope as you'll be comfortable, my dear," Mother observed as she +showed the young lady the back-room where she was to sleep. "It ain't +s' nice as we should like to have it f' y'; we had n't enough spare +bags to line it all with, but the cracks is pretty well stuffed up with +husks an' one thing an' 'nother, and I don't think you'll find any wind +kin get in. Here's a bear-skin f' your feet, an' I've nailed a bag up +so no one kin see-in in the morning. S' now, I think you'll be pretty +snug." + +The schoolmistress cast a distressed look at the waving bag-door and +said: + +"Th-h-ank you-very much." + +What a voice! I've heard kittens that had n't their eyes open make a +fiercer noise. + +Mother must have put all the blessed blankets in the house on the +school-teacher's bed. I don't know what she had on her own, but we +only had the old bag-quilt and a stack of old skirts, and other +remnants of the family wardrobe, on ours. In the middle of the night, +the whole confounded pile of them rolled off, and we nearly froze. Do +what we boys would--tie ourselves in knots and coil into each other +like ropes--we could n't get warm. We sat up in the bed in turns, and +glared into the darkness towards the schoolmistress's room, which was +n't more than three yards away; then we would lie back again and +shiver. We were having a time. But at last we heard a noise from the +young lady's room. We listened--all we knew. Miss Ribbone was up and +dressing. We could hear her teeth chattering and her knees knocking +together. Then we heard her sneak back to bed again and felt +disappointed and colder than ever, for we had hoped she was getting up +early, and would n't want the bed any longer that night. Then we too +crawled out and dressed and tried it that way. + +In answer to Mother at breakfast, next morning, Miss Ribbone said she +had "slept very well indeed." + +We did n't say anything. + +She was n't much of an eater. School-teachers are n't as a rule. +They pick, and paw, and fiddle round a meal in a way that gives a +healthy-appetited person the jim-jams. She did n't touch the fried +pumpkin. And the way she sat there at the table in her watch-chain and +ribbons made poor old Dave, who sat opposite her in a ragged shirt +without a shirt-button, feel quite miserable and awkward. + +For a whole week she did n't take anything but bread and tea--though +there was always plenty good pumpkin and all that. Mother used to +speak to Dad about it, and wonder if she ate the little pumpkin-tarts +she put up for her lunch. Dad could n't understand anyone not eating +pumpkin, and said HE'D tackle GRASS before he'd starve. + +"And did ever y' see such a object?" Mother went on. "The hands an' +arms on her! Dear me! Why, I do believe if our Sal was to give her +one squeeze she'd kill her. Oh, but the finery and clothes! Y' never +see the like! Just look at her!" And Dad, the great oaf, with Joe at +his heels, followed her into the young lady's bedroom. + +"Look at that!" said Mother, pointing to a couple of dresses hanging on +a nail--"she wears THEM on week-days, no less; and here" (raising the +lid of a trunk and exposing a pile of clean and neatly-folded clothing +that might have been anything, and drawing the articles forth one by +one)--"look at them! There's that--and that--and this--and----" + +"I say, what's this, Mother?" interrupted Joe, holding up something he +had discovered. + +"And that--an'----" + +"Mother!" + +"And this----" + +"Eh, Mother?" + +"Don't bother me, boy, it's her tooth-brush," and Mother pitched the +clothes back into the trunk and glared round. Meanwhile, Joe was hard +at his teeth with the brush. + +"Oh, here!" and she dived at the bed and drew a night-gown from beneath +the pillow, unfolded it, and held it up by the neck for inspection. + +Dad, with his huge, ungainly, hairy paws behind him, stood mute, like +the great pitiful elephant he was, and looked at the tucks and the +rest--stupidly. "Where before did y'ever see such tucks and frills and +lace on a night-shirt? Why, you'd think 't were for goin' to picnics +in, 'stead o' goin' to bed with. Here, too! here's a pair of brand new +stays, besides the ones she's on her back. Clothes!--she's nothin' +else but clothes." + +Then they came out, and Joe began to spit and said he thought there +must have been something on that brush. + +Miss Ribbone did n't stay the full month--she left at the end of the +second week; and Mother often used to wonder afterwards why the +creature never came to see us. + + + + +Chapter XXV. + +The Man with the Bear-Skin Cap. + + +One evening a raggedly-dressed man, with a swag on his back, a +bear-skin cap on his head, and a sheath-knife in his belt, came to our +place and took possession of the barn. Dad ordered him off. The man +offered to fight Dad for the barn. Dad ran in and got the gun. Then +the man picked up his swag and went away. The incident caused much +talk for a few days, but we soon forgot all about it; and the man with +the bear-skin cap passed from our minds. + +Church service was to be held at our selection. It was the first +occasion, in fact, that the Gospel had come to disturb the contentedly +irreligious mind of our neighbourhood. Service was to open at 3 p.m.; +at break-of-day we had begun to get ready. + +Nothing but bustle and hurry. Buttons to be sewn on Dave's shirt; +Dad's pants--washed the night before and left on the clothes-line all +night to bleach--lost; Little Bill's to be patched up generally; Mother +trotting out to the clothes-line every minute to see if Joe's coat was +dry. And, what was unusual, Dave, the easy-going, took a notion to +spruce himself up. He wandered restlessly from one room to another, +robed in a white shirt which was n't starched or ironed, trying hard to +fix a collar to it. He had n't worn the turn-out for a couple of years, +and, of course, had grown out of it, but this did n't seem to strike +him. He tugged and fumbled till he lost patience; then he sat on the +bed and railed at the women, and wished that the shirt and the collar, +and the church-service and the parson, were in Heaven. Mother offered +to fasten the collar, but when she took hold of it--forgetting that her +hands were covered with dough and things--Dave flew clean off the +handle! And when Sal advised him to wear his coloured shirt, same as +Dad was going to do, and reminded him that Mary Anderson might n't come +at all, he aimed a pillow at her and knocked Little Bill under the +table, and scattered husks all over the floor. Then he fled to the +barn and refused dinner. + +Mid-day, and Dad's pants not found. We searched inside and outside and +round about the pig-sty, and the hay-stack, and the cow-yard; and eyed +the cows, and the pet kangaroo, and the draught-horses with suspicion; +but saw nothing of the pants. Dad was angry, but had to make the most +of an old pair of Dave's through the legs of which Dad thrust himself a +lot too far. Mother and Sal said he looked well enough in them, but +laughed when he went outside. + +The people commenced to arrive on horseback and in drays. The women +went on to the verandah with their babies; the men hung round outside +and waited. Some sat under the peach-tree and nibbled sticks and +killed green-heads; others leant against the fence; while a number +gathered round the pig-sty and talked about curing bacon. + +The parson came along. All of them stared at him; watched him unsaddle +his horse and hunt round for a place to fasten the beast. They +regarded the man in the long black coat with awe and wonder. + +Everything was now ready, and, when Dad carried in the side-boards of +the dray and placed them on boxes for seat accommodation, the clergyman +awaited his congregation, which had collected at the back-door. +Anderson stepped in; the rest followed, timid-looking, and stood round +the room till the clergyman motioned them to sit. They sat and watched +him closely. + +"We'll now join in singing hymn 499," said the parson, commencing to +sing himself. The congregation listened attentively, but did n't join +in. The parson jerked his arms encouragingly at them, which only made +them the more uneasy. They did n't understand. He snapped his arms +harder, as he lifted his voice to the rafters; still they only stared. +At last Dad thought he saw through him. He bravely stood up and looked +hard at the others. They took the hint and rose clumsily to their +feet, but just then the hymn closed, and, as no one seemed to know +when to sit again, they remained standing. + +They were standing when a loud whip-crack sounded close to the house, +and a lusty voice roared: + +"Wah Tumbler! Wah Tumbler! Gee back, Brandy! Gee back, +you----!----!!----!!!" + +People smiled. Then a team of bullocks appeared on the road. The +driver drawled, "Wa-a-a-y!" and the team stopped right in front of the +door. The driver lifted something weighty from the dray and struggled +to the verandah with it and dropped it down. It was a man. The +bullock-driver, of course, did n't know that a religious service was +being conducted inside, and the chances are he did n't much care. He +only saw a number of faces looking out, and talked at them. + +"I've a ---- cove here," he said, "that I found lying on the ---- +plain. Gawd knows what's up with him--I don't. A good square feed is +about what he wants, I reckon." Then he went back for the man's swag. + +Dad, after hesitating, rose and went out. The others followed like a +flock of sheep; and the "shepherd" brought up the rear. Church was +out. It gathered around the seeming corpse, and stared hard at it. Dad +and Dave spoke at the same time. + +"Why," they said, "it's the cove with the bear-skin cap!" Sure enough +it was. The clergyman knelt down and felt the man's pulse; then went +and brought a bottle from his valise--he always carried the bottle, he +said, in case of snake-bite and things like that--and poured some of +the contents down the man's throat. The colour began to come to the +man's face. The clergyman gave him some more, and in a while the man +opened his eyes. They rested on Dad, who was bending benignly over him. +He seemed to recognise Dad. He stared for some time at him, then said +something in a feeble whisper, which the clergyman interpreted--"He +wishes you--" looking at Dad--"to get what's in his swag if he dies." +Dad nodded, and his thoughts went sadly back to the day he turned the +poor devil out of the barn. + +They carried the man inside and placed him on the sofa. But soon he +took a turn. He sank quickly, and in a few moments he was dead. In a +few moments more nearly everyone had gone. + +"While you are here," Dad said to the clergyman, in a soft voice, "I'll +open the swag." He commenced to unroll it--it was a big blanket--and +when he got to the end there were his own trousers--the lost ones, +nothing more. Dad's eyes met Mother's; Dave's met Sal's; none of them +spoke. But the clergyman drew his own conclusions; and on the +following Sunday, at Nobby-Nobby, he preached a stirring sermon on that +touching bequest of the man with the bear-skin cap. + + + + +Chapter XXVI. + +One Christmas. + + +Three days to Christmas; and how pleased we were! For months we had +looked forward to it. Kate and Sandy, whom we had only seen once since +they went on their selection, were to be home. Dave, who was away +shearing for the first time, was coming home too. Norah, who had been +away for a year teaching school, was home already. Mother said she +looked quite the lady, and Sal envied the fashionable cut of her +dresses. + +Things were in a fair way at Shingle Hut; rain had fallen and +everything looked its best. The grass along the headlands was almost +as tall as the corn; the Bathurst-burr, the Scotch-thistles, and the +"stinking Roger" were taller. Grow! Dad never saw the like. Why, the +cultivation was n't large enough to hold the melon and pumpkin +vines--they travelled into the horse-paddock and climbed up trees and +over logs and stumps, and they would have fastened on the horses only +the horses were fat and fresh and often galloped about. And the stock! +Blest if the old cows did n't carry udders like camp-ovens, and had so +much milk that one could track them everywhere they went--they leaked +so. The old plough-horses, too--only a few months before dug out of +the dam with a spade, and slung up between heaven and earth for a week, +and fed and prayed for regularly by Dad--actually bolted one day with +the dray because Joe rattled a dish of corn behind them. Even the pet +kangaroo was nearly jumping out of its skin; and it took the big black +"goanna" that used to come after eggs all its time to beat Dad from the +barn to the nearest tree, so fat was it. And such a season for +butterflies and grasshoppers, and grubs and snakes, and native bears! +Given an ass, an elephant, and an empty wine-bottle or two, and one +might have thought Noah's ark had been emptied at our selection. + +Two days to Christmas. The sun getting low. An old cow and a heifer +in the stock-yard. Dad in, admiring them; Mother and Sal squinting +through the rails; little Bill perched on one of the round posts, +nursing the steel and a long knife; Joe running hard from the barn with +a plough-rein. + +Dad was wondering which beast to kill, and expressed a preference for +the heifer. Mother said, "No, kill the cow." Dad inspected the cow +again, and shook his head. + +"Well, if you don't she'll only die, if the winter's a hard one; then +you'll have neither." That settled it. Dad took the rope from Joe, +who arrived aglow with heat and excitement, and fixed a running noose +on one end of it. Then-- + +"Hunt 'em round!" he cried. + +Joe threw his hat at them, and chased them round and round the yard. +Dad turned slowly in the centre, like a ring-master, his eye on the +cow; a coil of rope was in this left hand, and with the right he +measuredly swung the loop over and over his head for some time. At +last the cow gave him a chance at her horns, and he let fly. The rope +whizzed across the yard, caught little Bill round the neck, and brought +him down off the post. Dad could hardly believe it. He first stared at +Bill as he rolled in the yard, then at the cow. Mother wished to know +if he wanted to kill the boy, and Joe giggled and, with a deal of +courage, assured Dad it was "a fine shot." The cow and the heifer ran +into a corner, and switched their tails, and raked skin and hair off +each other with their horns. + +"What do you want to be always stuck in the road for?" Dad growled, +taking the rope off little Bill's neck. "Go away from here +altogether!" Little Bill went away; so did Mother and Sal--until Dad +had roped the cow, which was n't before he twice lassoed the +heifer--once by the fore-leg and once round the flanks. The cow +thereupon carried a panel of the yard away, and got out and careered +down the lane, bucking and bellowing till all the cattle of the country +gathered about her. + +Dad's blood was up. He was hanging on to the rope, his heels ploughing +the dust, and the cow pulling him about as she liked. The sun was +setting; a beautiful sunset, too, and Mother and Sal were admiring it. + +"Did y' never see th' blasted sun go--go down be----" Dad did n't +finish. He feet slid under a rail, causing him to relax his grip of the +rope and sprawl in the dust. But when he rose! + +"Are y' going t' stand staring there all night?" They were beside the +rails in an instant, took the end of the rope which he passed to them, +put it once round the gallows-post, and pulled-pulled like sailors. +Dad hung on close to the cow's head, while Joe kicked her with his bare +foot and screwed her tail. + +"Steady!" said Dad, "that'll about do." Then, turning to the women as +he mounted a rail and held the axe above the cow's head: "Hang on +there now!" They closed their eyes and sat back. The cow was very +patient. Dad extended himself for a great effort, but hesitated. Joe +called out: "L-l-ook out th' axe dud-dud-don't fly and gug-gug-get me, +Dad!" Dad glanced quickly at it, and took aim again. Down it came, +whish! But the cow moved, and he only grazed her cheek. She bellowed +and pulled back, and Mother and Sal groaned and let the rope go. The +cow swung round and charged Joe, who was standing with his mouth open. +But only a charge of shot could catch Joe; he mounted the rails like a +cat and shook his hat at the beast below. + +After Dad had nearly brained her with a rail the cow was dragged to the +post again; and this time Dad made no mistake. Down she dropped, and, +before she could give her last kick, all of us entered the yard and +approached her boldly. Dad danced about excitedly, asking for the long +knife. Nobody knew where it was. "DAMN it, where is it?" he cried, +impatiently. Everyone flew round in search of it but Joe. HE was +curious to know if the cow was in milk. Dad noticed him; sprang upon +him; seized him by the shirt collar and swung him round and trailed him +through the yard, saying: "Find me th' knife; d' y' HEAR?" It seemed +to sharpen Joe's memory, for he suddenly remembered having stuck it in +one of the rails. + +Dad bled the beast, but it was late before he had it skinned and +dressed. When the carcase was hoisted to the gallows--and it seemed +gruesome enough as it hung there in the pallid light of the moon, with +the night birds dismally wailing like mourners from the lonely +trees--we went home and had supper. + +Christmas Eve. Mother and Sal had just finished papering the walls, +and we were busy decorating the place with green boughs, when Sandy and +Kate, in their best clothes--Kate seated behind a well-filled +pillow-slip strapped on the front of her saddle; Sandy with the baby in +front of him--came jogging along the lane. There was commotion! +Everything was thrown aside to receive them. They were surrounded at +the slip-rails, and when they got down--talk about kissing! Dad was +the only one who escaped. When the hugging commenced he poked his head +under the flap of Kate's saddle and commenced unbuckling the girth. +Dad had been at such receptions before. But Sandy took it all meekly. +And the baby! (the dear little thing) they scrimmaged about it, and +mugged it, and fought for possession of it until Sandy became alarmed +and asked them to "Mind!" + +Inside they sat and drank tea and talked about things that had happened +and things that had n't happened. Then they got back to the baby and +disagreed on the question of family likeness. Kate thought the +youngster was the dead image of Sandy about the mouth and eyes. Sal +said it had Dad's nose; while Mother was reminded of her dear old +grandmother every time the infant smiled. Joe ventured to think it +resembled Paddy Maloney far more than it did Sandy, and was told to run +away and put the calves in. The child was n't yet christened, and the +rest of the evening was spent selecting a name for it. Almost every +appellation under the sun was suggested and promptly rejected. They +could n't hit on a suitable one, and Kate would n't have anything that +was n't nice, till at last Dad thought of one that pleased +everybody--"Jim!" + +After supper, Kate started playing the concertina, and the Andersons +and Maloneys and several others dropped in. Dad was pleased to see +them; he wished them all a merry Christmas, and they wished him the +same and many of them. Then the table was put outside, and the room +cleared for a dance. The young people took the floor and waltzed, I +dare say, for miles--their heads as they whirled around tossing the +green bushes that dangled from the rafters; while the old people, with +beaming faces, sat admiring them, and swaying their heads about and +beating time to the music by patting the floor with their feet. +Someone called out "Faster!" Kate gave it faster. Then to see them and +to hear the rattle of the boots upon the floor! You'd think they were +being carried away in a whirlwind. All but Sal and Paddy Maloney gave +up and leant against the wall, and puffed and mopped their faces and +their necks with their pocket-handkerchiefs. + +Faster still went the music; faster whirled Sal and Paddy Maloney. And +Paddy was on his mettle. He was lifting Sal off her feet. But Kate +was showing signs of distress. She leaned forward, jerked her head +about, and tugged desperately at the concertina till both handles left +it. That ended the tussle; and Paddy spread himself on the floor, his +back to the wall, his legs extending to the centre of the room, his +chin on his chest, and rested. + +Then enjoyment at high tide; another dance proposed; Sal trying hard to +persuade Dad to take Mother or Mrs. Maloney up; Dad saying "Tut, tut, +tut!"--when in popped Dave, and stood near the door. He had n't +changed his clothes, and was grease from top to toe. A saddle-strap +was in one hand, his Sunday clothes, tied up in a handkerchief, in the +other, and his presence made the room smell just like a woolshed. + +"Hello, Dave!" shouted everyone. He said "Well!" and dropped his hat +in a corner. No fuss, no kissing, no nothing about Dave. Mother asked +if he did n't see Kate and Sandy (both were smiling across the room at +him), and he said "Yairs"; then went out to have a wash. + +All night they danced--until the cocks crew--until the darkness gave +way to the dawn--until the fowls left the roost and came round the +door--until it was Christmas Day! + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of On Our Selection, by Steele Rudd + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON OUR SELECTION *** + +***** This file should be named 3677.txt or 3677.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/7/3677/ + +Produced by Col Choat. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.06/12/01*END* +[Portions of this header are copyright (C) 2001 by Michael S. Hart +and may be reprinted only when these Etexts are free of all fees.] +[Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be used in any sales +of Project Gutenberg Etexts or other materials be they hardware or +software or any other related product without express permission.] + + + + + +This etext was produced by Dudley Col Choat + + + + + +PIONEERS OF AUSTRALIA! +To You "Who Gave Our Country Birth;" +to the memory of You +whose names, whose giant enterprise, whose deeds of +fortitude and daring +were never engraved on tablet or tombstone; +to You who strove through the silences of the Bush-lands +and made them ours; +to You who delved and toiled in loneliness through +the years that have faded away; +to You who have no place in the history of our Country +so far as it is yet written; +to You who have done MOST for this Land; +to You for whom few, in the march of settlement, in the turmoil +of busy city life, now appear to care; +and to you particularly, +GOOD OLD DAD, +This Book is most affectionately dedicated. + +"STEELE RUDD." + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + + +CHAPTER I. STARTING THE SELECTION +CHAPTER II. OUR FIRST HARVEST +CHAPTER III. BEFORE WE GOT THE DEEDS +CHAPTER IV. WHEN THE WOLF WAS AT THE DOOR +CHAPTER V. THE NIGHT WE WATCHED FOR WALLABIES +CHAPTER VI. GOOD OLD BESS +CHAPTER VII. CRANKY JACK +CHAPTER VIII. A KANGAROO HUNT FROM SHINGLE HUT +CHAPTER IX. DAVE'S SNAKEBITE +CHAPTER X. DAD AND THE DONOVANS +CHAPTER XI. A SPLENDID YEAR FOR CORN +CHAPTER XII. KATE'S WEDDING +CHAPTER XIII. THE SUMMER OLD BOB DIED +CHAPTER XIV. WHEN DAN CAME HOME +CHAPTER XV. OUR CIRCUS +CHAPTER XVI. WHEN JOE WAS IN CHARGE +CHAPTER XVII. DAD'S "FORTUNE" +CHAPTER XVIII. WE EMBARK IN THE BEAR INDUSTRY +CHAPTER XIX. NELL AND NED +CHAPTER XX THE COW WE BOUGHT +CHAPTER XXI. THE PARSON AND THE SCONE +CHAPTER XXII. CALLAGHAN'S COLT +CHAPTER XXIII. THE AGRICULTURAL REPORTER +CHAPTER XXIV. A LADY AT SHINGLE HUT +CHAPTER XXV. THE MAN WITH THE BEAR-SKIN CAP +CHAPTER XXVI. CHRISTMAS + + + + +On Our Selection. + + + +Chapter I. + + + +Starting the Selection. + + +It's twenty years ago now since we settled on the Creek. Twenty years! +I remember well the day we came from Stanthorpe, on Jerome's dray--eight +of us, and all the things--beds, tubs, a bucket, the two cedar chairs with +the pine bottoms and backs that Dad put in them, some pint-pots and old +Crib. It was a scorching hot day, too--talk about thirst! At every creek +we came to we drank till it stopped running. + +Dad did n't travel up with us: he had gone some months before, to put up +the house and dig the waterhole. It was a slabbed house, with shingled +roof, and space enough for two rooms; but the partition was n't up. The +floor was earth; but Dad had a mixture of sand and fresh cow-dung with +which he used to keep it level. About once every month he would put it +on; and everyone had to keep outside that day till it was dry. There were +no locks on the doors: pegs were put in to keep them fast at night; and +the slabs were not very close together, for we could easily see through +them anybody coming on horseback. Joe and I used to play at counting the +stars through the cracks in the roof. + +The day after we arrived Dad took Mother and us out to see the paddock and +the flat on the other side of the gully that he was going to clear for +cultivation. There was no fence round the paddock, but he pointed out on +a tree the surveyor's marks, showing the boundary of our ground. It must +have been fine land, the way Dad talked about it! There was very valuable +timber on it, too, so he said; and he showed us a place, among some rocks +on a ridge, where he was sure gold would be found, but we were n't to say +anything about it. Joe and I went back that evening and turned over every +stone on the ridge, but we did n't find any gold. + +No mistake, it was a real wilderness--nothing but trees, "goannas," dead +timber, and bears; and the nearest house--Dwyer's--was three miles away. +I often wonder how the women stood it the first few years; and I can +remember how Mother, when she was alone, used to sit on a log, where the +lane is now, and cry for hours. Lonely! It WAS lonely. + +Dad soon talked about clearing a couple of acres and putting in corn--all +of us did, in fact--till the work commenced. It was a delightful topic +before we started,; but in two weeks the clusters of fires that illumined +the whooping bush in the night, and the crash upon crash of the big trees +as they fell, had lost all their poetry. + +We toiled and toiled clearing those four acres, where the haystacks are +now standing, till every tree and sapling that had grown there was down. +We thought then the worst was over; but how little we knew of clearing +land! Dad was never tired of calculating and telling us how much the crop +would fetch if the ground could only be got ready in time to put it in; +so we laboured the harder. + +With our combined male and female forces and the aid of a sapling lever we +rolled the thundering big logs together in the face of Hell's own fires; +and when there were no logs to roll it was tramp, tramp the day through, +gathering armfuls of sticks, while the clothes clung to our backs with a +muddy perspiration. Sometimes Dan and Dave would sit in the shade beside +the billy of water and gaze at the small patch that had taken so long to +do; then they would turn hopelessly to what was before them and ask Dad +(who would never take a spell) what was the use of thinking of ever +getting such a place cleared? And when Dave wanted to know why Dad +did n't take up a place on the plain, where there were no trees to grub +and plenty of water, Dad would cough as if something was sticking in his +throat, and then curse terribly about the squatters and political jobbery. +He would soon cool down, though, and get hopeful again. + +"Look at the Dwyers," he'd say; "from ten acres of wheat they got seventy +pounds last year, besides feed for the fowls; they've got corn in now, +and there's only the two." + +It was n't only burning off! Whenever there came a short drought the +waterhole was sure to run dry; then it was take turns to carry water from +the springs--about two miles. We had no draught horse, and if we had +there was neither water-cask, trolly, nor dray; so we humped it--and talk +about a drag! By the time you returned, if you had n't drained the +bucket, in spite of the big drink you'd take before leaving the springs, +more than half would certainly be spilt through the vessel bumping against +your leg every time you stumbled in the long grass. Somehow, none of us +liked carrying water. We would sooner keep the fires going all day +without dinner than do a trip to the springs. + +One hot, thirsty day it was Joe's turn with the bucket, and he managed to +get back without spilling very much. We were all pleased because there +was enough left after the tea had been made to give each a drink. Dinner +was nearly over; Dan had finished, and was taking it easy on the sofa, +when Joe said: + +"I say, Dad, what's a nater-dog like?" Dad told him: "Yellow, sharp ears +and bushy tail." + +"Those muster bin some then thet I seen--I do n't know 'bout the bushy +tail--all th' hair had comed off." "Where'd y' see them, Joe?" we asked. +"Down 'n th' springs floating about--dead." + +Then everyone seemed to think hard and look at the tea. I did n't want +any more. Dan jumped off the sofa and went outside; and Dad looked after +Mother. + +At last the four acres--excepting the biggest of the iron-bark trees and +about fifty stumps--were pretty well cleared; and then came a problem that +could n't be worked-out on a draught-board. I have already said that we +had n't any draught horses; indeed, the only thing on the selection like +a horse was an old "tuppy" mare that Dad used to straddle. The date of +her foaling went further back than Dad's, I believe; and she was shaped +something like an alderman. We found her one day in about eighteen inches +of mud, with both eyes picked out by the crows, and her hide bearing +evidence that a feathery tribe had made a roost of her carcase. Plainly, +there was no chance of breaking up the ground with her help. We had no +plough, either; how then was the corn to be put in? That was the question. + +Dan and Dave sat outside in the corner of the chimney, both scratching the +ground with a chip and not saying anything. Dad and Mother sat inside +talking it over. Sometimes Dad would get up and walk round the room +shaking his head; then he would kick old Crib for lying under the table. +At last Mother struck something which brightened him up, and he called Dave. + +"Catch Topsy and--" He paused because he remembered the old mare was dead. + +"Run over and ask Mister Dwyer to lend me three hoes." + +Dave went; Dwyer lent the hoes; and the problem was solved. That was +how we started. + + + + +Chapter II. + + + +Our First Harvest + + +If there is anything worse than burr-cutting or breaking stones, it's +putting corn in with a hoe. + +We had just finished. The girls were sowing the last of the grain when +Fred Dwyer appeared on the scene. Dad stopped and talked with him while +we (Dan, Dave and myself) sat on our hoe-handles, like kangaroos on their +tails, and killed flies. Terrible were the flies, particularly when you +had sore legs or the blight. + +Dwyer was a big man with long, brown arms and red, bushy whiskers. + +"You must find it slow work with a hoe?" he said. + +"Well-yes-pretty," replied Dad (just as if he was n't quite sure). + +After a while Dwyer walked over the "cultivation", and looked at it hard, +then scraped a hole with the heel of his boot, spat, and said he did n't +think the corn would ever come up. Dan slid off his perch at this, and +Dave let the flies eat his leg nearly off without seeming to feel it; but +Dad argued it out. + +"Orright, orright," said Dwyer; "I hope it do." + +Then Dad went on to speak of places he knew of where they preferred hoes +to a plough for putting corn in with; but Dwyer only laughed and shook +his head. + +"D--n him!" Dad muttered, when he had gone; "what rot! WON'T COME UP!" + +Dan, who was still thinking hard, at last straightened himself up and said +HE did n't think it was any use either. Then Dad lost his temper. + +"No USE?" he yelled, "you whelp, what do you know about it?" + +Dan answered quietly: "On'y this, that it's nothing but tomfoolery, +this hoe business." + +"How would you do it then?" Dad roared, and Dan hung his head and tried to +button his buttonless shirt wrist-band while he thought. + +"With a plough," he answered. + +Something