Such Is Life Joseph Furphy (ebook reader screen .TXT) 📖

know?’ They know a ’ell of a lot! Has the sayin’ his:⁠—‘Onct boys was boys, an’ men was men; but now boys his men, an’ men’s⁠—”(I didn’t catch the rest of the sentence). “Han what were the hupshot? W’y, fact was Cunnigam an’ Thompson ’ad bin workin’ hon hour ram-paddick wun night; an’ six Wogger steers got away, an’ a stag amongst ’em; makin’ f’r home; an’ they left a whaler mindin’ the wagons; an’ the two o’ them hover’auled the steers way down hin hour Sedan Paddick. Well, heverybody⁠—Muster Magomery his self, no less⁠—heverybody ses, ‘Ole hon t’ we gits a holt of ’em fellers’ mongreals!⁠—bin leavin’ three o’ hour gates hopen; an’ the yowes an’ weaners is boxed; an’ puttin’ a file through Nosey Half’s ’oss-paddick, an’ workin’ hon it with ’er steers!’ ‘Stiddy!’ ses Hi⁠—‘w’e’s y’r proofs?’ Way it war, Collings; ’ere come a dose o’ rain jis’ harter, an’ yer couldn’t track. Well, wot war the hupshot? W’y, Warrigal Half war hunloadin’ hat Boottara; an’ a yaller bullick ’e ’d got, Pilot by name⁠—”

“Yes,” I gently interposed. “Well, I’ll have to be⁠—”

“ ‘Is Pilot starts by night f’m Boottara ration-paddick, an’ does ’is thirty mile to hour ’oss-paddick; an’ the hull menagerie tailin’ harter. ‘Shove ’em in ’e yaad, Toby,’ ses Muster Magomery. Presinkly, up comes Half, an ’is ’oss hall of a lather. ‘Take yer dem mongreals,’ ses Muster Magomery; ‘an’ don’ hoversleep y’self agin.’ Think Half war goin’ ter flog ’is hanimals thirty mile back? Not ’im⁠—”

“It would hardly be right,” I agreed. “Well, I must be jogging⁠—”

“Not ’im,” pursued Jack. “ ’E turns horf o’ the main track t’ other side the ram-paddick; through the Patagoniar; leaves hall gates hopen; fetches Nosey’s place harter dark; houts file, an’ hin with ’is mob, an’ gives ’m a g⁠⸺⁠tful. Course, ’e clears befo’ mo’nin’; an’ through hour Sedan Paddick, an’ back to Boottara that road. ’Ow do Hi know hall this?⁠—ses you?”

“Ah!” said I wisely. “Well, I must be⁠—”

“No; you’re in for it,” chuckled Moriarty.

“Tole me ’is hown self, not three weeks agone. Camped hat hour ram-paddick, shiftin’ Stewart’s things to Queensland. An’ wot war the hupshot? ‘Stiddy, now,’ ses Hi⁠—‘w’e’s y’ proofs?’ ‘Some o’ these young pups horter take a lessing horf o’ you, Jack,’ ses you, jist now. You’re right, Collings. Did n’ Hi say, las’ lambin’⁠—did n’ Hi say we war a-gwain ter hev sich anuther year as sixty-hate? Mostly kettle wot we hed then, afore the wool rose; an’ wild dogs bein’ plentiful them times; an’ we’d a sort o’ ’ead stock-keeper, name o’ Bob Selkirk; an’ this feller ’e started f’m ’ere with hate ’underd an’ fo’ty sebm ’ead⁠—”

“And he would have his work cut out for him,” I remarked, in cordial assent. “You’ve seen some changes on this station, Jack. Well, I must be going.”

Leaving the old fellow talking, I threw the reins over Cleopatra’s head, and drew the near one a little the tightest. He stood motionless as a statue, and beautiful as a poet’s dream.

“Wouldn’t think that horse had a devil in him as big as a bulldog,” observed the horse-driver. “Shake the soul-bolt out of a man, s’posen you do stick to him.”

“And yet Collins can’t ride worth a cuss,” contributed Moriarty confidentially. “He’s just dropped to this fellow’s style. Boss wanted to see him on our Satan, but Collins knew a thundering sight better.”

A slight, loose-built lad, with a spur trailing at his right heel, advanced from the group.

“Would you mind lettin’ me take the featheredge off o’ this feller?” he asked modestly. “If he slings me, you can git onto him while he’s warm, an’ no harm done. I’d like to try that saddle,” he added, by way of excuse. “Minds me o’ one I got shook, five months ago, with a redheaded galoot I’