in Dad's throat prevented him saying what he wished, so he +rushed at Dan with the hoe, but--was too slow. + +Dan slept outside that night. + +No sooner was the grain sown than it rained. How it rained! for weeks! +And in the midst of it all the corn came up--every grain-and proved Dwyer +a bad prophet. Dad was in high spirits and promised each of us +something--new boots all round. + +The corn continued to grow--so did our hopes, but a lot faster. Pulling +the suckers and "heeling it up" with hoes was but child's play--we liked it. +Our thoughts were all on the boots; 'twas months months since we had pulled +on a pair. Every night, in bed, we decided twenty times over whether they +would be lace-ups or bluchers, and Dave had a bottle of "goanna" oil ready +to keep his soft with. + +Dad now talked of going up country--as Mother put it, "to keep the wolf +from the door"--while the four acres of corn ripened. He went, and +returned on the day Tom and Bill were born--twins. Maybe his absence did +keep the wolf from the door, but it did n't keep the dingoes from the +fowl-house! + +Once the corn ripened it did n't take long to pull it, but Dad had to put +on his considering-cap when we came to the question of getting it in. +To hump it in bags seemed inevitable till Dwyer asked Dad to give him a +hand to put up a milking-yard. Then Dad's chance came, and he seized it. + +Dwyer, in return for Dad's labour, carted in the corn and took it to the +railway-station when it was shelled. Yes, when it WAS shelled! We had to +shell it with our hands, and what a time we had! For the first half-hour +we did n't mind it at all, and shelled cob after cob as though we liked it; +but next day, talk about blisters! we could n't close our hands for them, +and our faces had to go without a wash for a fortnight. + +Fifteen bags we got off the four acres, and the storekeeper undertook to +sell it. Corn was then at 12 shillings and 14 shillings per bushel, +and Dad expected a big cheque. + +Every day for nearly three weeks he trudged over to the store (five miles) +and I went with him. Each time the storekeeper would shake his head and +say "No word yet." + +Dad could n't understand. At last word did come. The storekeeper was +busy serving a customer when we went in, so he told Dad to "hold on a bit". + +Dad felt very pleased--so did I. + +The customer left. The storekeeper looked at Dad and twirled a piece of +string round his first finger, then said--"Twelve pounds your corn +cleared, Mr. Rudd; but, of course" (going to a desk) "there's that account +of yours which I have credited with the amount of the cheque--that brings +it down now to just three pound, as you will see by the account." + +Dad was speechless, and looked sick. + +He went home and sat on a block and stared into the fire with his chin +resting in his hands, till Mother laid her hand upon his shoulder and +asked him kindly what was the matter. Then he drew the storekeeper's bill +from his pocket, and handed it to her, and she too sat down and gazed +into the fire. + +That was OUR first harvest. + + + + +Chapter III. + + + +Before We Got The Deeds + + +Our selection adjoined a sheep-run on the Darling Downs, and boasted of +few and scant improvements, though things had gradually got a little +better than when we started. A verandahless four-roomed slab-hut now +standing out from a forest of box-trees, a stock-yard, and six acres under +barley were the only evidence of settlement. A few horses--not +ours--sometimes grazed about; and occasionally a mob of cattle--also not +ours--cows with young calves, steers, and an old bull or two, would stroll +around, chew the best legs of any trousers that might be hanging on the +log reserved as a clothes-line, then leave in the night and be seen no +more for months--some of them never. + +And yet we were always out of meat! + +Dad was up the country earning a few pounds--the corn drove him up when it +did n't bring what he expected. All we got out of it was a bag of +flour--I do n't know what the storekeeper got. Before he left we put in +the barley. Somehow, Dad did n't believe in sowing any more crops, he +seemed to lose heart; but Mother talked it over with him, and when +reminded that he would soon be entitled to the deeds he brightened up +again and worked. How he worked! + +We had no plough, so old Anderson turned over the six acres for us, and +Dad gave him a pound an acre--at least he was to send him the first six +pounds got up country. Dad sowed the seed; then he, Dan and Dave yoked +themselves to a large dry bramble each and harrowed it in. From the way +they sweated it must have been hard work. Sometimes they would sit down +in the middle of the paddock and "spell" but Dad would say something about +getting the deeds and they'd start again. + +A cockatoo-fence was round the barley; and wire-posts, a long distance +apart, round the grass-paddock. We were to get the wire to put in when +Dad sent the money; and apply for the deeds when he came back. Things +would be different then, according to Dad, and the farm would be worked +properly. We would break up fifty acres, build a barn, buy a reaper, +ploughs, cornsheller, get cows and good horses, and start two or three +ploughs. Meanwhile, if we (Dan, Dave and I) minded the barley he was sure +there'd be something got out of it. + +Dad had been away about six weeks. Travellers were passing by every day, +and there was n't one that did n't want a little of something or other. +Mother used to ask them if they had met Dad? None ever did until an old +grey man came along and said he knew Dad well--he had camped with him one +night and shared a damper. Mother was very pleased and brought him in. +We had a kangaroo-rat (stewed) for dinner that day. The girls did n't +want to lay it on the table at first, but Mother said he would n't know +what it was. The traveller was very hungry and liked it, and when passing +his plate the second time for more, said it was n't often he got +any poultry. + +He tramped on again, and the girls were very glad he did n't know it was +a rat. But Dave was n't so sure that he did n't know a rat from a +rooster, and reckoned he had n't met Dad at all. + +The seventh week Dad came back. He arrived at night, and the lot of us +had to get up to find the hammer to knock the peg out of the door and let +him in. He brought home three pounds--not enough to get the wire with, +but he also brought a horse and saddle. He did n't say if he bought them. +It was a bay mare, a grand animal for a journey--so Dad said--and only +wanted condition. Emelina, he called her. No mistake, she was a quiet +mare! We put her where there was good feed, but she was n't one that +fattened on grass. Birds took kindly to her--crows mostly--and she +could n't go anywhere but a flock of them accompanied her. Even when Dad +used to ride her (Dan or Dave never rode her) they used to follow, and +would fly on ahead to wait in a tree and "caw" when he was passing beneath. + +One morning when Dan was digging potatoes for dinner--splendid potatoes +they were, too, Dad said; he had only once tasted sweeter ones, but they +were grown in a cemetery--he found the kangaroos had been in the barley. +We knew what THAT meant, and that night made fires round it, thinking to +frighten them off, but did n't--mobs of them were in at daybreak. Dad +swore from the house at them, but they took no notice; and when he ran +down, they just hopped over the fence and sat looking at him. Poor Dad! +I do n't know if he was knocked up or if he did n't know any more, but he +stopped swearing and sat on a stump looking at a patch of barley they had +destroyed, and shaking his head. Perhaps he was thinking if he only had +a dog! We did have one until he got a bait. Old Crib! He was lying +under the table at supper-time when he took the first fit, and what a +fright we got! He must have reared before stiffening out, because he +capsized the table into Mother's lap, and everything on it smashed except +the tin-plates and the pints. The lamp fell on Dad, too, and the melted +fat scalded his arm. Dad dragged Crib out and cut off his tail and ears, +but he might as well have taken off his head. + +Dad stood with his back to the fire while Mother was putting a stitch in +his trousers. "There's nothing for it but to watch them at night," he was +saying, when old Anderson appeared and asked "if I could have those few +pounds." Dad asked Mother if she had any money in the house? Of course +she had n't. Then he told Anderson he would let him have it when he got +the deeds. Anderson left, and Dad sat on the edge of the sofa and seemed +to be counting the grains on a corn-cob that he lifted from the floor, +while Mother sat looking at a kangaroo-tail on the table and did n't +notice the cat drag it off. At last Dad said, "Ah, well!--it won't be +long now, Ellen, before we have the deeds!" + +We took it in turns to watch the barley. Dan and the two girls watched +the first half of the night, and Dad, Dave and I the second. Dad always +slept in his clothes, and he used to think some nights that the others +came in before time. It was terrible going out, half awake, to tramp +round that paddock from fire to fire, from hour to hour, shouting and +yelling. And how we used to long for daybreak! Whenever we sat down +quietly together for a few minutes we would hear the dull THUD! THUD! +THUD!--the kangaroo's footstep. + +At last we each carried a kerosene tin, slung like a kettle-drum, and +belted it with a waddy--Dad's idea. He himself manipulated an old bell +that he had found on a bullock's grave, and made a splendid noise with it. + +It was a hard struggle, but we succeeded in saving the bulk of the barley, +and cut it down with a scythe and three reaping-hooks. The girls helped +to bind it, and Jimmy Mulcahy carted it in return for three days' binding +Dad put in for him. The stack was n't built twenty-four hours when a +score of somebody's crawling cattle ate their way up to their tails in it. +We took the hint and put a sapling fence round it. + +Again Dad decided to go up country for a while. He caught Emelina after +breakfast, rolled up a blanket, told us to watch the stack, and started. +The crows followed. + +We were having dinner. Dave said, "Listen!" We listened, and it seemed +as though all the crows and other feathered demons of the wide bush were +engaged in a mighty scrimmage. "Dad's back!" Dan said, and rushed out in +the lead of a stampede. + +Emelina was back, anyway, with the swag on, but Dad was n't. We caught +her, and Dave pointed to white spots all over the saddle, and said--"Hanged +if they have n't been ridin' her!"--meaning the crows. + +Mother got anxious, and sent Dan to see what had happened. Dan found Dad, +with his shirt off, at a pub on the main road, wanting to fight the +publican for a hundred pounds, but could n't persuade him to come home. +Two men brought him home that night on a sheep-hurdle, and he gave up the +idea of going away. + +After all, the barley turned out well--there was a good price that year, +and we were able to run two wires round the paddock. + +One day a bulky Government letter came. Dad looked surprised and pleased, +and how his hand trembled as he broke the seal! "THE DEEDS!" he said, +and all of us gathered round to look at them. Dave thought they were like +the inside of a bear-skin covered with writing. + +Dad said he would ride to town at once, and went for Emelina. + +"Could n't y' find her, Dad?" Dan said, seeing him return without the mare. + +Dad cleared his throat, but did n't answer. Mother asked him. + +"Yes, I FOUND her," he said slowly, "DEAD." + +The crows had got her at last. + +He wrapped the deeds in a piece of rag and walked. + +There was nothing, scarcely, that he did n't send out from town, and Jimmy +Mulcahy and old Anderson many and many times after that borrowed our dray. + +Now Dad regularly curses the deeds every mail-day, and wishes to Heaven +he had never got them. + + + + +Chapter IV. + + + +When the Wolf was at the Door. + + +There had been a long stretch of dry weather, and we were cleaning out the +waterhole. Dad was down the hole shovelling up the dirt; Joe squatted on +the brink catching flies and letting them go again without their wings--a +favourite amusement of his; while Dan and Dave cut a drain to turn the +water that ran off the ridge into the hole--when it rained. Dad was +feeling dry, and told Joe to fetch him a drink. + +Joe said: "See first if this cove can fly with only one wing." Then he +went, but returned and said: "There's no water in the bucket--Mother used +the last drop to boil th' punkins," and renewed the fly-catching. Dad +tried to spit, and was going to say something when Mother, half-way +between the house and the waterhole, cried out that the grass paddock was +all on fire. "So it is, Dad!" said Joe, slowly but surely dragging the +head off a fly with finger and thumb. + +Dad scrambled out of the hole and looked. "Good God!" was all he said. +How he ran! All of us rushed after him except Joe--he could n't run very +well, because the day before he had ridden fifteen miles on a poor horse, +bare-back. When near the fire Dad stopped running to break a green bush. +He hit upon a tough one. Dad was in a hurry. The bush was n't. Dad +swore and tugged with all his might. Then the bush broke and Dad fell +heavily upon his back and swore again. + +To save the cockatoo fence that was round the cultivation was what was +troubling Dad. Right and left we fought the fire with boughs. Hot! It +was hellish hot! Whenever there was a lull in the wind we worked. Like a +wind-mill Dad's bough moved--and how he rushed for another when one was +used up! Once we had the fire almost under control; but the wind rose +again, and away went the flames higher and faster than ever. + +"It's no use," said Dad at last, placing his hand on his head, and throwing +down his bough. We did the same, then stood and watched the fence go. +After supper we went out again and saw it still burning. Joe asked Dad if +he did n't think it was a splendid sight? Dad did n't answer him--he +did n't seem conversational that night. + +We decided to put the fence up again. Dan had sharpened the axe with a +broken file, and he and Dad were about to start when Mother asked them +what was to be done about flour? She said she had shaken the bag to get +enough to make scones for that morning's breakfast, and unless some was +got somewhere there would be no bread for dinner. + +Dad reflected, while Dan felt the edge on the axe with his thumb. + +Dad said, "Won't Missus Dwyer let you have a dishful until we get some?" + +"No," Mother answered; "I can't ask her until we send back what we +owe them." + +Dad reflected again. "The Andersons, then?" he said. + +Mother shook her head and asked what good there was it sending to them +when they, only that morning, had sent to her for some? + +"Well, we must do the best we can at present," Dad answered, "and I'll go +to the store this evening and see what is to be done." + +Putting the fence up again in the hurry that Dad was in was the very +devil! He felled the saplings--and such saplings!--TREES many of them +were--while we, "all of a muck of sweat," dragged them into line. Dad +worked like a horse himself, and expected us to do the same. "Never mind +staring about you," he'd say, if he caught us looking at the sun to see if +it were coming dinner-time--"there's no time to lose if we want to get the +fence up and a crop in." + +Dan worked nearly as hard as Dad until he dropped the butt-end of a heavy +sapling on his foot, which made him hop about on one leg and say that he +was sick and tired of the dashed fence. Then he argued with Dad, and +declared that it would be far better to put a wire-fence up at once, +and be done with it, instead of wasting time over a thing that would only +be burnt down again. "How long," he said, "will it take to get the posts? +Not a week," and he hit the ground disgustedly with a piece of stick he +had in his hand. + +"Confound it!" Dad said, "have n't you got any sense, boy? What earthly +use would a wire-fence be without any wire in it?" + +Then we knocked off and went to dinner. + +No one appeared in any humour to talk at the table. Mother sat silently +at the end and poured out the tea while Dad, at the head, served the +pumpkin and divided what cold meat there was. Mother would n't have any +meat--one of us would have to go without if she had taken any. + +I don't know if it was on account of Dan arguing with him, or if it was +because there was no bread for dinner, that Dad was in a bad temper; +anyway, he swore at Joe for coming to the table with dirty hands. Joe +cried and said that he could n't wash them when Dave, as soon as he had +washed his, had thrown the water out. Then Dad scowled at Dave, and Joe +passed his plate along for more pumpkin. + +Dinner was almost over when Dan, still looking hungry, grinned and asked +Dave if he was n't going to have some BREAD? Whereupon Dad jumped up in a +tearing passion. "D--n your insolence!" he said to Dan, "make a jest of +it, would you?" + +"Who's jestin'?" Dan answered and grinned again. + +"Go!" said Dad, furiously, pointing to the door, "leave my roof, you +thankless dog!" + +Dan went that night. + +It was only upon Dad promising faithfully to reduce his account within two +months that the storekeeper let us have another bag of flour on credit. +And what a change that bag of flour wrought! How cheerful the place +became all at once! And how enthusiastically Dad spoke of the farm and the +prospects of the coming season! + +Four months had gone by. The fence had been up some time and ten acres of +wheat put in; but there had been no rain, and not a grain had come up, +or was likely to. + +Nothing had been heard of Dan since his departure. Dad spoke about him +to Mother. "The scamp!" he said, "to leave me just when I wanted +help--after all the years I've slaved to feed him and clothe him, see what +thanks I get! but, mark my word, he'll be glad to come back yet." But +Mother would never say anything against Dan. + +The weather continued dry. The wheat did n't come up, and Dad became +despondent again. + +The storekeeper called every week and reminded Dad of his promise. "I +would give it you willingly," Dad would say, "if I had it, Mr. Rice; but +what can I do? You can't knock blood out of a stone." + +We ran short of tea, and Dad thought to buy more with the money Anderson +owed him for some fencing he had done; but when he asked for it, Anderson +was very sorry he had n't got it just then, but promised to let him have +it as soon as he could sell his chaff. When Mother heard Anderson +could n't pay, she DID cry, and said there was n't a bit of sugar in the +house, nor enough cotton to mend the children's bits of clothes. + +We could n't very well go without tea, so Dad showed Mother how to make a +new kind. He roasted a slice of bread on the fire till it was like a +black coal, then poured the boiling water over it and let it "draw" well. +Dad said it had a capital flavour--HE liked it. + +Dave's only pair of pants were pretty well worn off him; Joe had n't a +decent coat for Sunday; Dad himself wore a pair of boots with soles tied +on with wire; and Mother fell sick. Dad did all he could--waited on her, +and talked hopefully of the fortune which would come to us some day; but +once, when talking to Dave, he broke down, and said he did n't, in the +name of the Almighty God, know what he would do! Dave could n't say +anything--he moped about, too, and home somehow did n't seem like home +at all. + +When Mother was sick and Dad's time was mostly taken up nursing her; when +there was nothing, scarcely, in the house; when, in fact, the wolf was at +the very door;--Dan came home with a pocket full of money and swag full of +greasy clothes. How Dad shook him by the hand and welcomed him back! +And how Dan talked of "tallies", "belly-wool", and "ringers" and implored +Dad, over and over again, to go shearing, or rolling up, or branding-- +ANYTHING rather than work and starve on the selection. + +That's fifteen years ago, and Dad is still on the farm. + + + + +Chapter V. + + + +The Night We Watched For Wallabies. + + +It had been a bleak July day, and as night came on a bitter westerly howled +through the trees. Cold! was n't it cold! The pigs in the sty, hungry +and half-fed (we wanted for ourselves the few pumpkins that had survived +the drought) fought savagely with each other for shelter, and squealed all +the time like--well, like pigs. The cows and calves left the place to +seek shelter away in the mountains; while the draught horses, their hair +standing up like barbed-wire, leaned sadly over the fence and gazed up at +the green lucerne. Joe went about shivering in an old coat of Dad's with +only one sleeve to it--a calf had fancied the other one day that Dad hung +it on a post as a mark to go by while ploughing. + +"My! it'll be a stinger to-night," Dad remarked to Mrs. Brown--who sat, +cold-looking, on the sofa--as he staggered inside with an immense log for +the fire. A log! Nearer a whole tree! But wood was nothing in Dad's eyes. + +Mrs. Brown had been at our place five or six days. Old Brown called +occasionally to see her, so we knew they could n't have quarrelled. +Sometimes she did a little house-work, but more often she did n't. We +talked it over together, but could n't make it out. Joe asked Mother, +but she had no idea--so she said. We were full up, as Dave put it, of +Mrs. Brown, and wished her out of the place. She had taken to ordering us +about, as though she had something to do with us. + +After supper we sat round the fire--as near to it as we could without +burning ourselves--Mrs. Brown and all, and listened to the wind whistling +outside. Ah, it was pleasant beside the fire listening to the wind! When +Dad had warmed himself back and front he turned to us and said: + +"Now, boys, we must go directly and light some fires and keep those +wallabies back." + +That was a shock to us, and we looked at him to see if he were really in +earnest. He was, and as serious as a judge. + +" TO-NIGHT!" Dave answered, surprisedly--"why to-night any more than last +night or the night before? Thought you had decided to let them rip?" + +"Yes, but we might as well keep them off a bit longer." + +"But there's no wheat there for them to get now. So what's the good of +watching them? There's no sense in THAT." + +Dad was immovable. + +"Anyway"--whined Joe--" I'M not going--not a night like this--not when I +ain't got boots." + +That vexed Dad. "Hold your tongue, sir!" he said--"you'll do as you're +told." + +But Dave had n't finished. "I've been following that harrow since sunrise +this morning," he said, "and now you want me to go chasing wallabies about +in the dark, a night like this, and for nothing else but to keep them from +eating the ground. It's always the way here, the more one does the more +he's wanted to do," and he commenced to cry. Mrs. Brown had something to +say. SHE agreed with Dad and thought we ought to go, as the wheat might +spring up again. + +"Pshah!" Dave blurted out between his sobs, while we thought of telling +her to shut her mouth. + +Slowly and reluctantly we left that roaring fireside to accompany Dad that +bitter night. It WAS a night!--dark as pitch, silent, forlorn and +forbidding, and colder than the busiest morgue. And just to keep wallabies +from eating nothing! They HAD eaten all the wheat--every blade of it--and +the grass as well. What they would start on next--ourselves or the +cart-harness--was n't quite clear. + +We stumbled along in the dark one behind the other, with our hands stuffed +into our trousers. Dad was in the lead, and poor Joe, bare-shinned and +bootless, in the rear. Now and again he tramped on a Bathurst-burr, and, +in sitting down to extract the prickle, would receive a cluster of them +elsewhere. When he escaped the burr it was only to knock his shin against +a log or leave a toe-nail or two clinging to a stone. Joe howled, but the +wind howled louder, and blew and blew. + +Dave, in pausing to wait on Joe, would mutter: + +"To HELL with everything! Whatever he wants bringing us out a night like +this, I'm DAMNED if I know!" + +Dad could n't see very well in the dark, and on this night could n't see +at all, so he walked up against one of the old draught horses that had +fallen asleep gazing at the lucerne. And what a fright they both got! +The old horse took it worse than Dad--who only tumbled down--for he plunged +as though the devil had grabbed him, and fell over the fence, twisting +every leg he had in the wires. How the brute struggled! We stood and +listened to him. After kicking panels of the fence down and smashing +every wire in it, he got loose and made off, taking most of it with him. + +"That's one wallaby on the wheat, anyway," Dave muttered, and we giggled. +WE understood Dave; but Dad did n't open his mouth. + +We lost no time lighting the fires. Then we walked through the "wheat" +and wallabies! May Satan reprove me if I exaggerate their number by one +solitary pair of ears--but from the row and scatter they made there were +a MILLION. + +Dad told Joe, at last, he could go to sleep if he liked, at the fire. +Joe went to sleep--HOW, I don't know. Then Dad sat beside him, and for +long intervals would stare silently into the darkness. Sometimes a string +of the vermin would hop past close to the fire, and another time a curlew +would come near and screech its ghostly wail, but he never noticed them. +Yet he seemed to be listening. + +We mooched around from fire to fire, hour after hour, and when we wearied +of heaving fire-sticks at the enemy we sat on our heels and cursed the +wind, and the winter, and the night-birds alternately. It was a lonely, +wretched occupation. + +Now and again Dad would leave his fire to ask us if we could hear a noise. +We could n't, except that of wallabies and mopokes. Then he would go back +and listen again. He was restless, and, somehow, his heart was n't in the +wallabies at all. Dave could n't make him out. + +The night wore on. By-and-by there was a sharp rattle of wires, then a +rustling noise, and Sal appeared in the glare of the fire. "DAD!" she +said. That was all. Without a word, Dad bounced up and went back to the +house with her. + +"Something's up!" Dave said, and, half-anxious, half-afraid, we gazed into +the fire and thought and thought. Then we stared, nervously, into the +night, and listened for Dad's return, but heard only the wind and the +mopoke. + +At dawn he appeared again, with a broad smile on his face, and told us +that mother had got another baby--a fine little chap. Then we knew why +Mrs. Brown had been staying at our place. + + + + +Chapter VI. + + + +Good Old Bess. + + +Supper was over at Shingle Hut, and we were all seated round the fire--all +except Joe. He was mousing. He stood on the sofa with one ear to the +wall in a listening attitude, and brandished a table-fork. There were +mice--mobs of them--between the slabs and the paper--layers of newspapers +that had been pasted one on the other for years until they were an inch +thick; and whenever Joe located a mouse he drove the fork into the wall +and pinned it--or reckoned he did. + +Dad sat pensively at one corner of the fire-place--Dave at the other with +his elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his palms. + +"Think you could ride a race, Dave?" asked Dad. + +"Yairs," answered Dave, without taking his eyes off the fire, or his chin +from his palms--"could, I suppose, if I'd a pair o' lighter boots 'n +these." + +Again they reflected. + +Joe triumphantly held up the mutilated form of a murdered mouse and +invited the household to "Look!" No one heeded him. + +"Would your Mother's go on you?" + +"Might," and Dave spat into the fire. + +"Anyway," Dad went on, "we must have a go at this handicap with the old +mare; it's worth trying for, and, believe me, now! she'll surprise a few +of their flash hacks, will Bess." + +"Yairs, she can go all right." And Dave spat again into the fire. + +" GO! I've never known anything to keep up with her. Why, bless my soul, +seventeen years ago, when old Redwood owned her, there was n't a horse in +the district could come within coo-ee of her. All she wants is a few +feeds of corn and a gallop or two, and mark my words she'll show some of +them the way." + +Some horse-races were being promoted by the shanty-keeper at the +Overhaul--seven miles from our selection. They were the first of the kind +held in the district, and the stake for the principal event was five +pounds. It was n't because Dad was a racing man or subject to turf +hallucinations in any way that he thought of preparing Bess for the +meeting. We sadly needed those five pounds, and, as Dad put it, if the +mare could only win, it would be an easier and much quicker way of making +a bit of money than waiting for a crop to grow. + +Bess was hobbled and put into a two-acre paddock near the house. We put +her there because of her wisdom. She was a chestnut, full of villainy, an +absolutely incorrigible old rogue. If at any time she was wanted when in +the grass paddock, it required the lot of us from Dad down to yard her, as +well as the dogs, and every other dog in the neighbourhood. Not that she +had any brumby element in her--she would have been easier to yard if she +had--but she would drive steadily enough, alone or with other horses, +until she saw the yard, when she would turn and deliberately walk away. +If we walked to head her she beat us by half a length; if we ran she ran, +and stopped when we stopped. That was the aggravating part of her! When +it was only to go to the store or the post-office that we wanted her, we +could have walked there and back a dozen times before we could run her +down; but, somehow, we generally preferred to work hard catching her +rather than walk. + +When we had spent half the day hunting for the curry-comb, which we +did n't find, Dad began to rub Bess down with a corn-cob--a shelled +one--and trim her up a bit. He pulled her tail and cut the hair off her +heels with a knife; then he gave her some corn to eat, and told Joe he was +to have a bundle of thistles cut for her every night. Now and again, +while grooming her, Dad would step back a few paces and look upon her +with pride. + +"There's great breeding in the old mare," he would say, "great breeding; +look at the shoulder on her, and the loin she has; and where did ever you +see a horse with the same nostril? Believe me, she'll surprise a few +of them!" + +We began to regard Bess with profound respect; hitherto we had been +accustomed to pelt her with potatoes and blue-metal. + +The only thing likely to prejudice her chance in the race, Dad reckoned, +was a small sore on her back about the size of a foal's foot. She had had +that sore for upwards of ten years to our knowledge, but Dad hoped to have +it cured before the race came off with a never-failing remedy he had +discovered--burnt leather and fat. + +Every day, along with Dad, we would stand on the fence near the house to +watch Dave gallop Bess from the bottom of the lane to the barn--about a +mile. We could always see him start, but immediately after he would +disappear down a big gully, and we would see nothing more of the gallop +till he came to within a hundred yards of us. And would n't Bess bend to +it once she got up the hill, and fly past with Dave in the stirrups +watching her shadow!--when there was one: she was a little too fine to +throw a shadow always. And when Dave and Bess had got back and Joe had +led her round the yard a few times, Dad would rub the corn-cob over her +again and apply more burnt-leather and fat to her back. + +On the morning preceding the race Dad decided to send Bess over three +miles to improve her wind. Dave took her to the crossing at the +creek--supposed to be three miles from Shingle Hut, but it might have been +four or it might have been five, and there was a stony ridge on the way. + +We mounted the fence and waited. Tommy Wilkie came along riding a +plough-horse. He waited too. + +"Ought to be coming now," Dad observed, and Wilkie got excited. He said +he would go and wait in the gully and race Dave home. "Race him home!" +Dad chuckled, as Tommy cantered off, "he'll never see the way Bess goes." +Then we all laughed. + +Just as someone cried "Here he is!" Dave turned the corner into the lane, +and Joe fell off the fence and pulled Dad with him. Dad damned him and +scrambled up again as fast as he could. After a while Tommy Wilkie hove +in sight amid a cloud of dust. Then came Dave at scarcely faster than a +trot, and flogging all he knew with a piece of greenhide plough-rein. +Bess was all-out and floundering. There was about two hundred yards yet +to cover. Dave kept at her--THUD! THUD! Slower and slower she came. +"Damn the fellow!" Dad said; "what's he beating her for?" "Stop it, +you fool!" he shouted. But Dave sat down on her for the final effort and +applied the hide faster and faster. Dad crunched his teeth. +Once--twice--three times Bess changed her stride, then struck a branch-root +of a tree that projected a few inches above ground, and over she +went--CRASH! Dave fell on his head and lay spread out, motionless. We +picked him up and carried him inside, and when Mother saw blood on him she +fainted straight off without waiting to know if it were his own or not. +Both looked as good as dead; but Dad, with a bucket of water, soon brought +them round again. + +It was scarcely dawn when we began preparing for a start to the races. +Dave, after spending fully an hour trying in vain to pull on Mother's +elastic-side boots, decided to ride in his own heavy bluchers. We went +with Dad in the dray. Mother would n't go; she said she did n't want to +see her son get killed, and warned Dad that if anything happened the blame +would for ever be on his head. + +We arrived at the Overhaul in good time. Dad took the horse out of the +dray and tied him to a tree. Dave led Bess about, and we stood and +watched the shanty-keeper unpacking gingerbeer. Joe asked Dad for sixpence +to buy some, but Dad had n't any small change. We remained in front of +the booth through most of the day, and ran after any corks that popped out +and handed them in again to the shanty-keeper. He did n't offer us +anything--not a thing! + +"Saddle up for the Overhaul Handicap!" was at last sung out, and Dad, +saddle on arm, advanced to where Dave was walking Bess about. They saddled +up and Dave mounted, looking as pale as death. + +"I don't like ridin' in these boots a bit," he said, with a quiver in +his voice. + +"Wot's up with 'em?" Dad asked. + +"They're too big altogether." + +"Well, take 'em off then!" + +Dave jumped down and pulled them off-leaving his socks on. + +More than a dozen horses went out, and when the starter said "Off!" +did n't they go! Our eyes at once followed Bess. Dave was at her right +from the jump--the very opposite to what Dad had told him. In the first +furlong she put fully twenty yards of daylight between herself and the +field--she came after the field. At the back of the course you could see +the whole of Kyle's selection and two of Jerry Keefe's hay-stacks between +her and the others. We did n't follow her any further. + +After the race was won and they had cheered the winner, Dad was n't to be +found anywhere. + +Dave sat on the grass quite exhausted. "Ain't y' goin' to pull the saddle +off?" Joe asked. + +"No," he said. "I AIN'T. You don't want everyone to see her back, +do you?" + +Joe wished he had sixpence. + +About an hour afterwards Dad came staggering along arm-in-arm with another +man--an old fencing-mate of his, so he made out. + +"Thur yar," he said, taking off his hat and striking Bess on the rump with +it; "besh bred mare in the worl'." + +The fencing-mate looked at her, but did n't say anything; he could n't. + +"Eh?" Dad went on; "say sh'ain't? L'ere-ever y' name is--betcher pound +sh'is." + +Then a jeering and laughing crowd gathered round, and Dave wished he +had n't come to the races. + +"She ain't well," said a tall man to Dad--"short in her gallops." Then a +short, bulky individual without whiskers shoved his face up into Dad's and +asked him if Bess was a mare or a cow. Dad became excited, and only that +old Anderson came forward and took him away there must have been a row. + +Anderson put him in the dray and drove it home to Shingle Hut. + +Dad reckons now that there is nothing in horse-racing, and declares it a +fraud. He says, further, that an honest man, by training and racing a +horse, is only helping to feed and fatten the rogues and vagabonds that +live on the sport. + + + + +Chapter VII. + + + +Cranky Jack. + + +It was early in the day. Traveller after traveller was trudging by Shingle +Hut. One who carried no swag halted at the rails and came in. He asked +Dad for a job. "I dunno," Dad answered--"What wages would you want?" +The man said he would n't want any. Dad engaged him at once. + +And SUCH a man! Tall, bony, heavy-jawed, shaven with a reaping-hook, +apparently. He had a thick crop of black hair--shaggy, unkempt, and full +of grease, grass, and fragments of dry gum-leaves. On his head were two +old felt hats--one sewn inside the other. On his back a shirt made from +a piece of blue blanket, with white cotton stitches striding up and down +it like lines of fencing. His trousers were gloom itself; they were a +problem, and bore reliable evidence of his industry. No ordinary person +would consider himself out of work while in them. And the new-comer was +no ordinary person. He seemed to have all the woe of the world upon him; +he was as sad and weird-looking as a widow out in the wet. + +In the yard was a large heap of firewood--remarkable truth!--which Dad +told him to chop up. He began. And how he worked! The axe rang +again--particularly when it left the handle--and pieces of wood scattered +everywhere. Dad watched him chopping for a while, then went with Dave +to pull corn. + +For hours the man chopped away without once looking at the sun. Mother +came out. Joy! She had never seen so much wood cut before. She was +delighted. She made a cup of tea and took it to the man, and apologised +for having no sugar to put in it. He paid no attention to her; he worked +harder. Mother waited, holding the tea in her hand. A lump of wood +nearly as big as a shingle flew up and shaved her left ear. She put the +tea on the ground and went in search of eggs for dinner. (We were out +of meat--the kangaroo-dog was lame. He had got "ripped" the last time +we killed.) + +The tea remained on the ground. Chips fell into it. The dog saw it. +He limped towards it eagerly, and dipped the point of his nose in it. +It burnt him. An aged rooster strutted along and looked sideways at it. +HE distrusted it and went away. It attracted the pig--a sow with nine +young ones. She waddled up, and poked the cup over with her nose; then +she sat down on it, while the family joyously gathered round the saucer. +Still the man chopped on. + +Mother returned--without any eggs. She rescued the crockery from the pigs +and turned curiously to the man. She said, "Why, you've let them take the +tea!" No answer. She wondered. + +Suddenly, and for the fiftieth time, the axe flew off. The man held the +handle and stared at the woodheap. Mother watched him. He removed his +hats, and looked inside them. He remained looking inside them. + +Mother watched him more closely. His lips moved. He said, "LISTEN TO +THEM! THEY'RE COMING! I KNEW THEY'D FOLLOW!" + +"Who?" asked Mother, trembling slightly. + +"THEY'RE IN THE WOOD!" he went on. "Ha, ha! I've got them. They'll +never get out; NEVER GET OUT!" + +Mother fled, screaming. She ran inside and called the children. Sal +assisted her. They trooped in like wallabies--all but Joe. He was away +earning money. He was getting a shilling a week from Maloney, for chasing +cockatoos from the corn. + +They closed and barricaded the doors, and Sal took down the gun, which +Mother made her hide beneath the bed. They sat listening, anxiously and +intently. The wind began to rise. A lump of soot fell from the chimney +into the fireplace--where there was no fire. Mother shuddered. Some more +fell. Mother jumped to her feet. So did Sal. They looked at each other +in dismay. The children began to cry. The chain for hanging the kettle +on started swinging to and fro. Mother's knees gave way. The chain +continued swinging. A pair of bare legs came down into the fireplace--they +were curled round the chain. Mother collapsed. Sal screamed, and ran to +the door, but could n't open it. The legs left the chain and dangled in +the air. Sal called "Murder!" + +Her cry was answered. It was Joe, who had been over at Maloney's making +his fortune. He came to the rescue. He dropped out of the chimney and +shook himself. Sal stared at him. He was calm and covered from head to +foot with soot and dirt. He looked round and said, "Thought yuz could +keep me out, did'n'y'?" Sal could only look at him. "I saw yuz all run +in," he was saying, when Sal thought of Mother, and sprang to her. Sal +shook her, and slapped her, and threw water on her till she sat up and +stared about. Then Joe stared. + +Dad came in for dinner--which, of course, was n't ready. Mother began to +cry, and asked him what he meant by keeping a madman on the place, and +told him she KNEW he wanted to have them all murdered. Dad did n't +understand. Sal explained. Then he went out and told the man to "Clear!" +The man simply said, "No." + +"Go on, now!" Dad said, pointing to the rails. The man smiled at the +wood-heap as he worked. Dad waited. "Ain't y' going?" he repeated. + +"Leave me alone when I'm chopping wood for the missus," the man answered; +then smiled and muttered to himself. Dad left him alone and went inside +wondering. + +Next day Mother and Dad were talking at the barn. Mother, bare-headed, +was holding some eggs in her apron. Dad was leaning on a hoe. + +"I am AFRAID of him," Mother said; "it's not right you should keep him +about the place. No one's safe with such a man. Some day he'll take it +in his head to kill us all, and then--" + +"Tut, tut, woman; poor old Jack! he's harmless as a baby." + +"All right," (sullenly); "you'll see!" + +Dad laughed and went away with the hoe on his shoulder to cut burr. + +Middle of summer. Dad and Dave in the paddock mowing lucerne. Jack +sinking post-holes for a milking-yard close to the house. Joe at +intervals stealing behind him to prick him with straws through a rent in +the rear of his patched moleskins. Little Bill--in readiness to +run--standing off, enjoying the sport. + +Inside the house sat Mother and Sal, sewing and talking of Maloney's +new baby. + +"Dear me," said Mother; "it's the tiniest mite of a thing I ever saw; +why, bless me, anyone of y' at its age would have made three of--" + +"MIND, Mother!" Sal shrieked, jumping up on the sofa. Mother screamed and +mounted the table. Both gasped for breath, and leaning cautiously over +peeped down at a big black snake which had glided in at the front door. +Then, pale and scared-looking, they stared across at each other. + +The snake crawled over to the safe and drank up some milk which had been +spilt on the floor. Mother saw its full length and groaned. The snake +wriggled to the leg of the table. + +"Look out!" cried Sal, gathering up her skirts and dancing about on +the sofa. + +Mother squealed hysterically. + +Joe appeared. He laughed. + +"You wretch!" Mother yelled. "Run!--RUN, and fetch your father!" + +Joe went and brought Jack. + +"Oh-h, my God!"--Mother moaned, as Jack stood at the door, staring +strangely at her. "Kill it!--why don't he kill it?" + +Jack did n't move, but talked to himself. Mother shuddered. + +The reptile crawled to the bedroom door. Then for the first time the +man's eyes rested upon it. It glided into the bedroom, and Mother and Sal +ran off for Dad. + +Jack fixed his eyes on the snake and continued muttering to himself. +Several times it made an attempt to mount the dressing-table. Finally it +succeeded. Suddenly Jack's demeanour changed. He threw off his ragged +hat and talked wildly. A fearful expression filled his ugly features. +His voice altered. + +"You're the Devil!" he said; "THE DEVIL! THE DEVIL! The missus brought +you--ah-h-h!" + +The snake's head passed behind the looking-glass. Jack drew nearer, +clenching his fists and gesticulating. As he did he came full before the +looking-glass and saw, perhaps for the first time in his life, his own +image. An unearthly howl came from him. "ME FATHER!" he shouted, and +bolted from the house. + +Dad came in with the long-handled shovel, swung it about the room, and +smashed pieces off the cradle, and tore the bed-curtains down, and made a +great noise altogether. Finally, he killed the snake and put it on the +fire; and Joe and the cat watched it wriggle on the hot coals. + +Meanwhile, Jack, bare-headed, rushed across the yard. He ran over little +Bill, and tumbled through the wire-fence on to the broad of his back. +He roared like a wild beast, clutched at space, spat, and kicked his heels +in the air. + +"Let me up!---AH-H-H!--let go me throat!" he hissed. + +The dog ran over and barked at him. He found his feet again, and, making +off, ran through the wheat, glancing back over his shoulder as he tore +along. He crossed into the grass paddock, and running to a big tree +dodged round and round it. Then from tree to tree he went, and that +evening at sundown, when Joe was bringing the cows home, Jack was still +flying from "his father". + +After supper. + +"I wonder now what the old fool saw in that snake to send him off his head +like that?" Dad said, gazing wonderingly into the fire. "He sees plenty +of them, goodness knows." + +"That was n't it. It was n't the snake at all," Mother said; "there was +madness in the man's eyes all the while. I saw it the moment he came to +the door." She appealed to Sal. + +"Nonsense!" said Dad; "NONSENSE!" and he tried to laugh. + +"Oh, of course it's NONSENSE," Mother went on; "everything I say is +nonsense. It won't be nonsense when you come home some day and find us +all on the floor with our throats cut." + +"Pshaw!" Dad answered; "what's the use of talking like that?" Then to +Dave: "Go out and see if he's in the barn!" + +Dave fidgetted. He did n't like the idea. Joe giggled. + +"Surely you're not FRIGHTENED?" Dad shouted. + +Dave coloured up. + +"No--don't think so," he said; and, after a pause, "YOU go and see." + +It was Dad's turn to feel uneasy. He pretended to straighten the fire, +and coughed several times. "Perhaps it's just as well," he said, "to let +him be to-night." + +Of course, Dad was n't afraid; he SAID he was n't, but he drove the pegs +in the doors and windows before going to bed that night. + +Next morning, Dad said to Dave and Joe, "Come 'long, and we'll see where +he's got to." + +In a gully at the back of the grass-paddock they found him. He was +ploughing--sitting astride the highest limb of a fallen tree, and, in a +hoarse voice and strange, calling out--"Gee, Captain!--come here, +Tidy!--WA-AY!" + +"Blowed if I know," Dad muttered, coming to a standstill. "Wonder if he +is clean mad?" + +Dave was speechless, and Joe began to tremble. + +They listened. And as the man's voice rang out in the quiet gully and the +echoes rumbled round the ridge and the affrighted birds flew up, the place +felt eerie somehow. + +"It's no use bein' afraid of him," Dad went on. "We must go and bounce +him, that's all." But there was a tremor in Dad's voice which Dave +did n't like. + +"See if he knows us, anyway."--and Dad shouted, "HEY-Y!" + +Jack looked up and immediately scrambled from the limb. That was enough +for Dave. He turned and made tracks. So did Dad and Joe. They ran. +No one could have run harder. Terror overcame Joe. He squealed and +grabbed hold of Dad's shirt, which was ballooning in the wind. + +"Let go!" Dad gasped. "DAMN Y', let me GO! "--trying to shake him off. +But Joe had great faith in his parent, and clung to him closely. + +When they had covered a hundred yards or so, Dave glanced back, and seeing +that Jack was n't pursuing them, stopped and chuckled at the others. + +"Eh?" Dad said, completely winded--"Eh?" Then to Dave, when he got +some breath: + +"Well, you ARE an ass of a fellow. (PUFF!). What th' DEVIL did y' RUN f'?" + +"Wot did I run f'? What did YOU run f'?" + +"Bah!" and Dad boldly led the way back. + +"Now look here (turning fiercely upon Joe), don't you come catching hold +of me again, or if y' DO I'll knock y'r d--d head off!...Clear home +altogether, and get under the bed if y're as frightened as THAT." + +Joe slunk behind. + +But when Dad DID approach Jack, which was n't until he had talked a great +deal to him across a big log, the latter did n't show any desire to take +life, but allowed himself to be escorted home and locked in the barn +quietly enough. + +Dad kept Jack confined in the barn several days, and if anyone approached +the door or the cracks he would ask: + +"Is me father there yet?" + +"Your father's dead and buried long ago, man," Dad used to tell him. + +"Yes," he would say, "but he's alive again. The missus keeps him in +there"--indicating the house. + +And sometimes when Dad was not about Joe would put his mouth to a crack +and say: + +"Here's y'r FATHER, Jack!" Then, like a caged beast, the man would howl +and tramp up and down, his eyes starting out of his head, while Joe would +bolt inside and tell Mother that "Jack's getting out,", and nearly send +her to her grave. + +But one day Jack DID get out, and, while Mother and Sal were ironing came +to the door with the axe on his shoulder. + +They dropped the irons and shrank into a corner and cowered piteously--too +scared even to cry out. + +He took no notice of them, but, moving stealthily on tip-toes, approached +the bedroom door and peeped in. He paused just a moment to grip the axe +with both hands. Then with a howl and a bound he entered the room and +shattered the looking-glass into fragments. + +He bent down and looked closely at the pieces. + +"He's dead now," he said calmly, and walked out. Then he went to work at +the post-holes again, just as though nothing had happened. + +Fifteen years have passed since then, and the man is still at Shingle Hut. +He was the best horse Dad ever had. He slaved from daylight till dark; +keeps no Sunday; knows no companion; lives chiefly on meat and machine +oil; domiciles in the barn; and has never asked for a rise in his wages. +His name we never knew. We call him "Jack." The neighbours called him +"CRANKY Jack." + + + + +Chapter VIII. + + + +A Kangaroo-Hunt from Shingle Hut. + + +We always looked forward to Sunday. It was our day of sport. Once, I +remember, we thought it would never come. We longed restlessly for it, +and the more we longed the more it seemed to linger. + +A meeting of selectors had been held; war declared against the marsupial; +and a hunt on a grand scale arranged for this particular Sabbath. Of +course those in the neighbourhood hunted the kangaroo every Sunday, but +"on their own," and always on foot, which had its fatigues. This was to +be a raid EN MASSE and on horseback. The whole country-side was to +assemble at Shingle Hut and proceed thence. It assembled; and what a +collection! Such a crowd! such gear! such a tame lot of horses! and such +a motley swarm of lean, lank, lame kangaroo-dogs! + +We were not ready. The crowd sat on their horses and waited at the +slip-rails. Dogs trooped into the yard by the dozen. One pounced on a +fowl; another lamed the pig; a trio put the cat up a peach-tree; one with +a thirst mounted the water-cask and looked down it, while the bulk of the +brutes trotted inside and disputed with Mother who should open the safe. + +Dad loosed our three, and pleased they were to feel themselves free. They +had been chained up all the week, with scarcely anything to eat. Dad +did n't believe in too much feeding. He had had wide experience in dogs +and coursing "at home" on his grandfather's large estates, and always +found them fleetest when empty. OURS ought to have been fleet as +locomotives. + +Dave, showing a neat seat, rode out of the yard on Bess, fresh and fat +and fit to run for a kingdom. They awaited Dad. He was standing beside +HIS mount--Farmer, the plough-horse, who was arrayed in winkers with +green-hide reins, and an old saddle with only one flap. He was holding an +earnest argument with Joe...Still the crowd waited. Still Dad and Joe +argued the point...There was a murmur and a movement and much merriment. +Dad was coming; so was Joe--perched behind him, "double bank," rapidly +wiping the tears from his eyes with his knuckles. + +Hooray! They were off. Paddy Maloney and Dave took the lead, heading for +kangaroo country along the foot of Dead Man's Mountain and through Smith's +paddock, where there was a low wire fence to negotiate. Paddy spread his +coat over it and jumped his mare across. He was a horseman, was Pat. +The others twisted a stick in the wires, and proceeded carefully to lead +their horses over. When it came to Farmer's turn he hesitated. Dad +coaxed him. Slowly he put one leg across, as if feeling his way, and +paused again. Joe was on his back behind the saddle. Dad tugged hard at +the winkers. Farmer was inclined to withdraw his leg. Dad was determined +not to let him. Farmer's heel got caught against the wire, and he began +to pull back and grunt--so did Dad. Both pulled hard. Anderson and old +Brown ran to Dad's assistance. The trio planted their heels in the ground +and leaned back. + +Joe became afraid. He clutched at the saddle and cried, "Let me off!" +"Stick to him!" said Paddy Maloney, hopping over the fence, "Stick to him!" +He kicked Farmer what he afterwards called "a sollicker on the tail." +Again he kicked him. Still Farmer strained and hung back. Once more he +let him have it. Then--off flew the winkers, and over went Dad and +Anderson and old Brown, and down rolled Joe and Farmer on the other side +of the fence. The others leant against their horses and laughed the laugh +of their lives. "Worse 'n a lot of d--d jackasses," Dad was heard to say. +They caught Farmer and led him to the fence again. He jumped it, and rose +feet higher than he had any need to, and had not old Brown dodged him just +when he did he would be a dead man now. + +A little further on the huntsmen sighted a mob of kangaroos. Joy and +excitement. A mob? It was a swarm! Away they hopped. Off scrambled the +dogs, and off flew Paddy Maloney and Dave--the rest followed anyhow, and +at varying speeds. + +That all those dogs should have selected and followed the same kangaroo +was sad and humiliating. And such a waif of a thing, too! Still, they +stuck to it. For more than a mile, down a slope, the weedy marsupial +outpaced them, but when it came to the hill the daylight between rapidly +began to lessen. A few seconds more and all would have been over, but a +straggling, stupid old ewe, belonging to an unneighbourly squatter, darted +up from the shade of a tree right in the way of Maloney's Brindle, who was +leading. Brindle always preferred mutton to marsupial, so he let the +latter slide and secured the ewe. The death-scene was most imposing. +The ground around was strewn with small tufts of white wool. There was a +complete circle of eager, wriggling dogs--all jammed together, heads down, +and tails elevated. Not a scrap of the ewe was visible. Paddy Maloney +jumped down and proceeded to batter the brutes vigorously with a waddy. +As the others arrived, they joined him. The dogs were hungry, and fought +for every inch of the sheep. Those not laid out were pulled away, and! +when old Brown had dragged the last one off by the hind legs, all that was +left of that ewe was four feet and some skin. + +Dad shook his head and looked grave--so did Anderson. After a short rest +they decided to divide into parties and work the ridges. A start was made. +Dad's contingent--consisting of himself and Joe, Paddy Maloney, Anderson, +old Brown, and several others--started a mob. This time the dogs separated +and scampered off in all directions. In quick time Brown's black slut +bailed up an "old man" full of fight. Nothing was more desirable. He was +a monster, a king kangaroo; and as he raised himself to his full height on +his toes and tail he looked formidable--a grand and majestic demon of the +bush. The slut made no attempt to tackle him; she stood off with her +tongue out. Several small dogs belonging to Anderson barked energetically +at him, even venturing occasionally to run behind and bite his tail. But, +further than grabbing them in his arms and embracing them, he took no +notice. There he towered, his head back and chest well out, awaiting the +horsemen. They came, shouting and hooraying. He faced them defiantly. +Anderson, aglow with excitement, dismounted and aimed a lump of rock at +his head, which laid out one of the little dogs. They pelted him with +sticks and stones till their arms were tired, but they might just as well +have pelted a dead cow. Paddy Maloney took out his stirrup. "Look out!" +he cried. They looked out. Then, galloping up, he swung the iron at the +marsupial, and nearly knocked his horse's eye out. + +Dad was disgusted. He and Joe approached the enemy on Farmer. Dad carried +a short stick. The "old man" looked him straight in the face. Dad poked +the stick at him. He promptly grabbed hold of it, and a piece of Dad's +hand as well. Farmer had not been in many battles--no Defence Force man +ever owned him. He threw up his head and snorted, and commenced a retreat. +The kangaroo followed him up and seized Dad by the shirt. Joe evinced +signs of timidity. He lost faith in Dad, and, half jumping, half falling, +he landed on the ground, and set out speedily for a tree. Dad lost the +stick, and in attempting to brain the brute with his fist he overbalanced +and fell out of the saddle. He struggled to his feet, and clutched his +antagonist affectionately by both paws--standing well away. Backwards and +forwards and round and round they moved. "Use your knife!" Anderson +called out, getting further away himself. But Dad dared not relax his +grip. Paddy Maloney ran behind the brute several times to lay him out +with a waddy, but each time he turned and fled before striking the blow. +Dad thought to force matters, and began kicking his assailant vigorously +in the stomach. Such dull, heavy thuds! The kangaroo retaliated, putting +Dad on the defensive. Dad displayed remarkable suppleness about the hips. +At last the brute fixed his deadly toe in Dad's belt. + +It was an anxious moment, but the belt broke, and Dad breathed freely +again. He was acting entirely on the defensive, but an awful consciousness +of impending misfortune assailed him. His belt was gone, and--his trousers +began to slip--slip--slip! He called wildly to the others for God's sake +to do something. They helped with advice. He yelled "Curs!" and +"Cowards!" back at them. Still, as he danced around with his strange and +ungainly partner, his trousers kept slipping--slipping. For the fiftieth +time and more he glanced eagerly over his shoulder for some haven of +safety. None was near. And then--oh, horror!--down THEY slid calmly and +noiselessly. Poor Dad! He was at a disadvantage; his leg work was +hampered. He was hobbled. Could he only get free of them altogether! +But he could n't--his feet were large. He took a lesson from the foe and +jumped--jumped this way and that way, and round about, while large drops +of perspiration rolled off him. The small dogs displayed renewed and +ridiculous ferocity, often mistaking Dad for the marsupial. At last Dad +became exhausted--there was no spring left in him. Once he nearly went +down. Twice he tripped. He staggered again--down he was going--down--down, +down and down he fell! But at the same moment, and, as though they had +dropped from the clouds, Brindle and five or six other dogs pounced on +the "old man." The rest may be imagined. + +Dad lay on the ground to recover his wind, and when he mounted Farmer +again and silently turned for home, Paddy Maloney was triumphantly seated +on the carcase of the fallen enemy, exultingly explaining how he missed +the brute's head with the stirrup-iron, and claiming the tail. + + + + +Chapter IX. + + + +Dave's Snakebite. + + +One hot day, as we were finishing dinner, a sheriff's bailiff rode up to +the door. Norah saw him first. She was dressed up ready to go over to +Mrs. Anderson's to tea. Sometimes young Harrison had tea at Anderson's-- +Thursdays, usually. This was Thursday; and Norah was starting early, +because it was "a good step of a way". + +She reported the visitor. Dad left the table, munching some bread, and +went out to him. Mother looked out of the door; Sal went to the window; +Little Bill and Tom peeped through a crack; Dave remained at his dinner; +and Joe knavishly seized the opportunity of exploring the table for +leavings, finally seating himself in Dad's place, and commencing where Dad +had left off. + +"Jury summons," said the meek bailiff, extracting a paper from his +breast-pocket, and reading, "Murtagh Joseph Rudd, selector, +Shingle Hut...Correct?" + +Dad nodded assent. + +"Got any water?" + +There was n't a drop in the cask, so Dad came in and asked Mother if there +was any tea left. She pulled a long, solemn, Sunday-school face, and +looked at Joe, who was holding the teapot upside-down, shaking the +tea-leaves into his cup. + +"Tea, Dad?" he chuckled--"by golly!" + +Dad did n't think it worth while going out to the bailiff again. +He sent Joe. + +"Not any at all?" + +"Nothink," said Joe. + +"H'm! Nulla bona, eh?" And the Law smiled at its own joke and went off +thirsty. + +Thus it was that Dad came to be away one day when his great presence of +mind and ability as a bush doctor was most required at Shingle Hut. + +Dave took Dad's place at the plough. One of the horses--a colt that Dad +bought with the money he got for helping with Anderson's crop--had only +just been broken. He was bad at starting. When touched with the rein he +would stand and wait until the old furrow-horse put in a few steps; then +plunge to get ahead of him, and if a chain or a swingle-tree or something +else did n't break, and Dave kept the plough in, he ripped and tore along +in style, bearing in and bearing out, and knocking the old horse about +till that much-enduring animal became as cranky as himself, and the pace +terrible. Down would go the plough-handles, and, with one tremendous pull +on the reins, Dave would haul them back on to their rumps. Then he would +rush up and kick the colt on the root of the tail, and if that did n't +make him put his leg over the chains and kick till he ran a hook into his +heel and lamed himself, or broke something, it caused him to rear up and +fall back on the plough and snort and strain and struggle till there was +not a stitch left on him but the winkers. + +Now, if Dave was noted for one thing more than another it was for his +silence. He scarcely ever took the trouble to speak. He hated to be +asked a question, and mostly answered by nodding his head. Yet, though he +never seemed to practise, he could, when his blood was fairly up, swear +with distinction and effect. On this occasion he swore through the whole +afternoon without repeating himself. + +Towards evening Joe took the reins and began to drive. He had n't gone +once around when, just as the horses approached a big dead tree that had +been left standing in the cultivation, he planted his left foot heavily +upon a Bathurst-burr that had been cut and left lying. It clung to him. +He hopped along on one leg, trying to kick it off; still it clung to him. +He fell down. The horses and the tree got mixed up, and everything was +confusion. + +Dave abused Joe remorselessly. "Go on!" he howled, waving in the air a +fistful of grass and weeds which he had pulled from the nose of the +plough; "clear out of this altogether!--you're only a damn nuisance." + +Joe's eyes rested on the fistful of grass. They lit up suddenly. + +"L-l-look out, Dave," he stuttered; "y'-y' got a s-s-snake." + +Dave dropped the grass promptly. A deaf-adder crawled out of it. Joe +killed it. Dave looked closely at his hand, which was all scratches and +scars. He looked at it again; then he sat on the beam of the plough, +pale and miserable-looking. + +"D-d-did it bite y', Dave?" No answer. + +Joe saw a chance to distinguish himself, and took it. He ran home, glad +to be the bearer of the news, and told Mother that "Dave's got bit by a +adder--a sudden-death adder--right on top o' the finger." + +How Mother screamed! "My God! whatever shall we do? Run quick," she +said, "and bring Mr. Maloney. Dear! oh dear! oh dear!" + +Joe had not calculated on this injunction. He dropped his head and said +sullenly: "Wot, walk all the way over there?" + +Before he could say another word a tin-dish left a dinge on the back of +his skull that will accompany him to his grave if he lives to be a +thousand. + +"You wretch, you! Why don't you run when I tell you?" + +Joe sprang in the air like a shot wallaby. + +"I'll not go AT ALL now--y' see!" he answered, starting to cry. Then Sal +put on her hat and ran for Maloney. + +Meanwhile Dave took the horses out, walked inside, and threw himself on +the sofa without uttering a word. He felt ill. + +Mother was in a paroxysm of fright. She threw her arms about frantically +and cried for someone to come. At last she sat down and tried to think +what she could do. She thought of the very thing, and ran for the +carving-knife, which she handed to Dave with shut eyes. He motioned her +with a disdainful movement of the elbow to take it away. + +Would Maloney never come! He was coming, hat in hand, and running for +dear life across the potato-paddock. Behind him was his man. Behind his +man--Sal, out of breath. Behind her, Mrs. Maloney and the children. + +"Phwat's the thrubble?" cried Maloney. "Bit be a dif--adher? O, be the +tares of war!" Then he asked Dave numerous questions as to how it +happened, which Joe answered with promptitude and pride. Dave simply +shrugged his shoulders and turned his face to the wall. Nothing was to be +got out of him. + +Maloney held a short consultation with himself. Then--"Hould up yer hand!" +he said, bending over Dave with a knife. Dave thrust out his arm +violently, knocked the instrument to the other side of the room, and +kicked wickedly. + +"The pison's wurrkin'," whispered Maloney quite loud. + +"Oh, my gracious!" groaned Mother. + +"The poor crathur," said Mrs. Maloney. + +There was a pause. + +"Phwhat finger's bit?" asked Maloney. Joe thought it was the littlest one +of the lot. + +He approached the sofa again, knife in hand. + +"Show me yer finger," he said to Dave. + +For the first time Dave spoke. He said: + +"Damn y'--what the devil do y' want? Clear out and lea' me 'lone." + +Maloney hesitated. There was a long silence. Dave commenced breathing +heavily. + +"It's maikin' 'm slape," whispered Maloney, glancing over his shoulder at +the women. + +"Don't let him! Don't let him!" Mother wailed. + +"Salvation to 's all!" muttered Mrs. Maloney, piously crossing herself. + +Maloney put away the knife and beckoned to his man, who was looking on +from the door. They both took a firm hold of Dave and stood him upon his +feet. He looked hard and contemptuously at Maloney for some seconds. +Then with gravity and deliberation Dave said: "Now wot 'n th' devil are +y' up t'? Are y' mad?" + +"Walk 'm along, Jaimes--walk 'm--along," was all Maloney had to say. And +out into the yard they marched him. How Dave did struggle to get +away!--swearing and cursing Maloney for a cranky Irishman till he foamed +at the mouth, all of which the other put down to snake-poison. Round and +round the yard and up and down it they trotted him till long after dark, +until there was n't a struggle left in him. + +They placed him on the sofa again, Maloney keeping him awake with a strap. +How Dave ground his teeth and kicked and swore whenever he felt that +strap! And they sat and watched him. + +It was late in the night when Dad came from town. He staggered in with +the neck of a bottle showing out of his pocket. In his hand was a piece +of paper wrapped round the end of some yards of sausage. The dog outside +carried the other end. + +"An' 'e ishn't dead?" Dad said, after hearing what had befallen Dave. +"Don' b'leevsh id--wuzhn't bit. Die 'fore shun'own ifsh desh ad'er +bish 'm." + +"Bit!" Dave said bitterly, turning round to the surprise of everyone. +"I never said I was BIT. No one said I was--only those snivelling idiots +and that pumpkin-headed Irish pig there." + +Maloney lowered his jaw and opened his eyes. + +"Zhackly. Did'n' I (HIC) shayzo, 'Loney? Did'n' I, eh, ol' wom'n!" Dad +mumbled, and dropped his chin on his chest. + +Maloney began to take another view of the matter. He put a leading +question to Joe. + +"He MUSTER been bit," Joe answered, "'cuz he had the d-death adder in his +hand." + +More silence. + +"Mush die 'fore shun'own," Dad murmured. + +Maloney was thinking hard. At last he spoke. "Bridgy!" he cried, "where's +th' childer?" Mrs. Maloney gathered them up. + +Just then Dad seemed to be dreaming. He swayed about. His head hung +lower, and he muttered, "Shen'l'm'n, yoush disharged wish shanksh y'cun'ry." + +The Maloneys left. + +Dave is still alive and well, and silent as ever; and if any one question +is more intolerable and irritating to him than another, it is to be asked +if he remembers the time he was bitten by deaf-adder. + + + + +Chapter X. + + + +Dad And The Donovans. + + +A sweltering summer's afternoon. A heat that curled and withered the very +weeds. The corn-blades drooping, sulking still. Mother and Sal ironing, +mopping their faces with a towel and telling each other how hot it was. +The dog stretched across the doorway. A child's bonnet on the floor--the +child out in the sun. Two horsemen approaching the slip-rails. + +Dad had gone down the gully to Farmer, who had been sick for four days. +The ploughing was at a standstill in consequence, for we had only two +draught-horses. Dad erected a shelter over him, made of boughs, to keep +the sun off. Two or three times a day he cut greenstuff for him--which +the cows ate. He humped water to him which he sullenly refused to drink; +and did all in his power to persuade Farmer to get up and go on with the +ploughing. I don't know if Dad knew anything of mesmerism, but he used to +stand for long intervals dumbly staring the old horse full in the eyes +till in a commanding voice he would bid him, "Get up!" But Farmer lacked +the patriotism of the back-block poets. He was obdurate, and not once did +he "awake," not to mention "arise". + +This afternoon, as Dad approached his dumb patient, he suddenly put down +the bucket of water which he was carrying and ran, shouting angrily. A +flock of crows flew away from Farmer and "cawed" from a tree close by. +Dad was excited, and when he saw that one of the animal's eyes was gone +and a stream of blood trickled over its nose he sat down and hid his face +in his big rough hands. + +"CAW, CAW!" came from the tree. + +Dad rose and looked up. + +" CURSE you!" he hissed--"you black wretches of hell!" + +"CAW, CAW, CAW" + +He ran towards the tree as though he would hurl it to the ground, and away +flew the crows. + +Joe arrived. + +"W-w-wuz they at him, Dad?" + +Dad turned on him, trembling with rage. + +"Oh, YOU son of the Devil!" he commenced. "YOU worthless pup, you! Look +there! Do you see that?" (He pointed to the horse.) "Did n't I tell you +to mind him? Did n'--" + +"Yes," snivelled Joe; "but Anderson's dog had a k-k-k-angaroo bailed up." + +"DAMN you, be off out of this!" And Dad aimed a block of wood at Joe which +struck him on the back as he made away. But nothing short of two broken +legs would stop Joe, who the next instant had dashed among the corn like +an emu into a scrub. + +Dad returned to the house, foaming and vowing to take the gun and shoot +Joe down like a wallaby. But when he saw two horses hanging up he +hesitated and would have gone away again had Mother not called out that he +was wanted. He went in reluctantly. + +Red Donovan and his son, Mick, were there. Donovan was the publican, +butcher, and horse-dealer at the Overhaul. He was reputed to be well-in, +though some said that if everybody had their own he would n't be worth +much. He was a glib-tongued Irishman who knew everything--or fondly +imagined he did--from the law to horse-surgery. There was money to be +made out of selections, he reckoned, if selectors only knew how to make +it--the majority, he proclaimed, did n't know enough to get under a tree +when it rained. As a dealer, he was a hard nut, never giving more than a +"tenner" for a twenty pound beast, or selling a ten pound one for less +than twenty pounds. And few knew Donovan better than did Dad, or had been +taken in by him oftener; but on this occasion Dad was in no easy or +benevolent frame of mind. + +He sat down, and they talked of crops and the weather, and beat about the +bush until Donovan said: + +"Have you any fat steers to sell?" + +Dad had n't. "But," he added, "I can sell you a horse." + +"Which one?" asked Donovan, for he knew the horses as well as Dad +did--perhaps better. + +"The bay--Farmer." + +"How much?" + +"Seven pounds." Now, Farmer was worth fourteen pounds, if worth a +shilling--that is, before he took sick--and Donovan knew it well. + +"Seven," he repeated ponderingly. "Give you six." + +Never before did Dad show himself such an expert in dissimulation. He +shook his head knowingly, and enquired of Donovan if he would take the +horse for nothing. + +"Split the difference, then--make it six-ten?" + +Dad rose and looked out the window. + +"There he is now," he remarked sadly, "in the gully there." + +"Well, what's it to be--six-ten or nothing?" renewed Donovan. + +"All right, then," Dad replied, demurely, "take him!" + +The money was paid there and then and receipts drawn up. Then, saying +that Mick would come for the horse on the day following, and after +offering a little gratuitous advice on seed-wheat and pig-sticking, the +Donovans left. + +Mick came the next day, and Dad showed him Farmer, under the bushes. He +was n't dead, because when Joe sat on him he moved. "There he is," +said Dad, grinning. + +Mick remained seated on his horse, bewildered-looking, staring first at +Farmer, then at Dad. + +"Well?" Dad remarked, still grinning. Then Mick spoke feelingly. + +"YOU SWINDLING OLD CRAWLER!" he said, and galloped away. It was well for +him he got a good start. + +For long after that we turned the horses and cows into the little paddock +at night, and if ever the dog barked Dad would jump up and go out in his +shirt. + +We put them back into the paddock again, and the first night they were +there two cows got out and went away, taking with them the chain that +fastened the slip-rails. We never saw or heard of them again; but Dad +treasured them in his heart. Often, when he was thoughtful, he would +ponder out plans for getting even with the Donovans--we knew it was the +Donovans. And Fate seemed to be of Dad's mind; for the Donovans got into +"trouble,", and were reported to be "doing time." That pleased Dad; but +the vengeance was a little vague. He would have liked a finger in the pie +himself. + +Four years passed. It was after supper, and we were all husking corn in +the barn. Old Anderson and young Tom Anderson and Mrs. Maloney were +helping us. We were to assist them the following week. The barn was +illuminated by fat-lamps, which made the spiders in the rafters uneasy and +disturbed the slumbers of a few fowls that for months had insisted on +roosting on the cross-beam. + +Mrs. Maloney was arguing with Anderson. She was claiming to have husked +two cobs to his one, when the dogs started barking savagely. Dad crawled +from beneath a heap of husks and went out. The night was dark. He bade +the dogs "Lie down." They barked louder. "Damn you--lie down!" he roared. +They shut up. Then a voice from the darkness said: + +"Is that you, Mr. Rudd?" + +Dad failed to recognise it, and went to the fence where the visitor was. +He remained there talking for fully half-an-hour. Then he returned, and +said it was young Donovan. + +"DONOVAN! MICK Donovan?" exclaimed Anderson. And Mother and Mrs. Maloney +and Joe echoed "MICK Donovan?" They WERE surprised. + +"He's none too welcome," said Anderson, thinking of his horses and cows. +Mother agreed with him, while Mrs. Maloney repeated over and over again +that she was always under the impression that Mick Donovan was in gaol +along with his bad old father. Dad was uncommunicative. There was +something on his mind. He waited till the company had gone, then +consulted with Dave. + +They were outside, in the dark, and leant on the dray. Dad said in a low +voice: "He's come a hundred mile to-day, 'n' his horse is dead-beat, 'n' +he wants one t' take him t' Back Creek t'morrer 'n' leave this one in his +place...Wot d'y' think?" Dave seemed to think a great deal, for he said +nothing. + +"Now," continued Dad, "it's me opinion the horse is n't his; it's one he's +shook--an' I've an idea." Then he proceeded to instruct Dave in the idea. +A while later he called Joe and drilled him in the idea. + +That night, young Donovan stayed at Shingle Hut. In the morning Dad was +very affable. He asked Donovan to come and show him his horse, as he must +see it before thinking of exchanging. They proceeded to the paddock +together. The horse was standing under a tree, tired-looking. Dad stood +and looked at Donovan for fully half-a-minute without speaking. + +"Why, damn it!" he exclaimed, at last, "that's MY OWN horse...You don't +mean...S'help me! Old Bess's foal!" Donovan told him he was making a +mistake. + +"Mistake be hanged!" replied Dad, walking round the animal. "Not much of +a mistake about HIM!" + +Just here Dave appeared, as was proper. + +"Do you know this horse?" Dad asked him. "Yes, of course," he answered, +surprisedly, with his eyes open wide, "Bess's foal!--of course it is." + +"There you are!" said Dad, grinning triumphantly. + +Donovan seemed uneasy. + +Joe in his turn appeared. Dad put the same question to him. Of course +Joe knew Bess's foal--"the one that got stole." + +There was a silence. + +"Now," said Dad, looking very grave, "what have y' got t' say? Who'd y' +get him off? Show's y'r receipt." + +Donovan had nothing to say; he preferred to be silent. + +"Then," Dad went on, "clear out of this as fast as you can go, an' think +y'rself lucky." + +He cleared, but on foot. + +Dad gazed after him, and, as he left the paddock, said: + +"One too many f' y' that time, Mick Donovan!" Then to Dave, who was still +looking at the horse: "He's a stolen one right enough, but he's a beauty, +and we'll keep him; and if the owner ever comes for him, well--if he is +the owner--he can have him, that's all." + +We had the horse for eighteen months and more. One day Dad rode him to +town. He was no sooner there than a man came up and claimed him. Dad +objected. The man went off and brought a policeman. "Orright"--Dad +said--"TAKE him." The policeman took him. He took Dad too. The lawyer +got Dad off, but it cost us five bags of potatoes. Dad did n't grudge +them, for he reckoned we'd had value. Besides, he was even with the +Donovans for the two cows. + + + + +Chapter XI. + + + +A Splendid Year For Corn. + + + + +We had just finished supper. Supper! dry bread and sugarless tea. Dad +was tired out and was resting at one end of the sofa; Joe was stretched at +the other, without a pillow, and his legs tangled up among Dad's. Bill +and Tom squatted in the ashes, while Mother tried to put the fat-lamp into +burning order by poking it with a table-fork. + +Dad was silent; he seemed sad, and lay for some time gazing at the roof. +He might have been watching the blaze of the glorious moon or counting the +stars through the gaps in the shingles, but he was n't--there was no such +sentiment in Dad. He was thinking how his long years of toil and worry +had been rewarded again and again by disappointment--wondering if ever +there would be a turn in his luck, and how he was going to get enough out +of the land that season to pay interest and keep Mother and us in bread +and meat. + +At last he spoke, or rather muttered disjointedly, "Plen-ty--to eat--in +the safe." Then suddenly, in a strange and hollow voice, he shouted," +THEY' RE DEAD--ALL OF THEN! I STARVED THEM!" + +Mother DID get a fright. She screamed. Then Dad jumped up, rubbing his +eyes, and asked what was the matter. Nothing was the matter THEN. He had +dozed and talked in his sleep, that was all; he had n't starved anyone. +Joe did n't jump up when Mother screamed--not altogether; he raised +himself and reached for Dad's pillow, then lay down and snored serenely +till bed-time. + +Dad sat gloomily by the fire and meditated. Mother spoke pleadingly to +him and asked him not to fret. He ran his fingers uneasily through his +hair and spat in the ashes. "Don't fret? When there's not a bit to eat +in the place--when there's no way of getting anything, and when--merciful +God!--every year sees things worse than they were before." + +"It's only fancy," Mother went on. "And you've been brooding and brooding +till it seems far worse than it really is." + +"It's no fancy, Ellen." Then, after a pause--"Was the thirty acres of +wheat that did n't come up fancy? Is it only fancy that we've lost nearly +every beast in the paddock? Was the drought itself a fancy? No--no." +And he shook his head sadly and stared again into the fire. + + +Dad's inclination was to leave the selection, but Mother pleaded for +another trial of it--just one more. She had wonderful faith in the +selection, had Mother. She pleaded until the fire burned low, then Dad +rose and said: "Well, we'll try it once more with corn, and if nothing +comes of it why then we MUST give it up." Then he took the spade and raked +the fire together and covered it with ashes--we always covered the fire +over before going to bed so as to keep it alight. Some mornings, though, +it would be out, when one of us would have to go across to Anderson's and +borrow a fire-stick. Any of us but Joe--he was sent only once, and on +that occasion he stayed at Anderson's to breakfast, and on his way back +successfully burnt out two grass paddocks belonging to a J.P. + +So we began to prepare the soil for another crop of corn, and Dad started +over the same old ground with the same old plough. How I remember that +old, screwed and twisted plough! The land was very hard, and the horses +out of condition. We wanted a furrow-horse. Smith had one--a good one. +"Put him in the furrow," he said to Dad, "and you can't PULL him out of +it." Dad wished to have such a horse. Smith offered to exchange for our +roan saddle mare--one we found running in the lane, and advertised as +being in our paddock, and no one claimed it. Dad exchanged. + +He yoked the new horse to the plough, and it took to the furrow +splendidly--but that was all; it did n't take to anything else. Dad +gripped the handles--"Git up!" he said, and tapped Smith's horse with the +rein. Smith's horse pranced and marked time well, but did n't tighten the +chains. Dad touched him again. Then he stood on his fore-legs and threw +about a hundredweight of mud that clung to his heels at Dad's head. That +aggravated Dad, and he seized the plough-scraper, and, using both hands, +calmly belted Smith's horse over the ribs for two minutes, by the sun. +He tried him again. The horse threw himself down in the furrow. Dad took +the scraper again, welted him on the rump, dug it into his back-bone, +prodded him in the side, then threw it at him disgustedly. Then Dad sat +down awhile and breathed heavily. He rose again and pulled Smith's horse +by the head. He was pulling hard when Dave and Joe came up. Joe had a +bow-and-arrow in his hand, and said!, "He's a good furrer 'orse, eh, Dad? +Smith SAID you could n't pull him out of it." + +Shall I ever forget the look on Dad's face! He brandished the scraper and +sprang wildly at Joe and yelled, "Damn y', you WHELP! what do you want +here?" + +Joe left. The horse lay in the furrow. Blood was dropping from its +mouth. Dave pointed it out, and Dad opened the brute's jaws and examined +them. No teeth were there. He looked on the ground round about--none +there either. He looked at the horse's mouth again, then hit him +viciously with his clenched fist and said, "The old ----, he never DID +have any!" At length he unharnessed the brute as it lay--pulled the +winkers off, hurled them at its head, kicked it once--twice--three +times--and the furrow-horse jumped up, trotted away triumphantly, and +joyously rolled in the dam where all our water came from, drinking-water +included. + +Dad went straightaway to Smith's place, and told Smith he was a dirty, +mean, despicable swindler--or something like that. Smith smiled. Dad put +one leg through the slip-rails and promised Smith, if he'd only come along, +to split palings out of him. But Smith did n't. The instinct of +self-preservation must have been deep in that man Smith. Then Dad went +home and said he would shoot the ---- horse there and then, and went +looking for the gun. The horse died in the paddock of old age, but Dad +never ploughed with him again. + +Dad followed the plough early and late. One day he was giving the horses +a spell after some hours' work, when Joe came to say that a policeman was +at the house wanting to see him. Dad thought of the roan mare, and Smith, +and turned very pale. Joe said: "There's "Q.P." on his saddle-cloth; +what's that for, Dad?" But he did n't answer--he was thinking hard. +"And," Joe went on, "there's somethin' sticking out of his pocket--Dave +thinks it'll be 'ancuffs." Dad shuddered. On the way to the house Joe +wished to speak about the policeman, but Dad seemed to have lock-jaw. +When he found the officer of the law only wanted to know the number of +stock he owned, he talked freely--he was delighted. He said, "Yes, sir," +and "No, sir," and "Jusso, sir," to everything the policeman said. + +Dad wished to learn some law. He said: "Now, tell me this: supposing a +horse gets into my paddock--or into your paddock--and I advertise that +horse and nobody claims him, can't I put my brand on him?" The policeman +jerked back his head and stared at the shingles long enough to recall all +the robberies he had committed, and said: "Ye can--that's so--ye can." + +"I knew it," answered Dad; "but a lawyer in town told Maloney, over there, +y' could n't." + +"COULD N'T?" And the policeman laughed till he nearly had the house down, +only stopping to ask, while the tears ran over his well-fed cheeks, +"Did he charge him forrit?" and laughed again. He went away laughing, +and for all I know the wooden-head may be laughing yet. + +Everything was favourable to a good harvest. The rain fell just when it +was wanted, and one could almost see the corn growing. How it encouraged +Dad, and what new life it seemed to give him! In the cool of the evenings +he would walk along the headlands and admire the forming cobs, and listen +to the rustling of the rows of drooping blades as they swayed and beat +against each other in the breeze. Then he would go home filled with fresh +hopes and talk of nothing but the good prospect of that crop. + +And how we worked! Joe was the only one who played. I remember him +finding something on a chain one day. He had never seen anything like it +before. Dad told him it was a steel-trap and explained the working of it. +Joe was entranced--an invaluable possession! A treasure, he felt, that +the Lord must specially have sent him to catch things with. He caught +many things with it--willie-wagtails, laughing-jackasses, fowls, and +mostly the dog. Joe was a born naturalist--a perfect McCooey in his way, +and a close observer of the habits and customs of animals and living +things. He observed that whenever Jacob Lipp came to our place he always, +when going home, ran along the fence and touched the top of every post +with his hand. The Lipps had newly arrived from Germany, and their +selection adjoined ours. Jacob was their "eldest", about fourteen, and a +fat, jabbering, jolly-faced youth he was. He often came to our place and +followed Joe about. Joe never cared much for the company of anyone +younger than himself, and therefore fiercely resented the indignity. +Jacob could speak only German--Joe understood only pure unadulterated +Australian. Still Jacob insisted on talking and telling Joe his private +affairs. + +This day, Mrs. Lipp accompanied Jacob. She came to have a "yarn" with +Mother. They did n't understand each other either; but it did n't matter +much to them--it never does matter much to women whether they understand +or not; anyway, they laughed most of the time and seemed to enjoy +themselves greatly. Outside Jacob and Joe mixed up in an argument. +Jacob shoved his face close to Joe's and gesticulated and talked German at +the rate of two hundred words a minute. Joe thought he understood him and +said: "You want to fight?" Jacob seemed to have a nightmare in German. + +"Orright, then," Joe said, and knocked him down. + +Jacob seemed to understand Australian better when he got up, for he ran +inside, and Joe put his ear to a crack, but did n't hear him tell Mother. + +Joe had an idea. He would set the steel-trap on a wire-post and catch +Jacob. He set it. Jacob started home. One, two, three posts he hit. +Then he hit the trap. It grabbed him faithfully by three fingers. + +Angels of Love! did ever a boy of fourteen yell like it before! He sprang +in the air--threw himself on the ground like a roped brumby--jumped up +again and ran all he knew, frantically wringing the hand the trap clung +to. What Jacob reckoned had hold of him Heaven only can tell. His mother +thought he must have gone mad and ran after him. Our Mother fairly tore +after her. Dad and Dave left a dray-load of corn and joined in the hunt. +Between them they got Jacob down and took him out of the trap. Dad +smashed the infernal machine, and then went to look for Joe. But Joe +was n't about. + +The corn shelled out 100 bags--the best crop we had ever had; but when Dad +came to sell it seemed as though every farmer in every farming district on +earth had had a heavy crop, for the market was glutted--there was too much +corn in Egypt--and he could get no price for it. At last he was offered +Ninepence ha'penny per bushel, delivered at the railway station. Ninepence +ha'penny per bushel, delivered at the railway station! Oh, my country! and +fivepence per bushel out of that to a carrier to take it there! +AUSTRALIA, MY MOTHER! + +Dad sold--because he could n't afford to await a better market; and when +the letter came containing a cheque in payment, he made a calculation, +then looked pitifully at Mother, and muttered--" SEVEN POUN'S TEN!" + + + + +Chapter XII. + + + +Kate's Wedding. + + +Our selection was a great place for dancing. We could all dance--from Dan +down--and there was n't a figure or a movement we did n't know. We +learned young. Mother was a firm believer in early tuition. She used to +say it was nice for young people to know how to dance, and be able to take +their part when they went out anywhere, and not be awkward and +stupid-looking when they went into society. It was awful, she thought, to +see young fellows and big lumps of girls like the Bradys stalk into a +ballroom and sit the whole night long in a corner, without attempting to +get up. She did n't know how mothers COULD bring children up so +ignorantly, and did n't wonder at some of them not being able to find +husbands for their daughters. + +But we had a lot to feel thankful for. Besides a sympathetic mother, +every other facility was afforded us to become accomplished. Abundance of +freedom; enthusiastic sisters; and no matter how things were going--whether +the corn would n't come up, or the wheat had failed, or the pumpkins had +given out, or the water-hole run dry--we always had a concertina in the +house. It never failed to attract company. Paddy Maloney and the +well-sinkers, after belting and blasting all day long, used to drop in at +night, and throw the table outside, and take the girls up, and prance +about the floor with them till all hours. + +Nearly every week Mother gave a ball. It might have been every night only +for Dad. He said the jumping about destroyed the ground-floor--wore it +away and made the room like a well. And whenever it rained hard and the +water rushed in he had to bail it out. Dad always looked on the dark side +of things. He had no ear for music either. His want of appreciation of +melody often made the home miserable when it might have been the merriest +on earth. Sometimes it happened that he had to throw down the plough-reins +for half-an-hour or so to run round the wheat-paddock after a horse or an +old cow; then, if he found Dave, or Sal, or any of us, sitting inside +playing the concertina when he came to get a drink, he would nearly go mad. + +"Can't y' find anything better t' do than everlastingly playing at that +damn thing?" he would shout. And if we did n't put the instrument down +immediately he would tear it from our hands and pitch it outside. If we +DID lay it down quietly he would snatch it up and heave it out just as +hard. The next evening he would devote all his time to patching the +fragments together with sealing-wax. + +Still, despite Dad's antagonism, we all turned out good players. It cost +us nothing either. We learnt from each other. Kate was the first that +learnt. SHE taught Sal. Sal taught Dave, and so on. Sandy Taylor was +Kate's tutor. He passed our place every evening going to his selection, +where he used to sleep at night (fulfilling conditions), and always +stopped at the fence to yarn with Kate about dancing. Sandy was a fine +dancer himself, very light on his feet and easy to waltz with--so the +girls made out. When the dancing subject was exhausted Sandy would drag +some hair out of his horse's mane and say, "How's the concertina?" "It's +in there," Kate would answer. Then turning round she would call out, +"J--OE, bring the concer'." + +In an instant Joe would strut along with it. And Sandy, for the fiftieth +time, would examine it and laugh at the kangaroo-skin straps that Dave had +tacked to it, and the scraps of brown paper that were plastered over the +ribs of it to keep the wind in; and, cocking his left leg over the pommel +of his saddle, he would sound a full blast on it as a preliminary. Then +he would strike up "The Rocky Road to Dublin", or "The Wind Among the +Barley,", or some other beautiful air, and grind away untiringly until it +got dark--until mother came and asked him if he would n't come in and have +supper. Of course, he always would. After supper he would play some more. +Then there would be a dance. + +A ball was to be held at Anderson's one Friday night, and only Kate and +Dave were asked from our place. Dave was very pleased to be invited; it +was the first time he had been asked anywhere, and he began to practise +vigorously. The evening before the ball Dad sent him to put the draught +horses in the top paddock. He went off merrily with them. The sun was +just going down when he let them go, and save the noise of the birds +settling to rest the paddock was quiet. Dave was filled with emotion and +enthusiastic thoughts about the ball. + +He threw the winkers down and looked around. For a moment or two he stood +erect, then he bowed gracefully to the saplings on his right, then to the +stumps and trees on his left, and humming a tune, ambled across a small +patch of ground that was bare and black, and pranced back again. He +opened his arms and, clasping some beautiful imaginary form in them, swung +round and round like a windmill. Then he paused for breath, embraced his +partner again, and "galloped" up and down. And young Johnson, who had +been watching him in wonder from behind a fence, bolted for our place. + +"Mrs. Rudd! Mrs. Rudd!" he shouted from the verandah. Mother went out. + +"Wot's--wot's up with Dave?" + +Mother turned pale. + +"There's SOMETHING--!" + +"My God!" Mother exclaimed--" WHATEVER has happened?" + +Young Johnson hesitated. He was in doubt. + +"Oh! What IS it?" Mother moaned. + +"Well" (he drew close to her) "he's--he's MAD!" + +"OH-H!" + +"He IS. I seen 'im just now up in your paddick, an' he's clean off he's +pannikin." + +Just then Dave came down the track whistling. Young Johnson saw him +and fled. + +For some time Mother regarded Dave with grave suspicion, then she +questioned him closely. + +"Yairs," he said, grinning hard, "I was goin' through th' FUST SET." + +It was when Kate was married to Sandy Taylor that we realised what a +blessing it is to be able to dance. How we looked forward to that +wedding! We were always talking about it, and were very pleased it would +be held in our own house, because all of us could go then. None of us +could work for thinking of it--even Dad seemed to forget his troubles +about the corn and Mick Brennan's threat to summon him for half the fence. +Mother said we would want plenty of water for the people to drink, so +Sandy yoked his horse to the slide, and he, Dad, and Joe started for the +springs. + +The slide was the fork of a tree, alias a wheel-less water-trolly. The +horse was hitched to the butt end, and a batten nailed across the prongs +kept the cask from slipping off going uphill. Sandy led the way and +carried the bucket; Dad went ahead to clear the track of stones; and Joe +straddled the cask to keep her steady. + +It always took three to work the slide. + +The water they brought was a little thick--old Anderson had been down and +stirred it up pulling a bullock out; but Dad put plenty ashes in the cask +to clear it. + +Each of us had his own work to do. Sandy knocked the partition down and +decorated the place with boughs; Mother and the girls cooked and covered +the walls with newspapers, and Dad gathered cow-dung and did the floor. + +Two days before the wedding. All of us were still working hard. Dad was +up to his armpits in a bucket of mixture, with a stack of cow-dung on one +side, and a heap of sand and the shovel on the other. Dave and Joe were +burning a cow that had died just in front of the house, and Sandy had gone +to town for his tweed trousers. + +A man in a long, black coat, white collar, and new leggings rode up, spoke +to Dad, and got off. Dad straightened up and looked awkward, with his +arms hanging wide and the mixture dripping from them. Mother came out. +The cove shook hands with her, but he did n't with Dad. They went +inside--not Dad, who washed himself first. + +Dave sent Joe to ask Dad who the cove was. Dad spoke in a whisper and +said he was Mr. Macpherson, the clergyman who was to marry Kate and Sandy. +Dave whistled and piled more wood on the dead cow. Mother came out and +called Dave and Joe. Dave would n't go, but sent Joe. + +Dave threw another log on the cow, then thought he would see what was +going on inside. + +He stood at the window and looked in. He could n't believe his eyes at +first, and put his head right in. There were Dad, Joe, and the lot of +them down on their marrow-bones saying something after the parson. Dave +was glad that he did n't go in. + +How the parson prayed! Just when he said "Lead us not into temptation" +the big kangaroo-dog slipped in and grabbed all the fresh meat on the +table; but Dave managed to kick him in the ribs at the door. Dad groaned +and seemed very restless. + +When the parson had gone Dad said that what he had read about "reaping the +same as you sow" was all rot, and spoke about the time when we sowed two +bushels of barley in the lower paddock and got a big stack of rye from it. + +The wedding was on a Wednesday, and at three o'clock in the afternoon. +Most of the people came before dinner; the Hamiltons arrived just after +breakfast. Talk of drays!--the little paddock could n't hold them. + +Jim Mullins was the only one who came in to dinner; the others mostly sat +on their heels in a row and waited in the shade of the wire-fence. The +parson was the last to come, and as he passed in he knocked his head +against the kangaroo-leg hanging under the verandah. Dad saw it swinging, +and said angrily to Joe: "Did n't I tell you to take that down this +morning?" + +Joe unhooked it and said: "But if I hang it anywhere else the dog'll +get it." + +Dad tried to laugh at Joe, and said, loudly, "And what else is it for?" +Then he bustled Joe off before he could answer him again. + +Joe did n't understand. + +Then Dad said (putting the leg in a bag): "Do you want everyone to know +we eat it, ---- you?" + +Joe understood. + +The ceremony commenced. Those who could squeeze inside did so--the others +looked in at the window and through the cracks in the chimney. + +Mrs. M'Doolan led Kate out of the back-room; then Sandy rose from the +fire-place and stood beside her. Everyone thought Kate looked very +nice----and orange blossoms! You'd think she was an orange-tree with a new +bed-curtain thrown over it. Sandy looked well, too, in his snake-belt +and new tweeds; but he seemed uncomfortable when the pin that Dave put in +the back of his collar came out. + +The parson did n't take long; and how they scrambled and tumbled over each +other at the finish! Charley Mace said that he got the first kiss; Big +George said HE did; and Mrs. M'Doolan was certain she would have got it +only for the baby. + +Fun! there WAS fun! The room was cleared and they promenaded for a +dance--Sandy and Kate in the lead. They continued promenading until one +of the well-sinkers called for the concertina--ours had been repaired till +you could get only three notes out of it; but Jim Burke jumped on his +horse and went home for his accordion. + +Dance! they did dance!--until sun-rise. But unless you were dancing you +could n't stay inside, because the floor broke up, and talk about +dust!--before morning the room was like a drafting-yard. + +It was a great wedding; and though years have since passed, all the +neighbours say still it was the best they were ever at. + + + + +Chapter XIII. + + + +The Summer Old Bob Died. + + +It was a real scorcher. A soft, sweltering summer's day. The air +quivered; the heat drove the fowls under the dray and sent the old dog to +sleep upon the floor inside the house. The iron on the skillion cracked +and sweated--so did Dad and Dave down the paddock, grubbing--grubbing, in +130 degrees of sunshine. They were clearing a piece of new land--a +heavily-timbered box-tree flat. They had been at it a fortnight, and if +any music was in the ring of the axe or the rattle of the pick when +commencing, there was none now. + +Dad wished to be cheerful and complacent. He said (putting the pick down +and dragging his flannel off to wring it): "It's a good thing to sweat +well." Dave did n't say anything. I don't know what he thought, but he +looked up at Dad--just looked up at him--while the perspiration filled his +eyes and ran down over his nose like rain off a shingle; then he hitched +up his pants and "wired in" again. + +Dave was a philosopher. He worked away until the axe flew off the handle +with a ring and a bound, and might have been lost in the long grass for +ever only Dad stopped it with his shin. I fancy he did n't mean to stop +it when I think how he jumped--it was the only piece of excitement there +had been the whole of that relentlessly solemn fortnight. Dad got +vexed--he was in a hurry with the grubbing--and said he never could get +anything done without something going wrong. Dave was n't sorry the axe +came off--he knew it meant half-an-hour in the shade fixing it on again. +"Anyway," Dad went on, "we'll go to dinner now." + +On the way to the house he several times looked at the sky--that cloudless, +burning sky--and said--to no one in particular, "I wish to God it would +rain!" It sounded like an aggravated prayer. Dave did n't speak, and I +don't think Dad expected he would. + +Joe was the last to sit down to dinner, and he came in steaming hot. He +had chased out of sight a cow that had poked into the cultivation. Joe +mostly went about with green bushes in his hat, to keep his head cool, and +a few gum-leaves were now sticking in his moist and matted hair. + +"I put her out, Dad!" he said, casting an eager glare at everything on the +table. "She tried to jump and got stuck on the fence, and broke it all +down. On'y I could n't get anything, I'd er broke 'er head--there was n't +a thing, on'y dead cornstalks and cow-dung about." Then he lunged his fork +desperately at a blowfly that persistently hovered about his plate, and +commenced. + +Joe had a healthy appetite. He had charged his mouth with a load of cold +meat, when his jaws ceased work, and, opening his mouth as though he were +sleepy, he leaned forward and calmly returned it all to the plate. Dad +got suspicious and asked Joe what was up; but Joe only wiped his mouth, +looked sideways at his plate, and pushed it away. + +All of us stopped eating then, and stared at each other. Mother said, +"Well, I--I wrapped a cloth round it so nothing could get in, and put it +in the safe--I don't know where on earth to put the meat, I'm sure; if I +put it in a bag and hang it up that thief of a dog gets it." + +"Yes," Dad observed, "I believe he'd stick his nose into hell itself, +Ellen, if he thought there was a bone there--and there ought to be lots by +this time." Then he turned over the remains of that cold meat, and, +considering we had all witnessed the last kick of the slaughtered beast, +it was surprising what animation this part of him yet retained. In vain +did Dad explore for a really dead piece--there was life in all of it. + +Joe was n't satisfied. He said he knew where there was a lot of eggs, and +disappeared down the yard. Eggs were not plentiful on our selection, +because we too often had to eat the hens when there was no meat--three or +four were as many as we ever saw at one time. So on this day, when Joe +appeared with a hatful, there was excitement. He felt himself a hero. +We thought him a little saviour. + +"My!" said Mother, "where did you get all those?" + +"Get 'em! I've had these planted for three munce--they're a nest I found +long ago; I thought I would n't say anythink till we really wanted 'em." + +Just then one of the eggs fell out of the hat and went off "pop" on +the floor. + +Dave nearly upset the table, he rose so suddenly; and covering his nose +with one hand he made for the door; then he scowled back over his shoulder +at Joe. He utterly scorned his brother Joe. All of us deserted the table +except Dad--he stuck to his place manfully; it took a lot to shift HIM. + +Joe must have had a fine nerve. "That's on'y one bad 'n'," he said, +taking the rest to the fireplace where the kettle stood. Then Dad, who +had remained calm and majestic, broke out. "Damn y', boy!" he yelled, +"take th' awful things outside--YOU tinker!" Joe took them out and tried +them all, but I forget if he found a good one. + +Dad peered into the almost-empty water-cask and again muttered a short +prayer for rain. He decided to do no more grubbing that day, but to run +wire around the new land instead. The posts had been in the ground some +time, and were bored. Dave and Sarah bored them. Sarah was as good as +any man--so Dad reckoned. She could turn her hand to anything, from +sewing a shirt to sinking a post-hole. She could give Dave inches in arm +measurements, and talk about a leg! She HAD a leg--a beauty! It was as +thick at the ankle as Dad's was at the thigh, nearly. + +Anyone who would know what real amusement is should try wiring posts. +What was to have been the top wire (the No. 8 stuff) Dad commenced to put +in the bottom holes, and we ran it through some twelve or fifteen posts +before he saw the mistake--then we dragged it out slowly and savagely; Dad +swearing adequately all the time. + +At last everything went splendidly. We dragged the wire through panel +after panel, and at intervals Dad would examine the blistering sky for +signs of rain. Once when he looked up a red bullock was reaching for his +waistcoat, which hung on a branch of a low tree. Dad sang out. The +bullock poked out his tongue and reached higher. Then Dad told Joe to +run. Joe ran--so did the bullock, but faster, and with the waistcoat that +once was a part of Mother's shawl half-way down his throat. Had the +shreds and ribbons that dangled to it been a little longer, he might have +trodden on them and pulled it back, but he did n't. Joe deemed it his +duty to follow that red bullock till it dropped the waistcoat, so he +hammered along full split behind. Dad and Dave stood watching until +pursued and pursuer vanished down the gully; then Dad said something about +Joe being a fool, and they pulled at the wire again. They were nearing a +corner post, and Dad was hauling the wire through the last panel, when +there came the devil's own noise of galloping hoofs. Fifty or more cattle +came careering along straight for the fence, bellowing and kicking up +their heels in the air, as cattle do sometimes after a shower of rain. +Joe was behind them--considerably--still at full speed and yelping like a +dog. Joe loved excitement. + +For weeks those cattle had been accustomed to go in and out between the +posts; and they did n't seem to have any thoughts of wire as they bounded +along. Dave stood with gaping mouth. Dad groaned, and the wire's-end he +was holding in his hand flew up with a whiz and took a scrap of his ear +away. The cattle got mixed up in the wires. Some toppled over; some were +caught by the legs; some by the horns. They dragged the wire twenty and +thirty yards away, twisted it round logs, and left a lot of the posts +pointing to sunset. + +Oh, Dad's language then! He swung his arms about and foamed at the mouth. +Dave edged away from him. + +Joe came up waving triumphantly a chewed piece of the waistcoat. "D-d-did +it g-give them a buster, Dad?" he said, the sweat running over his face as +though a spring had broken out on top of his head. Dad jumped a log and +tried to unbuckle his strap and reach for Joe at the same time, but +Joe fled. + +That threw a painful pall over everything. Dad declared he was sick and +tired of the whole thing, and would n't do another hand's-turn. Dave +meditated and walked along the fence, plucking off scraps of skin and hair +that here and there clung to the bent and battered wire. + +We had just finished supper when old Bob Wren, a bachelor who farmed about +two miles from us, arrived. He used to come over every mail-night and +bring his newspaper with him. Bob could n't read a word, so he always got +Dad to spell over the paper to him. WE did n't take a newspaper. + +Bob said there were clouds gathering behind Flat Top when he came in, and +Dad went out and looked, and for the fiftieth time that day prayed in his +own way for rain. Then he took the paper, and we gathered at the table to +listen. "Hello," he commenced, "this is M'Doolan's paper you've got, Bob." + +Bob rather thought it was n't. + +"Yes, yes, man, it IS," Dad put in; "see, it's addressed to him." + +Bob leaned over and LOOKED at the address, and said: "No, no, that's +mine; it always comes like that." Dad laughed. We all laughed. He +opened it, anyway. He had n't read for five minutes when the light +flickered nearly out. Sarah reckoned the oil was about done, and poured +water in the lamp to raise the kerosene to the wick, but that did n't last +long, and, as there was no fat in the house, Dad squatted on the floor and +read by the firelight. + +He plodded through the paper tediously from end to end, reading the +murders and robberies a second time. The clouds that old Bob said were +gathering when he came in were now developing to a storm, for the wind +began to rise, and the giant iron-bark tree that grew close behind the +house swayed and creaked weirdly, and threw out those strange sobs and +moans that on wild nights bring terror to the hearts of bush children. A +glimmer of lightning appeared through the cracks in the slabs. Old Bob +said he would go before it came on, and started into the inky darkness. + +"It's coming!" Dad said, as he shut the door and put the peg in after +seeing old Bob out. And it came--in no time. A fierce wind struck the +house. Then a vivid flash of lightning lit up every crack and hole, and a +clap of thunder followed that nearly shook the place down. + +Dad ran to the back door and put his shoulder against it; Dave stood to +the front one; and Sarah sat on the sofa with her arms around Mother, +telling her not to be afraid. The wind blew furiously--its one aim seemed +the shifting of the house. Gust after gust struck the walls and left them +quivering. The children screamed. Dad called and shouted, but no one +could catch a word he said. Then there was one tremendous crack--we +understood it--the iron-bark tree had gone over. At last, the shingled +roof commenced to give. Several times the ends rose (and our hair too) +and fell back into place again with a clap. Then it went clean away in +one piece, with a rip like splitting a ribbon, and there we stood, +affrighted and shelterless, inside the walls. Then the wind went down and +it rained--rained on us all night. + +Next morning Joe had been to the new fence for the axe for Dad, and was +off again as fast as he could run, when he remembered something and called +out, "Dad, old B-B-Bob's just over there, lyin' down in the gully." + +Dad started up. "It's 'im all right--I w-w-would n'ter noticed, only +Prince s-s-smelt him." + +"Quick and show me where!" Dad said. + +Joe showed him. + +"My God!" and Dad stood and stared. Old Bob it was--dead. Dead as Moses. + +"Poor old Bob!" Dad said. "Poor-old-fellow!" Joe asked what could have +killed him? "Poor-old-Bob!" + +Dave brought the dray, and we took him to the house--or what remained of it. + +Dad could n't make out the cause of death--perhaps it was lightning. He +held a POST-MORTEM, and, after thinking hard for a long while, told Mother +he was certain, anyway, that old Bob would never get up again. It was a +change to have a dead man about the place, and we were very pleased to be +first to tell anyone who did n't know the news about old Bob. + +We planted him on his own selection beneath a gum-tree, where for years +and years a family of jackasses nightly roosted, Dad remarking: "As there +MIGHT be a chance of his hearin', it'll be company for the poor old cove." + + + + +Chapter XIV. + + + +When Dan Came Home. + + +One night after the threshing. Dad lying on the sofa, thinking; the rest +of us sitting at the table. Dad spoke to Joe. + +"How much," he said, "is seven hundred bushels of wheat at six shillings?" + +Joe, who was looked upon as the brainy one of our family, took down his +slate with a hint of scholarly ostentation. + +"What did y' say, Dad--seven 'undred BAGS?" + +"Bushels! BUSHELS!" + +"Seven 'un-dered bush-els-of wheat--WHEAT was it, Dad?" + +"Yes, WHEAT!" + +"Wheat at...At WHAT, Dad?" + +"Six shillings a bushel." + +"Six shil-lings-a.... A, Dad? We've not done any at A; she's on'y showed +us PER!" + +"PER bushel, then!" + +"Per bush-el. That's seven 'undered bushels of wheat at six shillin's per +bushel. An' y' wants ter know, Dad--?" + +"How much it'll be, of course." + +"In money, Dad, or--er----?" + +"Dammit, yes; MONEY!" Dad raised his voice. + +For a while, Joe thought hard, then set to work figuring and rubbing out, +figuring and rubbing out. The rest of us eyed him, envious of his learning. + +Joe finished the sum. + +"Well?" from Dad. + +Joe cleared his throat. We listened. + +"Nine thousan' poun'." + +Dave laughed loud. Dad said, "Pshaw!" and turned his face to the wall. +Joe looked at the slate again. + +"Oh! I see," he said, "I did n't divide by twelve t' bring t' pounds," +and laughed himself. + +More figuring and rubbing out. + +Finally Joe, in loud, decisive tones, announced, "FOUR thousand, NO +'undered an' twenty poun', fourteen shillin's an'--" + +"Bah! YOU blockhead!" Dad blurted out, and jumped off the sofa and went +to bed. + +We all turned in. + +We were not in bed long when the dog barked and a horse entered the yard. +There was a clink of girth-buckles; a saddle thrown down; then a thump, +as though with a lump of blue-metal, set the dog yelping lustily. We lay +listening till a voice called out at the door--"All in bed?" Then we knew +it was Dan, and Dad and Dave sprang out in their shirts to let him in. +All of us jumped up to see Dan. This time he had been away a long while, +and when the slush-lamp was lit and fairly going, how we stared and +wondered at his altered looks! He had grown a long whisker, and must have +stood inches higher than Dad. + +Dad was delighted. He put a fire on, made tea, and he and Dan talked till +near daybreak--Dad of the harvest, and the Government dam that was +promised, and the splendid grass growing in the paddock; Dan of the great +dry plains, and the shearing-sheds out back, and the chaps he had met +there. And he related in a way that made Dad's eyes glisten and Joe's +mouth open, how, with a knocked-up wrist, he shore beside Proctor and big +Andy Purcell, at Welltown, and rung the shed by half a sheep. + +Dad ardently admired Dan. + +Dan was only going to stay a short while at home, he said, then was off +West again. Dad tried to persuade him to change his mind; he would have +him remain and help to work the selection. But Dan only shook his head +and laughed. + +Dan accompanied Dad to the plough every morning, and walked cheerfully up +and down the furrows all day, talking to him. Sometimes he took a turn at +the plough, and Dad did the talking. Dad just loved Dan's company. + +A few days went by. Dan still accompanied Dad to the plough; but did n't +walk up and down with him. He selected a shade close by, and talked to +Dad from there as he passed on his rounds. Sometimes Dan used to forget +to talk at all--he would be asleep--and Dad would wonder if he was unwell. +Once he advised him to go up to the house and have a good camp. Dan went. +He stretched himself on the sofa, and smoked and spat on the floor and +played the concertina--an old one he won in a raffle. + +Dan did n't go near the plough any more. He stayed inside every day, and +drank the yeast, and provided music for the women. Sometimes he would +leave the sofa, and go to the back-door and look out, and watch Dad +tearing up and down the paddock after the plough; then he'd yawn, and +wonder aloud what the diggins it was the old man saw in a game like that +on a hot day; and return to the sofa, tired. But every evening when Dad +knocked off and brought the horses to the barn Dan went out and watched +him unharnessing them. + +A month passed. Dad was n't so fond of Dan now, and Dan never talked of +going away. One day Anderson's cows wandered into our yard and surrounded +the hay-stack. Dad saw them from the paddock and cooeed, and shouted for +those at the house to drive them away. They did n't hear him. Dad left +the plough and ran up and pelted Anderson's cows with stones and +glass-bottles, and pursued them with a pitch-fork till, in a mad rush to +get out, half the brutes fell over the fence and made havoc with the wire. +Dad spent an hour mending it; then went to the verandah and savagely asked +Mother if she had lost her ears. Mother said she had n't. "Then why the +devil could n't y' hear me singin' out?" Mother thought it must have been +because Dan was playing the concertina. "Oh, DAMN his concertina!" Dad +squealed, and kicked Joe's little kitten, that was rubbing itself fondly +against his leg, clean through the house. + +Dan found the selection pretty slow--so he told Mother--and thought he +would knock about a bit. He went to the store and bought a supply of +ammunition, which he booked to Dad, and started shooting. He stood at the +door and put twenty bullets into the barn; then he shot two bears near the +stock-yard with twenty more bullets, and dragged both bears down to the +house and left them at the back-door. They stayed at the back-door until +they went very bad; then Dad hooked himself to them and dragged them down +the gully. + +Somehow, Dad began to hate Dan! He scarcely ever spoke to him now, and at +meal-times never spoke to any of us. Dad was a hard man to understand. +We could n't understand him. "And with DAN at home, too!" Sal used to +whine. Sal verily idolised Dan. Hero-worship was strong in Sal. + +One night Dad came in for supper rather later than usual. He'd had a hard +day, and was done up. To make matters worse, when he was taking the +collar off Captain the brute tramped heavily on his toe, and took the nail +off. Supper was n't ready. The dining-room was engaged. Dan was showing +Sal how the Prince of Wales schottische was danced in the huts Out Back. +For music, Sal was humming, and the two were flying about the room. Dad +stood at the door and looked on, with blood in his eye. + +"Look here!" he thundered suddenly, interrupting Dan--"I've had enough of +you!" The couple stopped, astonished, and Sal cried, "DAD!" But Dad was +hot. "Out of this!" (placing his hand on Dan, and shoving him). "You've +loafed long enough on me! Off y' go t' th' devil!" + +Dan went over to Anderson's and Anderson took him in and kept him a week. +Then Dan took Anderson down at a new game of cards, and went away +West again. + + + + +Chapter XV. + + + +Our Circus. + + +Dave had been to town and came home full of circus. He sat on the ground +beside the tubs while Mother and Sal were washing, and raved about the +riding and the tumbling he had seen. He talked enthusiastically to Joe +about it every day for three weeks. Dave rose very high in Joe's +estimation. + +Raining. All of us inside. Sal on the sofa playing the concertina; Dad +squatting on the edge of a flat stone at the corner of the fireplace; Dave +on another opposite; both gazing into the fire, which was almost out, +and listening intently to the music; the dog, dripping wet, coiled at +their feet, shivering; Mother sitting dreamily at the table, her palm +pressed against her cheek, also enjoying the music. + +Sal played on until the concertina broke. Then there was a silence. + +For a while Dave played with a piece of charcoal. At last he spoke. + +"Well," he said, looking at Dad, "what about this circus?" + +Dad chuckled. + +"But what d' y' THINK?" + +"Well" (Dad paused), "yes" (chuckled again)--"very well." + +"A CIRCUS!" Sal put in--"a PRETTY circus YOUS'D have!" + +Dave fired up. + +"YOU go and ride the red heifer, strad-legs, same as y' did yesterday," +he snarled, "an' let all the country see y'." + +Sal blushed. + +Then to Dad: + +"I'm certain, with Paddy Maloney in it, we could do it right enough, and +make it pay, too." + +"Very well, then," said Dad, "very well. There's th' tarpaulin there, +and plenty bales and old bags whenever you're ready." + +Dave was delighted, and he and Dad and Joe ran out to see where the tent +could be pitched, and ran in again wetter than the dog. + +One day a circus-tent went up in our yard. It attracted a lot of notice. +Two of the Johnsons and old Anderson and others rode in on draught-horses +and inspected it. And Smith's spring-cart horse, that used to be driven +by every day, stopped in the middle of the lane and stared at it; and, +when Smith stood up and belted him with the double of the reins, he bolted +and upset the cart over a stump. It was n't a very white tent. It was +made of bags and green bushes, and Dad and Dave and Paddy Maloney were two +days putting it up. + +We all assisted in the preparations for the circus. Dad built seats out +of forked sticks and slabs, and Joe gathered jam-tins which Mother filled +with fat and moleskin wicks to light up with. + +Everyone in the district knew about our circus, and longed for the opening +night. It came. A large fire near the slip-rails, shining across the +lane and lighting up a corner of the wheat-paddock, showed the way in. + +Dad stood at the door to take the money. The Andersons--eleven of +them--arrived first. They did n't walk straight in. They hung about for +a while. Then Anderson sidled up to Dad and talked into his ear. "Oh! +that's all right," Dad said, and passed them all in without taking any +money. + +Next came the Maloneys, and, as Paddy belonged to the circus, they also +walked in without paying, and secured front seats. + +Then Jim Brown and Sam Holmes, and Walter Nutt, and Steve Burton, and +eight others strolled along. Dad owed all of them money for binding, +which they happened to remember. "In yous go," Dad said, and in the lot +went. The tent filled quickly, and the crowd awaited the opening act. + +Paddy Maloney came forward with his hair oiled and combed, and rang the +cow-bell. + +Dave, bare-footed and bare-headed, in snow-white moles and red shirt, +entered standing majestically upon old Ned's back. He got a great +reception. But Ned was tired and refused to canter. He jogged lazily +round the ring. Dave shouted at him and rocked about. He was very +unsteady. Paddy Maloney flogged Ned with the leg-rope. But Ned had been +flogged often before. He got slower and slower. Suddenly, he stood and +cocked his tail, and to prevent himself falling, Dave jumped off. Then +the audience yelled while Dave dragged Ned into the dressing-room and +punched him on the nose. + +Paddy Maloney made a speech. He said: "Well, the next item on the +programme'll knock y' bandy. Keep quiet, you fellows, now, an' y'll see +somethin'." + +They saw Joe. He stepped backwards into the ring, pulling at a string. +There was something on the string. "Come on!" Joe said, tugging. The +"something" would n't come. "Chuck 'im in!" Joe called out. Then the +pet kangaroo was heaved in through the doorway, and fell on its head and +raised the dust. A great many ugly dogs rushed for it savagely. The +kangaroo jumped up and bounded round the ring. The dogs pursued him +noisily. "GERROUT!" Joe shouted, and the crowd stood up and became very +enthusiastic. The dogs caught the kangaroo, and were dragging him to +earth when Dad rushed in and kicked them in twos to the top of the tent. +Then, while Johnson expostulated with Dad for laming his brindle slut, +the kangaroo dived through a hole in the tent and rushed into the house +and into the bedroom, and sprang on the bed among a lot of babies and +women's hats. + +When the commotion subsided Paddy Maloney rang the cow-bell again, and +Dave and "Podgy," the pet sheep, rode out on Nugget. Podgy sat with +hind-legs astride the horse and his head leaning back against Dave's +chest. Dave (standing up) bent over him with a pair of shears in his +hand. He was to shear Podgy as the horse cantered round. + +Paddy Maloney touched Nugget with the whip, and off he went--"rump-ti-dee, +dump-ti-dee." Dave rolled about a lot the first time round, but soon got +his equilibrium. He brandished the shears and plunged the points of them +into Podgy's belly-wool--also into Podgy's skin. "Bur-UR-R!" Podgy +blurted and struggled violently. Dave began to topple about. He dropped +the shears. The audience guffawed. Then Dave jumped; but Podgy's horns +got caught in his clothes and made trouble. Dave hung on one side of the +horse and the sheep dangled on the other. Dave sang out, so did Podgy. +And the horse stopped and snorted, then swung furiously round and round +until five or six pairs of hands seized his head and held him. + +Dave did n't repeat the act. He ran away holding his clothes together. + +It was a very successful circus. Everyone enjoyed it and wished to see it +again--everyone but the Maloneys. They said it was a swindle, and ran Dad +down because he did n't divide with Paddy the 3s. 6d. he took at the door. + + + + +Chapter XVI. + + + +When Joe Was In Charge. + + +Joe was a naturalist. He spent a lot of time--time that Dad considered +should have been employed cutting burr or digging potatoes--in ear-marking +bears and bandicoots, and catching goannas and letting them go without +their tails, or coupled in pairs with pieces of greenhide. The paddock +was full of goannas in harness and slit-eared bears. THEY belonged to Joe. + +Joe also took an interest in snakes, and used to poke amongst logs and +brush-fences in search of rare specimens. Whenever he secured a good one +he put it in a cage and left it there until it died or got out, or Dad +threw it, cage and all, right out of the parish. + +One day, while Mother and Sal were out with Dad, Joe came home with a +four-foot black snake in his hand. It was a beauty. So sleek and lithe +and lively! He carried it by the tail, its head swinging close to his +bare leg, and the thing yearning for a grab at him. But Joe understood +the ways of a reptile. + +There was no cage--Dad had burnt the last one--so Joe walked round the +room wondering where to put his prize. The cat came out of the bedroom +and mewed and followed him for the snake. He told her to go away. She +did n't go. She reached for the snake with her paw. It bit her. She +spat and sprang in the air and rushed outside with her back up. Joe +giggled and wondered how long the cat would live. + +The Rev. Macpherson, on his way to christen M'Kenzie's baby, called in for +a drink, and smilingly asked after Joe's health. + +"Hold this kuk-kuk-cove, then," Joe said, handing the parson the reptile, +which was wriggling and biting at space, "an' I'll gug-gug-get y' one." +But when Mr. Macpherson saw the thing was alive he jumped back and fell +over the dog which was lying behind him in the shade. Bluey grabbed him +by the leg, and the parson jumped up in haste and made for his +horse--followed by Bluey. Joe cried, "KUM 'ere!"--then turned inside. + +Mother and Sal entered. They had come to make Dad and themselves a cup of +tea. They quarrelled with Joe, and he went out and started playing with +the snake. He let it go, and went to catch it by the tail again, but the +snake caught HIM--by the finger. + +"He's bit me!" Joe cried, turning pale. Mother screeched, and Sal bolted +off for Dad, while the snake glided silently up the yard. + +Anderson, passing on his old bay mare, heard the noise, and came in. He +examined Joe's finger, bled the wound, and was bandaging the arm when +Dad rushed in. + +"Where is he?" he said. "Oh, you d--d whelp! You wretch of a boy! +MY God!" + +"'Twasn' MY fault." And Joe began to blubber. + +But Anderson protested. There was no time, he said, to be lost barneying; +and he told Dad to take his old mare Jean and go at once for Sweeney. +Sweeney was the publican at Kangaroo Creek, with a reputation for curing +snake-bite. Dad ran out, mounted Jean and turned her head for Sweeney's. +But, at the slip-rails, Jean stuck him up, and would n't go further. Dad +hit her between the ears with his fist, and got down and ran back. + +"The boy'll be dead, Anderson," he cried, rushing inside again. + +"Come on then," Anderson said, "we'll take off his finger." + +Joe was looking drowsy. But, when Anderson took hold of him and placed +the wounded finger on a block, and Dad faced him with the hammer and a +blunt, rusty old chisel, he livened up. + +"No, Dad, NO!" he squealed, straining and kicking like an old man kangaroo. +Anderson stuck to him, though, and with Sal's assistance held his finger +on the block till Dad carefully rested the chisel on it and brought the +hammer down. It did n't sever the finger--it only scraped the nail +off--but it did make Joe buck. He struggled desperately and got away. + +Anderson could n't run at all; Dad was little faster; Sal could run like a +greyhound in her bare feet, but, before she could pull her boots off, Joe +had disappeared in the corn. + +"Quick!" Dad shouted, and the trio followed the patient. They hunted +through the corn from end to end, but found no trace of him. Night came. +The search continued. They called, and called, but nothing answered save +the ghostly echoes, the rustling of leaves, the slow, sonorous notes of a +distant bear, or the neighing of a horse in the grass-paddock. + +At midnight they gave up, and went home, and sat inside and listened, +and looked distracted. + +While they sat, "Whisky," a blackfellow from Billson's station, dropped +in. He was taking a horse down to town for his boss, and asked Dad if he +could stay till morning. Dad said he could. He slept in Dave's bed; Dave +slept on the sofa. + +"If Joe ain't dead, and wuz t' come in before mornin'," Dave said, "there +won't be room for us all." + +And before morning Joe DID come in. He entered stealthily by the +back-door, and crawled quietly into bed. + +At daybreak Joe awoke, and nudged his bed-mate and said: + +"Dave, the cocks has crowed!" No answer. He nudged him again. + +"Dave, the hens is all off the roost!" Still no reply. + +Daylight streamed in through the cracks. Joe sat up--he was at the +back--and stared about. He glanced at the face of his bed-mate and +chuckled and said: + +"Who's been blackenin' y', Dave?" + +He sat grinning awhile, then stood up, and started pulling on his trousers, +which he drew from under his pillow. He had put one leg into them when +his eyes rested on a pair of black feet uncovered at the foot of the bed. +He stared at them and the black face again--then plunged for the door and +fell. Whisky was awake and grinned over the side of the bed at him. + +"Wot makit you so fritent like that?" he said, grinning more. + +Joe ran into Mother's room and dived in behind her and Dad. Dad swore, +and kicked Joe and jammed him against the slabs with his heels, saying: + +"My GAWD! You DEVIL of a feller, how (KICK) dare you (KICK) run (KICK) +run (KICK, KICK, KICK) away yesterday, eh?" (KICK). + +But he was very glad to see Joe all the same; we all felt that Shingle Hut +would not have been the same place at all without Joe. + +It was when Dad and Dave were away after kangaroo-scalps that Joe was most +appreciated. Mother and Sal felt it such a comfort to have a man in the +house--even if it was only Joe. + +Joe was proud of his male prerogatives. He looked after the selection, +minded the corn, kept Anderson's and Dwyer's and Brown's and old Mother +Murphy's cows out of it, and chased goannas away from the front door the +same as Dad used to do--for Joe felt that he was in Dad's place, and +postponed his customary familiarities with the goannas. + +It was while Joe was in charge that Casey came to our place. +A starved-looking, toothless little old man with a restless eye, talkative, +ragged and grey; he walked with a bend in his back (not a hump), and +carried his chin in the air. We never saw a man like him before. He +spoke rapidly, too, and watched us all as he talked. Not exactly a +"traveller;" he carried no swag or billycan, and wore a pair of boots much +too large. He seemed to have been "well brought up"--he took off his hat +at the door and bowed low to Mother and Sal, who were sitting inside, +sewing. They gave a start and stared. The dog, lying at Mother's feet, +rose and growled. Bluey was n't used to the ways of people well brought up. + +The world had dealt harshly with Casey, and his story went to Mother's +heart. "God buless y'," he said when she told him he could have some +dinner; "but I'll cut y' wood for it; oh, I'll cut y' wood!" And he went +to the wood-heap and started work. A big heap and a blunt axe; but it +did n't matter to Casey. He worked hard, and did n't stare about, and +did n't reduce the heap much, either; and when Sal called him to dinner he +could n't hear--he was too busy. Joe had to go and bring him away. + +Casey sat at the table and looked up at the holes in the roof, through +which the sun was shining. + +"Ought t' be a cool house," he remarked. + +Mother said it was. + +"Quite a bush house." + +"Oh, yes," Mother said--"we're right in the bush here." + +He began to eat and, as he ate, talked cheerfully of selections and crops +and old times and bad times and wire fences and dead cattle. Casey was a +versatile ancient. When he was finished he shifted to the sofa and asked +Mother how many children she had. Mother considered and said, "Twelve." +He thought a dozen enough for anyone, and, said that HIS mother, when he +left home, had twenty-one--all girls but him. That was forty years ago, +and he did n't know how many she had since. Mother and Sal smiled. They +began to like old Casey. + +Casey took up his hat and went outside, and did n't say "Good-day" or +"Thanks" or anything. He did n't go away, either. He looked about the +yard. A panel in the fence was broken. It had been broken for five +years. Casey seemed to know it. He started mending that panel. He was +mending it all the evening. + +Mother called to Joe to bring in some wood. Casey left the fence, hurried +to the wood-heap, carried in an armful, and asked Mother if she wanted +more. Then he returned to the fence. + +"J-OE," Mother screeched a little later, "look at those cows tryin' to eat +the corn." + +Casey left the fence again and drove the cows away, and mended the wire on +his way back. + +At sundown Casey was cutting more wood, and when we were at supper he +brought it in and put some on the fire, and went out again slowly. + +Mother and Sal talked about him. + +"Better give him his supper," Sal said, and Mother sent Joe to invite him +in. He did n't come in at once. Casey was n't a forward man. He stayed +to throw some pumpkin to the pigs. + +Casey slept in the barn that night. He slept in it the next night, too. +He did n't believe in shifting from place to place, so he stayed with us +altogether. He took a lively interest in the selection. The house, he +said, was in the wrong place, and he showed Mother where it ought to have +been built. He suggested shifting it, and setting a hedge and ornamental +trees in front and fruit trees at the back, and making a nice place of it. +Little things like that pleased Mother. "Anyway," she would sometimes say +to Sal, "he's a useful old man, and knows how to look after things about +the place." Casey did. Whenever any watermelons were ripe, he looked +after THEM and hid the skins in the ground. And if a goanna or a crow +came and frightened a hen from her nest Casey always got the egg, and when +he had gobbled it up he would chase that crow or goanna for its life and +shout lustily. + +Every day saw Casey more at home at our place. He was a very kind man, +and most obliging. If a traveller called for a drink of water, Casey +would give him a cup of milk and ask him to wait and have dinner. If +Maloney, or old Anderson, or anybody, wished to borrow a horse, or a dray, +or anything about the place, Casey would let them have it with pleasure, +and tell them not to be in a hurry about returning it. + +Joe got on well with Casey. Casey's views on hard work were the same as +Joe's. Hard work, Joe thought, was n't necessary on a selection. + +Casey knew a thing or two--so he said. One fine morning, when all the sky +was blue and the butcher-birds whistling strong, Dwyer's cows smashed down +a lot of the fence and dragged it into the corn. Casey, assisted by Joe, +put them all in the yard, and hammered them with sticks. Dwyer came along. + +"Those cattle belong to me," he said angrily. + +"They belongs t' ME," Casey answered, "until you pay damages." Then he put +his back to the slip-rails and looked up aggressively into Dwyer's face. +Dwyer was a giant beside Casey. Dwyer did n't say anything--he was n't a +man of words--but started throwing the rails down to let the cows out. +Casey flew at him. Dwyer quietly shoved him away with his long, brown +arm. Casey came again and fastened on to Dwyer. Joe mounted the stockyard. +Dwyer seized Casey with both hands; then there was a struggle--on Casey's +part. Dwyer lifted him up and carried him away and set him down on his +back, then hastened to the rails. But before he could throw them down +Casey was upon him again. Casey never knew when he was beaten. Dwyer was +getting annoyed. He took Casey by the back of the neck and squeezed him. +Casey humped his shoulders and gasped. Dwyer stared about. A plough-rein +hung on the yard. Dwyer reached for it. Casey yelled, "Murder!" Dwyer +fastened one end of the rope round Casey's body--under the arms--and +stared about again. And again "Murder!" from Casey. Joe jumped off the +yard to get further away. A tree, with a high horizontal limb, stood near. +Dad once used it as a butcher's gallows. Dwyer gathered the loose rein +into a coil and heaved it over the limb, and hauled Casey up. Then he +tied the end of the rope to the yard and drove out the cows. + +"When y' want 'im down," Dwyer said to Joe as he walked away, +"cut the rope." + +Casey groaned, and one of his boots dropped off. Then he began to spin +round--to wind up and unwind and wind up again. Joe came near and eyed +the twirling form with joy. + +Mother and Sal arrived, breathless and excited. They screeched at Joe. + +"Undo th' r-r-rope," Joe said, "an' he'll come w-w--WOP." + +Sal ran away and procured a sheet, and Mother and she held it under Casey, +and told Joe to unfasten the rope and lower him as steadily as he could. +Joe unfastened the rope, but somehow it pinched his fingers and he let go, +and Casey fell through the sheet. For three weeks Casey was an invalid at +our place. He would have been invalided there for the rest of his days +only old Dad came home and induced him to leave. Casey did n't want to +go; but Dad had a persuasive way with him that generally proved effectual. + +Singularly enough, Dad complained that kangaroos were getting scarce where +he was camped; while our paddocks were full of them. Joe started a mob +nearly every day, as he walked round overseeing things; and he pondered. +Suddenly he had an original inspiration--originality was Joe's strong +point. He turned the barn into a workshop, and buried himself there for +two days. For two whole days he was never "at home,", except when he +stepped out to throw the hammer at the dog for yelping for a drink. The +greedy brute! it was n't a week since he'd had a billyful--Joe told him. +On the morning of the third day the barn-door swung open, and forth came a +kangaroo, with the sharpened carving knife in its paws. It hopped across +the yard and sat up, bold and erect, near the dog-kennel. Bluey nearly +broke his neck trying to get at it. The kangaroo said: "Lay down, you +useless hound!" and started across the cultivation!, heading for the +grass-paddock in long, erratic jumps. Half-way across the cultivation it +spotted a mob of other kangaroos, and took a firmer grip of the carver. + +Bluey howled and plunged until Mother came out to see what was the matter. +She was in time to see a solitary kangaroo hop in a drunken manner towards +the fence, so she let the dog go and cried, "Sool him, Bluey! Sool him!" +Bluey sooled him, and Mother followed with the axe to get the scalp. As +the dog came racing up, the kangaroo turned and hissed, "G' home, y' +mongrel!" Bluey took no notice, and only when he had nailed the kangaroo +dextrously by the thigh and got him down did it dawn upon the marsupial +that Bluey was n't in the secret. Joe tore off his head-gear, called the +dog affectionately by name, and yelled for help; but Bluey had not had +anything substantial to eat for over a week, and he worried away vigorously. + +Then the kangaroo slashed out with the carving-knife, and hacked a junk +off Bluey's nose. Bluey shook his head, relaxed his thigh-grip, and +grabbed the kangaroo by the ribs. How that kangaroo did squeal! Mother +arrived. She dropped the axe, threw up both hands, and shrieked. "Pull +him off! he's eating me!" gasped the kangaroo. Mother shrieked louder, +and wrung her hands; but it had no effect on Bluey. He was a good dog, +was Bluey! + +At last, Mother got him by the tail and dragged him off, but he took a +mouthful of kangaroo with him as he went. + +Then the kangaroo raised itself slowly on to its hands and knees. It was +very white and sick-looking, and Mother threw her arms round it and cried, +"Oh, Joe! My child! my child!" + +It was several days before Joe felt better. When he did, Bluey and he +went down the gully together, and, after a while, Joe came back--like +Butler--alone. + + + + +Chapter XVII. + + + +Dad's "Fortune." + + +Dad used to say that Shingle Hut was the finest selection on Darling Downs; +but WE never could see anything fine about it--except the weather in +drought time, or Dad's old saddle mare. SHE was very fine. The house was +built in a gully so that the bailiffs (I suppose) or the blacks--who were +mostly dead--could n't locate it. An old wire-fence, slanting all +directions, staggered past the front door. At the rear, its foot almost +in the back door, sloped a barren ridge, formerly a squatter's sheep-yard. +For the rest there were sky, wallaby-scrub, gum-trees, and some acres of +cultivation. But Dad must have seen something in it, or he would n't have +stood feasting his eyes on the wooded waste after he had knocked off work +of an evening. In all his wanderings--and Dad had been almost everywhere; +swimming flooded creeks and rivers, humping his swag from one end of +Australia to the other; at all games going except bank-managing and +bushranging--he had seen no place timbered like Shingle Hut. + +"Why," he used to say, "it's a fortune in itself. Hold on till the +country gets populated, and firewood is scarce, there'll be money in it +then--mark my words!" + +Poor Dad! I wonder how long he expected to live? + +At the back of Shingle Hut was a tract of Government land--mostly +mountains--marked on the map as the Great Dividing Range. Splendid +country, Dad considered it--BEAUTIFUL country--and part of a grand scheme +he had in his head. I defy you to find a man more full of schemes than +Dad was. + +The day had been hot. Inside, the mosquitoes were bad; and, after supper, +Dad and Dave were outside, lying on some bags. They had been grubbing +that day, and were tired. The night was nearly dark. Dad lay upon his +back, watching the stars; Dave upon his stomach, his head resting on his +arms. Both silent. One of the draught-horses cropped the couch-grass +round about them. Now and again a flying-fox circled noiselessly overhead, +and "MOPOKE!--MOPOKE!" came dismally from the ridge and from out the +lonely-looking gully. A star fell, lighting up a portion of the sky, but +Dad did not remark it. In a while he said: + +"How old are you, Dave?" Dave made a mental calculation before answering. + +"S'pose I must be eighteen now ...Why?" + +A silence. + +"I've been thinking of that land at the back--if we had that I believe we +could make money." + +"Yairs--if we HAD." + +Another silence. + +"Well, I mean to have it, and that before very long." + +Dave raised his head, and looked towards Dad. + +"There's four of you old enough to take up land, and where could you get +better country than that out there for cattle? Why" (turning on his side +and facing Dave) "with a thousand acres of that stocked with cattle and +this kept under cultivation we'd make money--we'd be RICH in a very +few years." + +Dave raised himself on his elbow. + +"Yairs--with CATTLE," he said. + +"Just so" (Dad sat up with enthusiasm), "but to get the LAND is the first +thing, and that's easy enough ONLY" (lowering his voice) "it'll have to be +done QUIETLY and without letting everyone 'round know we're going in for +it." ("Oh! yairs, o' course," from Dave.) "THEN" (and Dad lifted his +voice and leaned over) "run a couple of wires round it, put every cow +we've here on it straight away; get another one or two when the barley's +sold, and let them breed." + +"'Bout how many'd that be t' start 'n?" + +"Well, EIGHT good cows at the least--plenty, too. It's simply WONDERFUL +how cattle breed if they're let alone. Look at Murphy, for instance. +Started on that place with two young heifers--those two old red cows that +you see knocking about now. THEY'RE the mothers of all his cattle. +Anderson just the same...Why, God bless my soul! we would have a better +start than any one of them ever had--by a long way." + +Dave sat up. He began to share Dad's enthusiasm. + +"Once get it STOCKED, and all that is to be done then is simply to look +after the fence, ride about among the cattle every day, see they're right, +brand the calves, and every year muster the mob, draft out the fat +bullocks, whip them into town, and get our seven and eight pounds a head +for them." + +"That'd suit me down to the ground, ridin' about after cattle," Dave said. + +"Yes, get our seven and eight pounds, maybe nine or ten pounds a-piece. +And could ever we do that pottering about on the place?" Dad leaned over +further and pressed Dave's knee with his hand. + +"Mind you!" (in a very confidential tone) "I'm not at all satisfied the +way we're dragging along here. It's utter nonsense, and, to speak the +truth" (lowering his voice again) "I'VE BEEN SICK OF THE WHOLE DAMN THING +LONG AGO." + +A minute or two passed. + +"It would n't matter," Dad continued, "if there was no way of doing +better; but there IS. The thing only requires to be DONE, and why not DO +it?" He paused for an answer. + +"Well," Dave said, "let us commence it straight off--t'morror. It's the +life that'd suit ME." + +"Of course it WOULD...and there's money in it...no mistake about it!" + +A few minutes passed. Then they went inside, and Dad took Mother into his +confidence, and they sat up half the night discussing the scheme. + +Twelve months later. The storekeeper was at the house wanting to see Dad. +Dad was n't at home. He never was when the storekeeper came; he generally +contrived to be away, up the paddock somewhere or amongst the corn--if any +was growing. The storekeeper waited an hour or so, but Dad did n't turn +up. When he was gone, though, Dad walked in and asked Mother what he had +said. Mother was seated on the sofa, troubled-looking. + +"He must be paid by next week," she said, bursting into tears, "or the +place'll be sold over our heads." + +Dad stood with his back to the fire-place, his hand locked behind him, +watching the flies swarming on the table. + +Dave came in. He understood the situation at a glance. The scene was not +new to him. He sat down, leant forward, picked a straw off the flor and +twisted it round and round his finger, reflecting. + +Little Bill put his head on Mother's lap, and asked for a piece of +bread...He asked a second time. + +"There IS no bread, child," she said. + +"But me wants some, mumma." + +Dad went outside and Dave followed. They sat on their heels, their backs +to the barn, thoughtfully studying the earth. + +"It's the same thing"--Dad said, reproachfully--"from one year's end to +the other...alwuz a BILL!" + +"Thought last year we'd be over all this by now!" from Dave. + +"So we COULD...Can NOW...It only wants that land to be taken up; and, +as I've said often and often, these cows taken----" + +Dad caught sight of the storekeeper coming back, and ran into the barn. + +Six months later. Dinner about ready. "Take up a thousand acres," Dad +was saying; "take it up----" + +He was interrupted by a visitor. + +"Are you Mister Rudd?" Dad said he was. + +"Well, er--I've a FI. FA. against y'." + +Dad didn't understand. + +The Sheriff's officer drew a document from his inside breast-pocket and +proceeded to read: + +"To Mister James Williams, my bailiff. Greeting: By virtue of Her +Majesty's writ of FIERI FACIAS, to me directed, I command you that of the +goods and chattels, money, bank-note or notes or other property of Murtagh +Joseph Rudd, of Shingle Hut, in my bailiwick, you cause to be made the sum +of forty pounds ten shillings, with interest thereon," &c. + +Dad understood. + +Then the bailiff's man rounded up the cows and the horses, and Dad and the +lot of us leant against the fence and in sadness watched Polly and old +Poley and the rest for the last time pass out the slip-rails. + +"That puts an end to the land business!" Dave said gloomily. + +But Dad never spoke. + + + + +Chapter XVIII. + + + +We Embark in the Bear Industry. + + +When the bailiff came and took away the cows and horses, and completely +knocked the bottom out of Dad's land scheme, Dad did n't sit in the ashes +and sulk. He was n't that kind of person. He DID at times say he was +tired of it all, and often he wished it far enough, too! But, then, that +was all mere talk on Dad's part. He LOVED the selection. To every +inch--every stick of it--he was devoted. 'T was his creed. He felt +certain there was money in it--that out of it would come his independence. +Therefore, he did n't rollup and, with Mother by the hand and little Bill +on his back, stalk into town to hang round and abuse the bush. He walked +up and down the yard thinking and thinking. Dad was a man with a head. + +He consulted Mother and Dave, and together they thought more. + +"The thing is," Dad said, "to get another horse to finish the bit of +ploughing. We've got ONE; Anderson will lend the grey mare, I know." + +He walked round the room a few times. + +"When that's done, I think I see my way clear; but THAT'S the trouble." + +He looked at Dave. Dave seemed as though he had a solution. But Joe spoke. + +"Kuk-kuk-could n't y' b-reak in some kang'roos, Dad? There's pul-lenty in +th' pup-paddick." + +"Could n't you shut up and hold your tongue and clear out of this, you +brat?" Dad roared. And Joe hung his head and shut up. + +"Well, y' know"--Dave drawled--"there's that colt wot Maloney offered us +before to quieten. Could get 'im. 'E's a big lump of a 'orse if y' could +do anythin' with 'im. THEY gave 'im best themselves." + +Dad's eyes shone. + +"That's th' horse," he cried. "GET him! To-morrow first thing go for +him! I'LL make something of him!" + +"Don't know"--Dave chuckled--"he's a----" + +"Tut, tut; you fetch him." + +"Oh, I'll FETCH 'im." And Dave, on the strength of having made a valuable +suggestion, dragged Joe off the sofa and stretched himself upon it. + +Dad went on thinking awhile. "How much," he at last asked, "did Johnson +get for those skins?" + +"Which?" Dave answered. "Bears or kangaroos?" + +"Bears." + +"Five bob, was n't it? Six for some." + +"What, A-PIECE?" + +"Yairs." + +"Why, God bless my soul, what have we been thinking about? FIVE SHILLINGS? +Are you sure?" + +"Yairs, rather." + +"What, bear-skins worth that and the paddock here and the lanes and the +country over-run with them--FULL of the damn things--HUNDREDS of them--and +we, all this time--all these years--working and slaving and scraping +and-and" (he almost shouted), "DAMN me! What asses we HAVE been, to be +sure." (Dave stared at him.) "Bear-skins FIVE SHILLINGS each, and----" + +"That's all right enough," Dave interrupted, "but----" + +"Of COURSE it's all right enough NOW," Dad yelled, "now when we see it." + +"But look!" and Dave sat up and assumed an arbitrary attitude. He was +growing suspicious of Dad's ideas. "To begin with, how many bears do you +reckon on getting in a day?" + +"In a day"--reflectively--"twenty at the least." + +"Twenty. Well, say we only got HALF that, how much d' y' make?" + +" MAKE?" (considering). "Two pounds ten a day...fifteen or twenty pounds +a week...yes, TWENTY POUNDS, reckoning at THAT even. And do you mean to +tell ME that we would n't get more than TEN bears a day? Why we'd get +more than that in the lane--get more up ONE tree." + +Dave grinned. + +"Can't you SEE? DAMN it, boy, are you so DENSE?" + +Dave saw. He became enthusiastic. He wondered why it had never struck us +before. Then Dad smiled, and we sat to supper and talked about bears. + +"We'll not bother with that horse NOW," said Dad; "the ploughing can go; +I'm DONE with it. We've had enough poking and puddling about. We'll +start this business straightaway." And the following morning, headed by +the dog and Dad, armed with a tomahawk, we started up the paddock. + +How free we felt! To think we were finished for ever with the raking and +carting of hay--finished tramping up and down beside Dad, with the +plough-reins in our hands, flies in our eyes and burr in our feet--finished +being the target for Dad's blasphemy when the plough or the horses or the +harness went wrong--was delightful! And the adventure and excitement +which this new industry promised operated strongly upon us. We rioted and +careered like hunted brumbies through the trees, till warned by Dad to +"keep our eyes about;" then we settled down, and Joe found the first bear. +It was on an ironbark tree, around the base of which we soon were +clamouring. + +"Up y' go!" Dad said, cheerfully helping Dave and the tomahawk into the +first fork. + +Dave ascended and crawled cautiously along the limb the bear was on and +began to chop. WE armed ourselves with heavy sticks and waited. The +dog sat on his tail and stared and whined at the bear. The limb cracked, +and Dave ceased chopping and shouted "Look out!" We shouldered arms. The +dog was in a hurry. He sprang in the air and landed on his back. But +Dave had to make another nick or two. Then with a loud crack the limb +parted and came sweeping down. The dog jumped to meet it. He met it, +and was laid out on the grass. The bear scrambled to its feet and made +off towards Bill. Bill squealed and fell backwards over a log. Dad +rushed in and kicked the bear up like a football. It landed near Joe. +Joe's eyes shone with the hunter's lust of blood. He swung his stick for +a tremendous blow--swung it mightily and high--and nearly knocked his +parent's head off. When Dad had spat blood enough to make sure that he +had only lost one tooth, he hunted Joe; but Joe was too fleet, as usual. + +Meanwhile, the bear had run up another tree--about the tallest old gum in +the paddock. Dad snapped his fingers angrily and cried: "Where the devil +was the DOG?" + +"Oh, where the devil wuz the DORG?" Dave growled, sliding down the +tree--"where th' devil wuz YOU? Where wuz the lot o' y'?" + +"Ah, well!" Dad said "--there's plenty more we can get. Come along." +And off we went. The dog pulled himself together and limped after us. + +Bears were plentiful enough, but we wandered far before we found another +on a tree that Dave could climb, and, when we DID, somehow or other the +limb broke when he put his weight on it, and down he came, bear and all. +Of course we were not ready, and that bear, like the other, got up another +tree. But Dave did n't. He lay till Dad ran about two miles down a gully +to a dam and filled his hat with muddy water and came tearing back with it +empty--till Anderson and Mother came and helped to carry him home. + +We did n't go out any more after bears. Dave, when he was able, went and +got Maloney's colt and put him in the plough. And, after he had kicked +Dad and smashed all the swingle-trees about the place, and got right out +of his harness a couple of times and sulked for two days, he went well +enough beside Anderson's old grey mare. + +And that season, when everyone else's wheat was red with rust--when +Anderson and Maloney cut theirs for hay--when Johnson put a firestick in +his--ours was good to see. It ripened; and the rain kept off, and we +reaped 200 bags. Salvation! + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + + +Nell and Ned. + + +That harvest of two hundred bags of wheat was the turning-point in the +history of our selection. Things somehow seemed to go better; and Dad's +faith was gradually justified--to some extent. We accumulated out-buildings +and added two new rooms to the hut, and Dad was able to lend old Anderson +five pounds in return for a promise to pay seven pounds ten shillings in +six months' time. We increased the stock, too, by degrees; and--crowning +joy!--we got a horse or two you could ride to the township. + +With Nell and Ned we reckoned we had two saddle-horses--those were their +names, Nell and Ned, a mare and a colt. Fine hacks they were, too! +Anybody could ride them, they were so quiet. Dad reckoned Ned was the +better of the two. He was well-bred, and had a pedigree and a gentle +disposition, and a bald-face, and a bumble-foot, and a raw wither, and a +sore back that gave him a habit of "flinching"--a habit that discounted +his uselessness a great deal, because, when we were n't at home, the women +could n't saddle him to run the cows in. Whenever he saw the saddle or +heard the girth-buckles rattle he would start to flinch. Put the cloth +on his back--folded or otherwise--and, no matter how smart you might be, +it would be off before you could cover it with the saddle, and he would n't +have flicked it with his tail, or pulled it off with his teeth, or done +anything to it. He just flinched--made the skin on his back--where there +was any--QUIVER. Throw on the saddle without a cloth, and he would "give" +in the middle like a broken rail--bend till his belly almost touched the +ground, and remain bent till mounted; then he'd crawl off and gradually +straighten up as he became used to you. Were you tender-hearted enough to +feel compunction in sitting down hard on a six-year-old sore, or if you +had an aversion to kicking the suffering brute with both heels and belting +his hide with a yard or two of fencing-wire to get him to show signs of +animation, you would dismount and walk--perhaps, weep. WE always rode him +right out, though. + +As a two-year-old Ned was Dad's hope. Pointing proudly to the long-legged, +big-headed, ugly moke mooching by the door, smelling the dust, he would +say: "Be a fine horse in another year! Little sleepy-looking yet; that's +nothing!" + +"Stir him up a bit, till we see how he canters," he said to Joe one day. +And when Joe stirred him up--rattled a piece of rock on his jaw that +nearly knocked his head off--Dad took after Joe and chased him through the +potatoes, and out into the grass-paddock, and across towards Anderson's; +then returned and yarded the colt, and knocked a patch of skin off him +with a rail because he would n't stand in a corner till he looked at his +eye. "Would n't have anything happen to that colt for a fortune!" he said +to himself. Then went away, forgetting to throw the rails down. Dave +threw them down a couple of days after. + +WE preferred Nell to Ned, but Dad always voted for the colt. "You can +trust him; he'll stand anywhere," he used to say. Ned WOULD! Once, when +the grass-paddock was burning, he stood until he took fire. Then he stood +while we hammered him with boughs to put the blaze out. It took a lot to +frighten Ned. His presence of mind rarely deserted him. Once, though, he +got a start. He was standing in the shade of a tree in the paddock when +Dad went to catch him. He seemed to be watching Dad, but was n't. He was +ASLEEP. "Well, old chap," said Dad, "how ARE y'?" and proceeded to bridle +him. Ned opened his mouth and received the bit as usual, only some of his +tongue came out and stayed out. "Wot's up w' y'?" and Dad tried to poke +it in with his finger, but it came out further, and some chewed grass +dropped into his hand. Dad started to lead him then, or rather to PULL +him, and at the first tug he have the reins Ned woke with a snort and +broke away. And when the other horses saw him looking at Dad with his +tail cocked, and his head up, and the bridle-reins hanging, they went for +their lives through the trees, and Blossom's foal got staked. + +Another day Dad was out on Ned, looking for the red heifer, and came +across two men fencing--a tall, powerful-looking man with a beard, and a +slim young fellow with a smooth face. Also a kangaroo-pup. As Dad slowly +approached, Ned swaying from side to side with his nose to the ground, +the elder man drove the crowbar into the earth and stared as if he had +never seen a man on horseback before. The young fellow sat on a log and +stared too. The pup ran behind a tree and growled. + +"Seen any cattle round here?" Dad asked. + +"No," the man said, and grinned. + +"Did n't notice a red heifer?" + +"No," grinning more. + +The kangaroo-pup left the tree and sniffed at Ned's heels. + +"Won't kick, will he?" said the man. + +The young fellow broke into a loud laugh and fell off the log. + +"No," Dad replied--"he's PERFECTLY quiet." + +"He LOOKS quiet." + +The young fellow took a fit of coughing. + +After a pause. "Well, you did n't see any about, then?" and Dad wheeled +Ned round to go away. + +"No, I DID N'T, old man," the other answered, and snatched hold of Ned's +tail and hung back with all his might. Ned grunted and strained and tore +the ground up with his toes; Dad spurred and leathered him with a strap, +looking straight ahead. The man hung on. "Come 'long," Dad said. The +pup barked. "COME 'long with YER!" Dad said. The young fellow fell off +the log again. Ned's tail cracked. Dad hit him between the ears. The +tail cracked again. A piece of it came off; then Ned stumbled and went on +his head. "What the DEVIL----!" Dad said, looking round. But only the +young fellow was laughing. + +Nell was different from Ned. She was a bay, with yellow flanks and a lump +under her belly; a bright eye, lop ears, and heavy, hairy legs. She was a +very wise mare. It was wonderful how much she know. She knew when she +was wanted; and she would go away the night before and get lost. And she +knew when she was n't wanted; then she'd hang about the back-door licking +a hole in the ground where the dish-water was thrown, or fossicking at the +barn for the corn Dad had hidden, or scratching her neck or her rump +against the cultivation paddock slip-rails. She always scratched herself +against those slip-rails--sometimes for hours--always until they fell down. +Then she'd walk in and eat. And how she COULD eat! + +As a hack, Nell was unreliable. You could n't reckon with certainty on +getting her to start. All depended on the humour she was in and the +direction you wished to take--mostly the direction. If towards the +grass-paddock or the dam, she was off helter-skelter. If it was n't, +she'd go on strike--put her head down and chew the bit. Then, when you'd +get to work on her with a waddy--which we always did--she'd walk backwards +into the house and frighten Mother, or into the waterhole and dirty the +water. Dad said it was the fault of the cove who broke her in. Dad was a +just man. The "cove" was a union shearer--did it for four shillings and +six pence. Wanted five bob, but Dad beat him down. Anybody else would +have asked a pound. + +When Nell DID make up her mind to go, it was with a rush, and, if the +slip-rails were on the ground, she'd refuse to take them. She'd stand and +look out into the lane. You'd have to get off and drag the rails aside +(about twenty, counting broken ones). Then she'd fancy they were up, and +would shake her head and mark time until you dug your heels into her; then +she'd gather herself together and jump high enough for a show--over nothing! + +Dave was to ride Nell to town one Christmas to see the sports. He had n't +seen any sports before, and went to bed excited and rose in the middle of +the night to start. He dressed in the dark, and we heard him going out, +because he fell over Sandy and Kate. They had come on a visit, and were +sleeping on the floor in the front room. We also heard him throw the +slip-rails down. + +There was a heavy fog that morning. At breakfast we talked about Dave, +and Dad "s'posed" he would just about be getting in; but an hour or two +after breakfast the fog cleared, and we saw Dave in the lane hammering +Nell with a stick. Nell had her rump to the fence and was trying hard to +kick it down. Dad went to him. "Take her gently; take her GENTLY, boy," +he shouted. "PSHAW! take her GENTLY!" Dave shouted back. "Here"--he +jumped off her and handed Dad the reins--"take her away and cut her +throat." Then he cried, and then he picked up a big stone and rushed at +Nell's head. But Dad interfered. + +But the day Dad mounted Nell to bring a doctor to Anderson! She started +away smartly--the wrong road. Dad jerked her mouth and pulled her round +roughly. He was in a hurry--Nell was n't. She stood and shook her head +and switched her tail. Dad rattled a waddy on her and jammed his heels +hard against her ribs. She dropped her head and cow-kicked. Then he +coaxed her. "Come on, old girl," he said; "come on,"--and patted her on +the neck. She liked being patted. That exasperated Dad. He hit her on +the head with his fist. Joe ran out with a long stick. He poked her in +the flank. Nell kicked the stick out of his hands and bolted towards the +dam. Dad pulled and swore as she bore him along. And when he did haul +her in, he was two hundred yards further from the doctor. Dad turned her +round and once more used the waddy. Nell was obdurate, Dad exhausted. +Joe joined them, out of breath. He poked Nell with the stick again. She +"kicked up." Dad lost his balance. Joe laughed. Dad said, "St-o-op!" +Joe was energetic. So was Nell. She kicked up again--strong--and Dad +fell off. + +"Wot, could'n' y' s-s-s-stick to 'er, Dad?" Joe asked. + +"STICK BE DAMNED--run--CATCH her!--D----N y'!" + +Joe obeyed. + +Dad made another start, and this time Nell went willingly. Dad was +leading her! + +Those two old horses are dead now. They died in the summer when there was +lots of grass and water--just when Dad had broken them into harness--just +when he was getting a good team together to draw logs for the new railway +line! + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + + +The Cow We Bought. + + +When Dad received two hundred pounds for the wheat he saw nothing but +success and happiness ahead. His faith in the farm and farming swelled. +Dad was not a pessimist--when he had two hundred pounds. + +"Say what they like," he held forth to Anderson and two other men across +the rails one evening--"talk how they will about it, there's money to be +made at farming. Let a man WORK and use his HEAD and know what to sow and +when to sow it, and he MUST do well." (Anderson stroked his beard in grave +silence; HE had had no wheat). "Why, once a farmer gets on at all he's +the most independent man in the whole country." + +"Yes! Once he DOES!" drawled one of the men,--a weird, withered fellow +with a scraggy beard and a reflective turn of mind. + +"Jusso," Dad went on, "but he must use his HEAD; it's all in th' head." +(He tapped his own skull with his finger). "Where would I be now if I +had n't used me head this last season?" + +He paused for an answer. None came. + +"I say," he continued, "it's a mistake to think nothing's to be made at +farming, and any man" ("Come to supper, D--AD!"--'t was Sal's voice) +"ought t' get on where there's land like this." + +"LAND!" said the same man--"where IS it?" + +"Where IS it?" Dad warmed up--"where IS N'T it? Is n't this land?" +(Looking all round.) "Is n't the whole country land from one end to the +other? And is there another country like it anywhere?" + +"There is n't!" said the man. + +"Is there any other country in th' WORLD" (Dad lifted his voice) "where a +man, if he likes, can live" ("Dad, tea!") "without a shilling in his +pocket and without doing a tap of work from one year's end to the other?" + +Anderson did n't quite understand, and the weird man asked Dad if he meant +"in gaol." + +"I mean," Dad said, "that no man should starve in this country when +there's kangaroos and bears and"--(Joe came and stood beside Dad and asked +him if he was DEAF)--"and goannas and snakes in thousands. Look here!" +(still to the weird man), "you say that farming"--(Mother, bare-headed, +came out and stood beside Joe, and asked Anderson if Mrs. Anderson had got +a nurse yet, and Anderson smiled and said he believed another son had just +arrived, but he had n't seen it)--"that farming don't pay"--(Sal came +along and stood near Mother and asked Anderson who the baby was +like)--"don't pay in this country?" + +The man nodded. + +"It will pay any man who----" + +Interruption. + +Anderson's big dog had wandered to the house, and came back with nearly +all that was for supper in his mouth. + +Sal squealed. + +"DROP IT--DROP IT, Bob!" Anderson shouted, giving chase. Bob dropped it +on the road. + +"DAMN IT!" said Dad, glaring at Mother, "wot d' y' ALL want out +'ere?...Y-YOU brute!" (to the dog, calmly licking its lips). + +Then Anderson and the two men went away. + +But when we had paid sixty pounds to the storekeeper and thirty pounds in +interest; and paid for the seed and the reaping and threshing of the +wheat; and bought three plough-horses, and a hack for Dave; and a +corn-sheller, and a tank, and clothes for us all; and put rations in the +house; and lent Anderson five pounds; and improved Shingle Hut; and so on; +very little of the two hundred pounds was left. + +Mother spoke of getting a cow. The children, she said, could n't live +without milk and when Dad heard from Johnson and Dwyer that Eastbrook dairy +cattle were to be sold at auction, he said he would go down and buy one. + +Very early. The stars had scarcely left the sky. There was a lot of +groping and stumbling about the room. Dad and Dave had risen and were +preparing to go to the sale. + +I don't remember if the sky was golden or gorgeous at all, or if the +mountain was clothed in mist, or if any fragrance came from the +wattle-trees when they were leaving; but Johnson, without hat or boots, +was picking splinters off the slabs of his hut to start his fire with, +and a mile further on Smith's dog was barking furiously. He was a famous +barker. Smith trained him to it to keep the wallabies off. Smith used to +chain him to a tree in the paddock and hang a piece of meat to the +branches, and leave him there all night. + +Dad and Dave rode steadily along and arrived at Eastbrook before mid-day. +The old station was on its last legs. "The flags were flying half-mast +high." A crowd of people were there. Cart-horses with harness on, and a +lot of tired-looking saddle-hacks, covered with dry sweat, were fastened +to cart-wheels, and to every available post and place. Heaps of old iron, +broken-down drays and buggies and wheel-barrows, pumps and pieces of +machinery, which Dad reckoned were worth a lot of money, were scattered +about. Dad yearned to gather them all up and cart them home. Rows of +unshaven men were seated high on the rails of the yards. The yards were +filled with cattle--cows, heifers, bulls, and calves, all +separate--bellowing, and, in a friendly way, raking skins and hair off +each other with their horns. + +The station-manager, with a handful of papers and a pencil behind his ear, +hurried here and there, followed by some of the crowd, who asked him +questions which he did n't answer. Dad asked him if this was the place +where the sale was to be. He looked all over Dad. + +A man rang a bell violently, shouting, "This way for the dairy cows!" Dad +went that way, closely followed by Dave, who was silent and strange. A +boy put a printed catalogue into Dad's hand, which he was doubtful about +keeping until he saw Andy Percil with one. Most of the men seated on the +rails jumped down into an empty yard and stood round in a ring. In one +corner the auctioneer mounted a box, and read the conditions of sale, and +talked hard about the breed of the cattle. Then: + +"How much for the imported cow, Silky? No.1 on the catalogue. How much +to start her, gentlemen?" + +Silky rushed into the yard with a shower of sticks flying after her and +glared about, finally fixing her gaze on Dad, who was trying to find her +number in the catalogue. + +"A pure-bred 'Heereford,' four years old, by The Duke out of Dolly, to +calve on the eighth of next month," said the auctioneer. "How much to +start her?" + +All silent. Buyers looked thoughtful. The auctioneer ran his restless +eyes over them. + +Dad and Dave held a whispered consultation; then Dad made a movement. +The auctioneer caught his eye and leant forward. + +"FIVE BOB!" Dad shouted. There was a loud laugh. The auctioneer frowned. +"We're selling COWS, old man," he said, "not running a shilling-table." + +More laughter. It reached Dave's heart, and he wished he had n't come +with Dad. + +Someone bid five pounds, someone else six; seven-eight-nine went round +quickly, and Silky was sold for ten pounds. + +"Beauty" rushed in. + +Two station-hands passed among the crowd, each with a bucket of beer and +some glasses. Dad hesitated when they came to him, and said he did n't +care about it. Dave the same. + +Dad ran "Beauty" to three pound ten shillings (all the money he had), and +she was knocked down at twelve pounds. + +Bidding became lively. + +Dave had his eye on the men with the beer--he was thirsty. He noticed no +one paid for what was drunk, and whispered his discovery to Dad. When the +beer came again, Dad reached out and took a glass. Dave took one also. + +"Have another!" said the man. + +Dave grinned, and took another. + +Dad ran fifteen cows, successively, to three pounds ten shillings. + +The men with the beer took a liking to Dave. They came frequently to him, +and Dave began to enjoy the sale. + +Again Dad stopped bidding at three pounds ten shillings. + +Dave began to talk. He left his place beside Dad and, hat in hand, +staggered to the middle of the yard. "WOH!" he shouted, and made an +awkward attempt to embrace a red cow which was under the hammer. + +"SEV'N POUN'--SEV'N POUN'--SEV'N POUN'," shouted the auctioneer, rapidly. +"Any advance on sev'n POUN'?" + +"WENNY (hic) QUID," Dave said. + +"At sev'n poun' she's GOING?" + +"Twenny (hic) TWO quid," Dave said. + +"You have n't twenty-two PENCE," snorted the auctioneer. + +Then Dave caught the cow by the tail, and she pulled him about the yard +until two men took him away. + +The last cow put up was, so the auctioneer said, station-bred and in full +milk. She was a wild-looking brute, with three enormous teats and a large, +fleshy udder. The catalogue said her name was "Dummy." + +"How much for 'Dummy,' the only bargain in the mob--how much for her, +gentlemen?" + +Dad rushed "Dummy." "Three poun' ten," he said, eagerly. + +The auctioneer rushed Dad. "YOURS," he said, bringing his hammer down +with a bang; "you deserve her, old man!" And the station-manager chuckled +and took Dad's name--and Dad's money. + +Dad was very pleased, and eager to start home. He went and found Dave, +who was asleep in a hay-stack, and along with Steven Burton they drove the +cow home, and yarded her in the dark. + +Mother and Sal heard the noise, and came with a light to see Dad's +purchase, but as they approached "Dummy" threatened to carry the yard away +on her back, and Dad ordered them off. + +Dad secured the rails by placing logs and the harrow against them, then +went inside and told Mother what a bargain he'd made. + +In the morning Dad took a bucket and went to milk "Dummy." All of us +accompanied him. He crawled through the rails while "Dummy" tore the +earth with her fore-feet and threw lumps of it over the yard. But she +was n't so wild as she seemed, and when Dad went to work on her with a big +stick she walked into the bail quietly enough. Then he sat to milk her, +and when he took hold of her teats she broke the leg-rope and kicked him +clean off the block and tangled her leg in the bucket and made a great +noise with it. Then she bellowed and reared in the bail and fell down, +her head screwed the wrong way, and lay with her tongue out moaning. + +Dad rose and spat out dirt. + +"Dear me!" Mother said. "it's a WILD cow y' bought." + +"Not at all," Dad answered; "she's a bit touchy, that's all." + +"She tut-tut--TUTCHED YOU orright, Dad," Joe said from the top of the yard. + +Dad looked up. "Get down outer THAT!" he yelled. "No wonder the damn +cow's frightened." + +Joe got down. + +Dad brought "Dummy" to her senses with a few heavy kicks on her nose, and +proceeded to milk her again. "Dummy" kicked and kicked. Dad tugged and +tugged at her teats, but no milk came. Dad could n't understand it. +"Must be frettin'," he said. + +Joe owned a pet calf about a week old which lived on water and a long rope. +Dad told him to fetch it to see if it would suck. Joe fetched it, and it +sucked ravenously at "Dummy's" flank, and joyfully wagged its tail. +"Dummy" resented it. She plunged until the leg-rope parted again, when +the calf got mixed up in her legs, and she trampled it in the ground. Joe +took it away. Dad turned "Dummy" out and bailed her up the next day--and +every day for a week--with the same result. Then he sent for Larry +O'Laughlin, who posed as a cow doctor. + +"She never give a drop in her life," Larry said. "Them's BLIND tits she +have." + +Dad one day sold "Dummy" for ten shillings and bought a goat, which +Johnson shot on his cultivation and made Dad drag away. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + + +The Parson and the Scone. + + +It was dinner-time. And were n't we hungry!--particularly Joe! He was +kept from school that day to fork up hay-work hard enough for a man--too +hard for some men--but in many things Joe was more than a man's equal. +Eating was one of them. We were all silent. Joe ate ravenously. The +meat and pumpkin disappeared, and the pile of hot scones grew rapidly +less. Joe regarded it with anxiety. He stole sly glances at Dad and at +Dave and made a mental calculation. Then he fixed his eyes longingly on +the one remaining scone, and ate faster and faster....Still silence. +Joe glanced again at Dad. + +The dogs outside barked. Those inside, lying full-stretch beneath the +table, instantly darted up and rushed out. One of them carried off little +Bill--who was standing at the table with his legs spread out and a pint +of tea in his hand--as far as the door on its back, and there scraped him +off and spilled tea over him. Dad spoke. He said, "Damn the dogs!" Then +he rose and looked out the window. We all rose--all except Joe. Joe +reached for the last scone. + +A horseman dismounted at the slip-rails. + +"Some stranger," Dad muttered, turning to re-seat himself. + +"Why, it's--it's the minister!" Sal cried--"the minister that married +Kate!" + +Dad nearly fell over. "Good God!" was all he said, and stared hopelessly +at Mother. The minister--for sure enough it was the Rev. Daniel +Macpherson--was coming in. There was commotion. Dave finished his tea at +a gulp, put on his hat, and left by the back-door. Dad would have +followed, but hesitated, and so was lost. Mother was restless--"on pins +and needles." + +"And there ain't a bite to offer him," she cried, dancing hysterically +about the table--"not a bite; nor a plate, nor a knife, nor a fork to eat +it with!" There was humour in Mother at times. It came from the father's +side. He was a dentist. + +Only Joe was unconcerned. He was employed on the last scone. He commenced +it slowly. He wished it to last till night. His mouth opened and received +it fondly. He buried his teeth in it and lingered lovingly over it. +Mother's eyes happened to rest on him. Her face brightened. She flew at +Joe and cried: + +"Give me that scone!--put it back on the table this minute!" + +Joe became concerned. He was about to protest. Mother seized him by the +hair (which had n't been cut since Dan went shearing) and hissed: + +"Put--it--back--sir!" Joe put it back. + +The minister came in. Dad said he was pleased to see him--poor Dad!--and +enquired if he had had dinner. The parson had not, but said he did n't +want any, and implored Mother not to put herself about on his account. +He only required a cup of tea--nothing else whatever. Mother was +delighted, and got the tea gladly. Still she was not satisfied. She +would be hospitable. She said: + +"Won't you try a scone with it, Mr. Macpherson?" And the parson said he +would--"just one." + +Mother passed the rescued scone along, and awkwardly apologised for the +absence of plates. She explained that the Andersons were threshing their +wheat, and had borrowed all our crockery and cutlery--everybody's, in +fact, in the neighbourhood--for the use of the men. Such was the custom +round our way. But the minister did n't mind. On the contrary, he +commended everybody for fellowship and good-feeling, and felt sure that +the district would be rewarded. + +It took the Rev. Macpherson no time to polish off the scone. When the +last of it was disappearing Mother became uneasy again. So did Dad. He +stared through the window at the parson's sleepy-looking horse, fastened +to the fence. Dad wished to heaven it would break away, or drop dead, or +do anything to provide him with an excuse to run out. But it was a +faithful steed. It stood there leaning on its forehead against a post. +There was a brief silence. + +Then the minister joked about his appetite--at which only Joe could afford +to smile--and asked, "May I trouble you for just another scone?" + +Mother muttered something like "Yes, of course," and went out to the +kitchen just as if there had been some there. Dad was very uncomfortable. +He patted the floor with the flat of his foot and wondered what would +happen next. Nothing happened for a good while. The minister sipped and +sipped his tea till none was left... + +Dad said: "I'll see what's keeping her," and rose--glad if ever man was +glad--to get away. He found Mother seated on the ironbark table in the +kitchen. They did n't speak. They looked at each other sympathisingly. + +"Well?" Dad whispered at last; "what are you going to do?" Mother shook +her head. She did n't know. + +"Tell him straight there ain't any, an' be done with it," was Dad's +cheerful advice. Mother several times approached the door, but hesitated +and returned again. + +"What are you afraid of?" Dad would ask; "he won't eat y'." Finally she +went in. + +Then Dad tiptoed to the door and listened. He was listening eagerly when +a lump of earth--a piece of the cultivation paddock--fell dangerously near +his feet. It broke and scattered round him, and rattled inside against +the papered wall. Dad jumped round. A row of jackasses on a tree near by +laughed merrily. Dad looked up. They stopped. Another one laughed +clearly from the edge of the tall corn. Dad turned his head. It was +Dave. Dad joined him, and they watched the parson mount his horse and +ride away. + +Dad drew a deep and grateful breath. "Thank God!" he said. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + + +Callaghan's Colt. + + +It was the year we put the bottom paddock under potatoes. Dad was +standing contemplating the tops, which were withering for want of rain. +He shifted his gaze to the ten acres sown with corn. A dozen stalks or so +were looking well; a few more, ten or twelve inches high, were coming in +cob; the rest had n't made an appearance. + +Dad sighed and turned away from the awful prospect. He went and looked +into the water-cask. Two butterflies, a frog or two, and some charcoal +were at the bottom. No water. He sighed again, took the yoke and two +kerosene-tins, and went off to the springs. + +About an hour and a half after he returned with two half-tins of muddy, +milky-looking water--the balance had been splashed out as he got through +the fences--and said to Mother (wiping the sweat off his face with his +shirt-sleeve)-- + +"Don't know, I'm SURE, what things are going t' come t';...no use doing +anything...there's no rain...no si----" he lifted his foot and with cool +exactness took a place-kick at the dog, which was trying to fall into one +of the kerosene-tins, head first, and sent it and the water flying. +"Oh you ----!" The rest is omitted in the interests of Poetry. + +Day after. Fearful heat; not a breath of air; fowl and beast sought the +shade; everything silent; the great Bush slept. In the west a stray cloud +or two that had been hanging about gathered, thickened, darkened. + +The air changed. Fowl and beast left the shade; tree-tops began to +stir--to bend--to sway violently. Small branches flew down and rolled +before the wind. Presently it thundered afar off. Mother and Sal ran out +and gathered the clothes, and fixed the spout, and looked cheerfully up at +the sky. + +Joe sat in the chimney-corner thumping the ribs of a cattle-pup, and +pinching its ears to make it savage. He had been training the pup ever +since its arrival that morning. + +The plough-horses, yoked to the plough, stood in the middle of the paddock, +beating the flies off with their tails and leaning against each other. + +Dad stood at the stock-yard--his brown arms and bearded chin resting on a +middle-rail--passively watching Dave and Paddy Maloney breaking-in a colt +for Callaghan--a weedy, wild, herring-gutted brute that might have been +worth fifteen shillings. Dave was to have him to hack about for six +months in return for the breaking-in. Dave was acquiring a local +reputation for his skill in handling colts. + +They had been at "Callaghan"--as they christened the colt--since daylight, +pretty well; and had crippled old Moll and lamed Maloney's Dandy, and +knocked up two they borrowed from Anderson--yarding the rubbish; and there +was n't a fence within miles of the place that he had n't tumbled over and +smashed. But, when they did get him in, they lost no time commencing to +quieten him. They cursed eloquently, and threw the bridle at him, and +used up all the missiles and bits of hard mud and sticks about the yard, +pelting him because he would n't stand. + +Dave essayed to rope him "the first shot," and nearly poked his eye out +with the pole; and Paddy Maloney, in attempting to persuade the affrighted +beast to come out of the cow-bail, knocked the cap of its hip down with +the milking-block. They caught him then and put the saddle on. Callaghan +trembled. When the girths were tightened they put the reins under the +leathers, and threw their hats at him, and shouted, and "hooshed" him +round the yard, expecting he would buck with the saddle. But Callaghan +only trotted into a corner and snorted. Usually, a horse that won't buck +with a saddle is a "snag." Dave knew it. The chestnut he tackled for +Brown did nothing with the saddle. HE was a snag. Dave remembered him +and reflected. Callaghan walked boldly up to Dave, with his head high in +the air, and snorted at him. He was a sorry-looking animal--cuts and +scars all over him; hip down; patches and streaks of skin and hair missing +from his head. "No buck in him!" unctuously observed Dad, without lifting +his chin off the rail. "Ain't there?" said Paddy Maloney, grinning +cynically. "Just you wait!" + +It seemed to take the heart out of Dave, but he said nothing. He hitched +his pants and made a brave effort to spit--several efforts. And he turned +pale. + +Paddy was now holding Callaghan's head at arms'-length by the bridle and +one ear, for Dave to mount. + +A sharp crack of thunder went off right overhead. Dave did n't hear it. + +"Hello!" Dad said, "We're going to have it--hurry up!" + +Dave did n't hear him. He approached the horse's side and nervously tried +the surcingle--a greenhide one of Dad's workmanship. "Think that'll hold?" +he mumbled meekly. + +"Pshaw!" Dad blurted through the rails--" Hold! Of course it'll hold--hold +a team o' bullocks, boy." + +"'S all right, Dave; 's all right--git on!" From Paddy Maloney, impatiently. + +Paddy, an out-and-out cur amongst horses himself, was anxious to be +relieved of the colt's head. Young horses sometimes knock down the man +who is holding them. Paddy was aware of it. + +Dave took the reins carefully, and was about to place his foot in the +stirrup when his restless eye settled on a wire-splice in the crupper--also +Dad's handiwork. He hesitated and commenced a remark. But Dad was +restless; Paddy Maloney anxious (as regarded himself); besides, the storm +was coming. + +Dad said: "Damn it, what are y' 'FRAID o', boy? THAT'll hold--jump on." + +Paddy said: "NOW, Dave, while I've 'is 'ead round." + +Joe (just arrived with the cattle-pup) chipped in. + +He said: "Wot, is he fuf-fuf-fuf-f-rikent of him, Dad?" + +Dave heard them. A tear like a hailstone dropped out of his eye. + +"It's all damn well t' TALK," he fired off; "come in and RIDE th'----horse +then, if y' s'----GAME!" + +A dead silence. + +The cattle-pup broke away from Joe and strolled into the yard. It barked +feebly at Callaghan, then proceeded to worry his heels. It seemed to take +Callaghan for a calf. Callaghan kicked it up against the rails. It must +have taken him for a cow then. + +Dave's blood was up. He was desperate. He grabbed the reins roughly, put +his foot in the stirrup, gripped the side of the pommel, and was on before +you could say "Woolloongabba." + +With equal alacrity, Paddy let the colt's head go and made tracks, +chuckling. The turn things had taken delighted him. Excitement (and +pumpkin) was all that kept Paddy alive. But Callaghan did n't budge--at +least not until Dave dug both heels into him. Then he made a blind rush +and knocked out a panel of the yard--and got away with Dave. Off he went, +plunging, galloping, pig-jumping, breaking loose limbs and bark off trees +with Dave's legs. A wire-fence was in his way. It parted like the Red +Sea when he came to it--he crashed into it and rolled over. The saddle +was dangling under his belly when he got up; Dave and the bridle were +under the fence. But the storm had come, and such a storm! Hailstones as +big as apples nearly--first one here and there, and next moment in +thousands. + +Paddy Maloney and Joe ran for the house; Dave, with an injured ankle and a +cut head, limped painfully in the same direction; but Dad saw the +plough-horses turning and twisting about in their chains and set out for +them. He might as well have started off the cross the continent. A +hailstone, large enough to kill a cow, fell with a thud a yard or two in +advance of him, and he slewed like a hare and made for the house also. He +was getting it hot. Now and again his hands would go up to protect his +head, but he could n't run that way--he could n't run much any way. + +The others reached the house and watched Dad make from the back-door. +Mother called to him to "Run, run!" Poor Dad! He was running. Paddy +Maloney was joyful. He danced about and laughed vociferously at the hail +bouncing off Dad. Once Dad staggered--a hail-boulder had struck him +behind the ear--and he looked like dropping. Paddy hit himself on the +leg, and vehemently invited Dave to "Look, LOOK at him!" But Dad battled +along to the haystack, buried his head in it, and stayed there till the +storm was over--wriggling and moving his feet as though he were tramping +chaff. + +Shingles were dislodged from the roof of the house, and huge hailstones +pelted in and put the fire out, and split the table, and fell on the sofa +and the beds. + +Rain fell also, but we did n't catch any in the cask--the wind blew the +spout away. It was a curled piece of bark. Nevertheless, the storm did +good. We did n't lose ALL the potatoes. We got SOME out of them. We had +them for dinner one Sunday. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + + +The Agricultural Reporter. + + +It had been a dull, miserable day, and a cold westerly was blowing. Dave +and Joe were at the barn finishing up for the day. + +Dad was inside grunting and groaning with toothache. He had had it a week, +and was nearly mad. For a while he sat by the fire, prodding the tooth +with his pocket-knife; then he covered his jaw with his hand and went out +and walked about the yard. + +Joe asked him if he had seen Nell's foal anywhere that day. He did n't +answer. + +"Did y' see the brown foal any place ter-day, Dad?" + +"Damn the brown foal!"--and Dad went inside again. + +He walked round and round the table and in and out the back room till +Mother nearly cried with pity. + +"Is n't it any easier at all, Father?" she said commiseratingly. + +"How the devil can it be easier?...Oh-h!" + +The kangaroo-dog had coiled himself snugly on a bag before the fire. Dad +kicked him savagely and told him to get out. The dog slunk sulkily to the +door, his tail between his legs, and his back humped as if expecting +another kick. He got it. Dad sat in the ashes then, and groaned +lamentably. The dog walked in at the back door and dropped on the bag +again. + +Joe came in to say that "Two coves out there wants somethink." + +Dad paid no attention. + +The two "coves"--a pressman, in new leggings, and Canty, the +storekeeper--came in. Mother brought a light. Dad moaned, but did n't +look up. + +"Well, Mr. Rudd," the pressman commenced (he was young and fresh-looking), +"I'm from the (something-or-other) office. I'm--er--after information +about the crops round here. I suppose--er----" + +"Oh-h-h!" Dad groaned, opening his mouth over the fire, and pressing the +tooth hard with his thumb. + +The pressman stared at him for awhile; then grinned at the storekeeper, +and made a derisive face at Dad's back. Then--"What have you got in this +season, Mr. Rudd? Wheat?" + +"I don't know....Oh-h--it's awful!" + +Another silence. + +"Did n't think toothache so bad as THAT," said the man of news, airily, +addressing Mother. "Never had it much myself, you see!" + +He looked at Dad again; then winked slyly at Canty, and said to Dad, in an +altered tone: "Whisky's a good thing for it, old man, if you've got any." + +Nothing but a groan came from Dad, but Mother shook her head sadly in the +negative. + +"Any oil of tar?" + +Mother brightened up. "There's a little oil in the house," she said, +"but I don't know if we've any tar. Is there, Joe--in that old drum?" + +"Nurh." + +The Press looked out the window. Dad commenced to butcher his gums with +the pocket-knife, and threatened to put the fire out with blood and saliva. + +"Let's have a look at the tooth, old man," the pressman said, +approaching Dad. + +Dad submitted. + +"Pooh!--I'll take that out in one act!"...To Joe--"Got a good strong piece +of string?" + +Joe could n't find a piece of string, but produced a kangaroo-tail sinew +that had been tied round a calf's neck. + +The pressman was enthusiastic. He buzzed about and talked dentistry in a +most learned manner. Then he had another squint at Dad's tooth. + +"Sit on the floor here," he said, "and I won't be a second. You'll feel +next to no pain." + +Dad complied like a lamb. + +"Hold the light down here, missis--a little lower. You gentlemen" (to +Canty and Dave) "look after his legs and arms. Now, let your head come +back--right back, and open your mouth--wide as you can." Dad obeyed, +groaning the whole time. It was a bottom-tooth, and the dentist stood +behind Dad and bent over him to fasten the sinew round it. Then, twisting +it on his wrist, he began to "hang on" with both hands. Dad struggled and +groaned--then broke into a bellow and roared like a wild beast. But the +dentist only said, "Keep him down!" and the others kept him down. + +Dad's neck was stretching like a gander's, and it looked as if his head +would come off. The dentist threw his shoulders into it like a crack +oarsman--there was a crack, a rip, a tear, and, like a young tree leaving +the ground, two huge, ugly old teeth left Dad's jaw on the end of that +sinew. + +"Holy!" cried the dentist, surprised, and we stared. Little Bill made for +the teeth; so did Joe, and there was a fight under the table. + +Dad sat in a lump on the floor propping himself up with his hands; his +head dropped forward, and he spat feebly on the floor. + +The pressman laughed and slapped Dad on the back, and asked "How do you +feel, old boy?" Dad shook his head and spat and spat. But presently he +wiped his eyes with his shirt-sleeve and looked up. The pressman told +Mother she ought to be proud of Dad. Dad struggled to his feet then, pale +but smiling. The pressman shook hands with him, and in no time Dad was +laughing and joking over the operation. A pleased look was in Mother's +face; happiness filled the home again, and we grew quite fond of that +pressman--he was so jolly and affable, and made himself so much at home, +Mother said. + +"Now, sit over, and we'll have supper," said Dad, proud of having some +fried steak to offer the visitors. We had killed a cow the evening +before--one that was always getting bogged in the dam and taking up much +of Dad's time dragging her out and cutting greenstuff to keep her alive. +The visitors enjoyed her. The pressman wanted salt. None was on the +table. Dad told Joe to run and get some--to be quick. Joe went out, but +in a while returned. He stood at the door with the hammer in his hand +and said: + +"Did you shift the r-r-r-rock-salt from where S-Spotty was lickin' it this +evenin', Dave?" + +Dave reached for the bread. + +"Don't bother--don't bother about it," said the pressman. "Sit down, +youngster, and finish your supper." + +"No bother at all," Dad said; but Joe sat down, and Dad scowled at him. + +Then Dad got talking about wheat and wallabies--when, all at once, the +pressman gave a jump that rattled the things on the table. + +"Oh-h-h!...I'VE got it now!" he said, dropping his knife and fork and +clapping his hands over his mouth. "Ooh!" + +We looked at him. "Got what?" Dad asked, a gleam of satisfaction +appearing in his eyes. + +"The toothache!--the d----d toothache!...Oh-h!" + +"Ha! ha! Hoo! hoo! hoo!" Dad roared. In fact, we all roared--all but the +pressman. "OH-H!" he said, and went to the fire. Dad laughed some more. + +We ate on. The pressman continued to moan. + +Dad turned on his seat. "What paper, mister, do you say you come from?" + +"OH-H!...Oh-h, Lord!" + +"Well, let me see; I'll have in altogether, I daresay, this year, about +thirty-five acres of wheat--I suppose as good a wheat----" + +"Damn the wheat!...OOH!" + +"Eh!" said Dad, "why, I never thought toothache was THET bad! You reminds +me of this old cow we be eatin'. SHE moaned just like thet all the time +she was layin' in the gully, afore I knocked 'er on the head." + +Canty, the storekeeper, looked up quickly, and the pressman looked round +slowly--both at Dad. + +"Here," continued Dad--"let's have a look at yer tooth, old man!" + +The pressman rose. His face was flushed and wild-looking. "Come on out +of this--for God's sake!" he said to Canty--"if you're ready." + +"What," said Dad, hospitably, "y're not going, surely!" But they were. +"Well, then--thirty-five acres of wheat, I have, and" (putting his head +out the door and calling after them) "NEXT year--next year, all being +well, please God, I'll have SIXTY!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + + +A Lady at Shingle Hut. + + +Miss Ribbone had just arrived. + +She was the mistress of the local school, and had come to board with us a +month. The parents of the score of more of youngsters attending the +school had arranged to accommodate her, month about, and it was our turn. +And did n't Mother just load us up how we were to behave--particularly Joe. + +Dad lumbered in the usual log for the fire, and we all helped him throw it +on--all except the schoolmistress. Poor thing! She would have injured +her long, miserable, putty-looking fingers! Such a contrast between her +and Sal! Then we sat down to supper--that old familiar repast, hot meat +and pumpkin. + +Somehow we did n't feel quite at home; but Dad got on well. He talked +away learnedly to Miss Ribbone about everything. Told her, without +swearing once, how, when at school in the old country, he fought the +schoolmaster and leathered him well. A pure lie, but an old favourite of +Dad's, and one that never failed to make Joe laugh. He laughed now. And +such a laugh!--a loud, mirthless, merciless noise. No one else joined in, +though Miss Ribbone smiled a little. When Joe recovered he held out +his plate. + +"More pumpkin, Dad." + +"If--what, sir?" Dad was prompting him in manners. + +"IF?" and Joe laughed again. "Who said 'if'?--I never." + +Just then Miss Ribbone sprang to her feet, knocking over the box she had +been sitting on, and stood for a time as though she had seen a ghost. We +stared at her. "Oh," she murmured at last, "it was the dog! It gave me +such a fright!" + +Mother sympathised with her and seated her again, and Dad fixed his eye +on Joe. + +"Did n't I tell you," he said, "to keep that useless damned mongrel of a +dog outside the house altogether--eh?--did n't I? Go this moment and tie +the brute up, you vagabond!" + +"I did tie him up, but he chewed the greenhide." + +"Be off with you, you--" (Dad coughed suddenly and scattered fragments of +meat and munched pumpkin about the table) "at once, and do as I tell you, +you----" + +"That'll do, Father--that'll do," Mother said gently, and Joe took Stump +out to the barn and kicked him, and hit him against the corn-sheller, and +threatened to put him through it if he did n't stop squealing. + +He was a small dog, a dog that was always on the watch--for meat; a +shrewd, intelligent beast that never barked at anyone until he got inside +and well under the bed. Anyway, he had taken a fancy to Miss Ribbone's +stocking, which had fallen down while he was lying under the table, and +commenced to worry it. Then he discovered she had a calf, and started to +eat THAT. She did n't tell US though--she told Mrs. Macpherson, who +imparted the secret to mother. I suppose Stump did n't understand +stockings, because neither Mother nor Sal ever wore any, except to a +picnic or somebody's funeral; and that was very seldom. The Creek was n't +much of a place for sport. + +"I hope as you'll be comfortable, my dear," Mother observed as she showed +the young lady the back-room where she was to sleep. "It ain't s' nice as +we should like to have it f' y'; we had n't enough spare bags to line it +all with, but the cracks is pretty well stuffed up with husks an' one +thing an' 'nother, and I don't think you'll find any wind kin get in. +Here's a bear-skin f' your feet, an' I've nailed a bag up so no one kin +see-in in the morning. S' now, I think you'll be pretty snug." + +The schoolmistress cast a distressed look at the waving bag-door and said: + +"Th-h-ank you-very much." + +What a voice! I've heard kittens that had n't their eyes open make a +fiercer noise. + +Mother must have put all the blessed blankets in the house on the +school-teacher's bed. I don't know what she had on her own, but we only +had the old bag-quilt and a stack of old skirts, and other remnants of the +family wardrobe, on ours. In the middle of the night, the whole confounded +pile of them rolled off, and we nearly froze. Do what we boys would--tie +ourselves in knots and coil into each other like ropes--we could n't get +warm. We sat up in the bed in turns, and glared into the darkness towards +the schoolmistress's room, which was n't more than three yards away; then +we would lie back again and shiver. We were having a time. But at last +we heard a noise from the young lady's room. We listened--all we knew. +Miss Ribbone was up and dressing. We could hear her teeth chattering and +her knees knocking together. Then we heard her sneak back to bed again +and felt disappointed and colder than ever, for we had hoped she was +getting up early, and would n't want the bed any longer that night. Then +we too crawled out and dressed and tried it that way. + +In answer to Mother at breakfast, next morning, Miss Ribbone said she had +"slept very well indeed." + +We did n't say anything. + +She was n't much of an eater. School-teachers are n't as a rule. They +pick, and paw, and fiddle round a meal in a way that gives a +healthy-appetited person the jim-jams. She did n't touch the fried +pumpkin. And the way she sat there at the table in her watch-chain and +ribbons made poor old Dave, who sat opposite her in a ragged shirt without +a shirt-button, feel quite miserable and awkward. + +For a whole week she did n't take anything but bread and tea--though there +was always plenty good pumpkin and all that. Mother used to speak to Dad +about it, and wonder if she ate the little pumpkin-tarts she put up for +her lunch. Dad could n't understand anyone not eating pumpkin, and said +HE'D tackle GRASS before he'd starve. + +"And did ever y' see such a object?" Mother went on. "The hands an' arms +on her! Dear me! Why, I do believe if our Sal was to give her one +squeeze she'd kill her. Oh, but the finery and clothes! Y' never see the +like! Just look at her!" And Dad, the great oaf, with Joe at his heels, +followed her into the young lady's bedroom. + +"Look at that!" said Mother, pointing to a couple of dresses hanging on a +nail--"she wears THEM on week-days, no less; and here" (raising the lid of +a trunk and exposing a pile of clean and neatly-folded clothing that might +have been anything, and drawing the articles forth one by one)--"look at +them! There's that--and that--and this--and----" + +"I say, what's this, Mother?" interrupted Joe, holding up something he had +discovered. + +"And that--an'----" + +"Mother!" + +"And this----" + +"Eh, Mother?" + +"Don't bother me, boy, it's her tooth-brush," and Mother pitched the +clothes back into the trunk and glared round. Meanwhile, Joe was hard at +his teeth with the brush. + +"Oh, here!" and she dived at the bed and drew a night-gown from beneath +the pillow, unfolded it, and held it up by the neck for inspection. + +Dad, with his huge, ungainly, hairy paws behind him, stood mute, like the +great pitiful elephant he was, and looked at the tucks and the +rest--stupidly. "Where before did y'ever see such tucks and frills and +lace on a night-shirt? Why, you'd think 't were for goin' to picnics in, +'stead o' goin' to bed with. Here, too! here's a pair of brand new stays, +besides the ones she's on her back. Clothes!--she's nothin' else but +clothes." + +Then they came out, and Joe began to spit and said he thought there must +have been something on that brush. + +Miss Ribbone did n't stay the full month--she left at the end of the +second week; and Mother often used to wonder afterwards why the creature +never came to see us. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + + +The Man with the Bear-Skin Cap. + + +One evening a raggedly-dressed man, with a swag on his back, a bear-skin +cap on his head, and a sheath-knife in his belt, came to our place and +took possession of the barn. Dad ordered him off. The man offered to +fight Dad for the barn. Dad ran in and got the gun. Then the man picked +up his swag and went away. The incident caused much talk for a few days, +but we soon forgot all about it; and the man with the bear-skin cap passed +from our minds. + +Church service was to be held at our selection. It was the first occasion, +in fact, that the Gospel had come to disturb the contentedly irreligious +mind of our neighbourhood. Service was to open at 3 p.m.; at break-of-day +we had begun to get ready. + +Nothing but bustle and hurry. Buttons to be sewn on Dave's shirt; Dad's +pants--washed the night before and left on the clothes-line all night to +bleach--lost; Little Bill's to be patched up generally; Mother trotting +out to the clothes-line every minute to see if Joe's coat was dry. And, +what was unusual, Dave, the easy-going, took a notion to spruce himself +up. He wandered restlessly from one room to another, robed in a white +shirt which was n't starched or ironed, trying hard to fix a collar to it. +He had n't worn the turn-out for a couple of years, and, of course, had +grown out of it, but this did n't seem to strike him. He tugged and +fumbled till he lost patience; then he sat on the bed and railed at the +women, and wished that the shirt and the collar, and the church-service +and the parson, were in Heaven. Mother offered to fasten the collar, but +when she took hold of it--forgetting that her hands were covered with +dough and things--Dave flew clean off the handle! And when Sal advised +him to wear his coloured shirt, same as Dad was going to do, and reminded +him that Mary Anderson might n't come at all, he aimed a pillow at her and +knocked Little Bill under the table, and scattered husks all over the +floor. Then he fled to the barn and refused dinner. + +Mid-day, and Dad's pants not found. We searched inside and outside and +round about the pig-sty, and the hay-stack, and the cow-yard; and eyed the +cows, and the pet kangaroo, and the draught-horses with suspicion; but saw +nothing of the pants. Dad was angry, but had to make the most of an old +pair of Dave's through the legs of which Dad thrust himself a lot too far. +Mother and Sal said he looked well enough in them, but laughed when he +went outside. + +The people commenced to arrive on horseback and in drays. The women went +on to the verandah with their babies; the men hung round outside and +waited. Some sat under the peach-tree and nibbled sticks and killed +green-heads; others leant against the fence; while a number gathered round +the pig-sty and talked about curing bacon. + +The parson came along. All of them stared at him; watched him unsaddle +his horse and hunt round for a place to fasten the beast. They regarded +the man in the long black coat with awe and wonder. + +Everything was now ready, and, when Dad carried in the side-boards of the +dray and placed them on boxes for seat accommodation, the clergyman +awaited his congregation, which had collected at the back-door. Anderson +stepped in; the rest followed, timid-looking, and stood round the room +till the clergyman motioned them to sit. They sat and watched him closely. + +"We'll now join in singing hymn 499," said the parson, commencing to sing +himself. The congregation listened attentively, but did n't join in. +The parson jerked his arms encouragingly at them, which only made them the +more uneasy. They did n't understand. He snapped his arms harder, as he +lifted his voice to the rafters; still they only stared. At last Dad +thought he saw through him. He bravely stood up and looked hard at the +others. They took the hint and rose clumsily to their feet, but just then +the hymn closed, and, as no one seemed to know when to sit again, they +remained standing. + +They were standing when a loud whip-crack sounded close to the house, and +a lusty voice roared: + +"Wah Tumbler! Wah Tumbler! Gee back, Brandy! Gee back, +you----!----!!----!!!" + +People smiled. Then a team of bullocks appeared on the road. The driver +drawled, "Wa-a-a-y!" and the team stopped right in front of the door. +The driver lifted something weighty from the dray and struggled to the +verandah with it and dropped it down. It was a man. The bullock-driver, +of course, did n't know that a religious service was being conducted +inside, and the chances are he did n't much care. He only saw a number of +faces looking out, and talked at them. + +"I've a ---- cove here," he said, "that I found lying on the ---- plain. +Gawd knows what's up with him--I don't. A good square feed is about what +he wants, I reckon." Then he went back for the man's swag. + +Dad, after hesitating, rose and went out. The others followed like a +flock of sheep; and the "shepherd" brought up the rear. Church was out. +It gathered around the seeming corpse, and stared hard at it. Dad and +Dave spoke at the same time. + +"Why," they said, "it's the cove with the bear-skin cap!" Sure enough it +was. The clergyman knelt down and felt the man's pulse; then went and +brought a bottle from his valise--he always carried the bottle, he said, +in case of snake-bite and things like that--and poured some of the contents +down the man's throat. The colour began to come to the man's face. The +clergyman gave him some more, and in a while the man opened his eyes. +They rested on Dad, who was bending benignly over him. He seemed to +recognise Dad. He stared for some time at him, then said something in a +feeble whisper, which the clergyman interpreted--"He wishes you--" looking +at Dad--"to get what's in his swag if he dies." Dad nodded, and his +thoughts went sadly back to the day he turned the poor devil out of +the barn. + +They carried the man inside and placed him on the sofa. But soon he took +a turn. He sank quickly, and in a few moments he was dead. In a few +moments more nearly everyone had gone. + +"While you are here," Dad said to the clergyman, in a soft voice, "I'll +open the swag." He commenced to unroll it--it was a big blanket--and when +he got to the end there were his own trousers--the lost ones, nothing +more. Dad's eyes met Mother's; Dave's met Sal's; none of them spoke. But +the clergyman drew his own conclusions; and on the following Sunday, at +Nobby-Nobby, he preached a stirring sermon on that touching bequest of the +man with the bear-skin cap. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + + +One Christmas. + + +Three days to Christmas; and how pleased we were! For months we had +looked forward to it. Kate and Sandy, whom we had only seen once since +they went on their selection, were to be home. Dave, who was away +shearing for the first time, was coming home too. Norah, who had been +away for a year teaching school, was home already. Mother said she looked +quite the lady, and Sal envied the fashionable cut of her dresses. + +Things were in a fair way at Shingle Hut; rain had fallen and everything +looked its best. The grass along the headlands was almost as tall as the +corn; the Bathurst-burr, the Scotch-thistles, and the "stinking Roger" +were taller. Grow! Dad never saw the like. Why, the cultivation was n't +large enough to hold the melon and pumpkin vines--they travelled into the +horse-paddock and climbed up trees and over logs and stumps, and they +would have fastened on the horses only the horses were fat and fresh and +often galloped about. And the stock! Blest if the old cows did n't carry +udders like camp-ovens, and had so much milk that one could track them +everywhere they went--they leaked so. The old plough-horses, too--only a +few months before dug out of the dam with a spade, and slung up between +heaven and earth for a week, and fed and prayed for regularly by +Dad--actually bolted one day with the dray because Joe rattled a dish of +corn behind them. Even the pet kangaroo was nearly jumping out of its +skin; and it took the big black "goanna" that used to come after eggs all +its time to beat Dad from the barn to the nearest tree, so fat was it. +And such a season for butterflies and grasshoppers, and grubs and snakes, +and native bears! Given an ass, an elephant, and an empty wine-bottle or +two, and one might have thought Noah's ark had been emptied at our +selection. + +Two days to Christmas. The sun getting low. An old cow and a heifer in +the stock-yard. Dad in, admiring them; Mother and Sal squinting through +the rails; little Bill perched on one of the round posts, nursing the +steel and a long knife; Joe running hard from the barn with a plough-rein. + +Dad was wondering which beast to kill, and expressed a preference for the +heifer. Mother said, "No, kill the cow." Dad inspected the cow again, +and shook his head. + +"Well, if you don't she'll only die, if the winter's a hard one; then +you'll have neither." That settled it. Dad took the rope from Joe, who +arrived aglow with heat and excitement, and fixed a running noose on one +end of it. Then-- + +"Hunt 'em round!" he cried. + +Joe threw his hat at them, and chased them round and round the yard. +Dad turned slowly in the centre, like a ring-master, his eye on the cow; +a coil of rope was in this left hand, and with the right he measuredly +swung the loop over and over his head for some time. At last the cow gave +him a chance at her horns, and he let fly. The rope whizzed across the +yard, caught little Bill round the neck, and brought him down off the post. +Dad could hardly believe it. He first stared at Bill as he rolled in the +yard, then at the cow. Mother wished to know if he wanted to kill the +boy, and Joe giggled and, with a deal of courage, assured Dad it was "a +fine shot." The cow and the heifer ran into a corner, and switched their +tails, and raked skin and hair off each other with their horns. + +"What do you want to be always stuck in the road for?" Dad growled, taking +the rope off little Bill's neck. "Go away from here altogether!" Little +Bill went away; so did Mother and Sal--until Dad had roped the cow, which +was n't before he twice lassoed the heifer--once by the fore-leg and once +round the flanks. The cow thereupon carried a panel of the yard away, +and got out and careered down the lane, bucking and bellowing till all the +cattle of the country gathered about her. + +Dad's blood was up. He was hanging on to the rope, his heels ploughing +the dust, and the cow pulling him about as she liked. The sun was +setting; a beautiful sunset, too, and Mother and Sal were admiring it. + +"Did y' never see th' blasted sun go--go down be----" Dad did n't finish. +He feet slid under a rail, causing him to relax his grip of the rope and +sprawl in the dust. But when he rose! + +"Are y' going t' stand staring there all night?" They were beside the +rails in an instant, took the end of the rope which he passed to them, +put it once round the gallows-post, and pulled-pulled like sailors. Dad +hung on close to the cow's head, while Joe kicked her with his bare foot +and screwed her tail. + +"Steady!" said Dad, "that'll about do." Then, turning to the women as he +mounted a rail and held the axe above the cow's head: "Hang on there +now!" They closed their eyes and sat back. The cow was very patient. +Dad extended himself for a great effort, but hesitated. Joe called out: +"L-l-ook out th' axe dud-dud-don't fly and gug-gug-get me, Dad!" Dad +glanced quickly at it, and took aim again. Down it came, whish! But the +cow moved, and he only grazed her cheek. She bellowed and pulled back, +and Mother and Sal groaned and let the rope go. The cow swung round and +charged Joe, who was standing with his mouth open. But only a charge of +shot could catch Joe; he mounted the rails like a cat and shook his hat at +the beast below. + +After Dad had nearly brained her with a rail the cow was dragged to the +post again; and this time Dad made no mistake. Down she dropped, and, +before she could give her last kick, all of us entered the yard and +approached her boldly. Dad danced about excitedly, asking for the long +knife. Nobody knew where it was. "DAMN it, where is it?" he cried, +impatiently. Everyone flew round in search of it but Joe. HE was curious +to know if the cow was in milk. Dad noticed him; sprang upon him; seized +him by the shirt collar and swung him round and trailed him through the +yard, saying: "Find me th' knife; d' y' HEAR?" It seemed to sharpen +Joe's memory, for he suddenly remembered having stuck it in one of the +rails. + +Dad bled the beast, but it was late before he had it skinned and dressed. +When the carcase was hoisted to the gallows--and it seemed gruesome enough +as it hung there in the pallid light of the moon, with the night birds +dismally wailing like mourners from the lonely trees--we went home and +had supper. + +Christmas Eve. Mother and Sal had just finished papering the walls, and +we were busy decorating the place with green boughs, when Sandy and Kate, +in their best clothes--Kate seated behind a well-filled pillow-slip +strapped on the front of her saddle; Sandy with the baby in front of +him--came jogging along the lane. There was commotion! Everything was +thrown aside to receive them. They were surrounded at the slip-rails, +and when they got down--talk about kissing! Dad was the only one who +escaped. When the hugging commenced he poked his head under the flap of +Kate's saddle and commenced unbuckling the girth. Dad had been at such +receptions before. But Sandy took it all meekly. And the baby! (the +dear little thing) they scrimmaged about it, and mugged it, and fought for +possession of it until Sandy became alarmed and asked them to "Mind!" + +Inside they sat and drank tea and talked about things that had happened +and things that had n't happened. Then they got back to the baby and +disagreed on the question of family likeness. Kate thought the youngster +was the dead image of Sandy about the mouth and eyes. Sal said it had +Dad's nose; while Mother was reminded of her dear old grandmother every +time the infant smiled. Joe ventured to think it resembled Paddy Maloney +far more than it did Sandy, and was told to run away and put the calves +in. The child was n't yet christened, and the rest of the evening was +spent selecting a name for it. Almost every appellation under the sun was +suggested and promptly rejected. They could n't hit on a suitable one, +and Kate would n't have anything that was n't nice, till at last Dad +thought of one that pleased everybody--"Jim!" + +After supper, Kate started playing the concertina, and the Andersons and +Maloneys and several others dropped in. Dad was pleased to see them; he +wished them all a merry Christmas, and they wished him the same and many +of them. Then the table was put outside, and the room cleared for a +dance. The young people took the floor and waltzed, I dare say, for +miles--their heads as they whirled around tossing the green bushes that +dangled from the rafters; while the old people, with beaming faces, +sat admiring them, and swaying their heads about and beating time to the +music by patting the floor with their feet. Someone called out "Faster!" +Kate gave it faster. Then to see them and to hear the rattle of the boots +upon the floor! You'd think they were being carried away in a whirlwind. +All but Sal and Paddy Maloney gave up and leant against the wall, and +puffed and mopped their faces and their necks with their +pocket-handkerchiefs. + +Faster still went the music; faster whirled Sal and Paddy Maloney. And +Paddy was on his mettle. He was lifting Sal off her feet. But Kate was +showing signs of distress. She leaned forward, jerked her head about, +and tugged desperately at the concertina till both handles left it. That +ended the tussle; and Paddy spread himself on the floor, his back to the +wall, his legs extending to the centre of the room, his chin on his chest, +and rested. + +Then enjoyment at high tide; another dance proposed; Sal trying hard to +persuade Dad to take Mother or Mrs. Maloney up; Dad saying "Tut, tut, +tut!"--when in popped Dave, and stood near the door. He had n't changed +his clothes, and was grease from top to toe. A saddle-strap was in one +hand, his Sunday clothes, tied up in a handkerchief, in the other, and his +presence made the room smell just like a woolshed. + +"Hello, Dave!" shouted everyone. He said "Well!" and dropped his hat in a +corner. No fuss, no kissing, no nothing about Dave. Mother asked if he +did n't see Kate and Sandy (both were smiling across the room at him), +and he said "Yairs"; then went out to have a wash. + +All night they danced--until the cocks crew--until the darkness gave way to +the dawn--until the fowls left the roost and came round the door--until it +was Christmas Day! + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of On Our Selection, by Steele Rudd + diff --git a/old/onssr10.zip b/old/onssr10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d04c421 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/onssr10.zip |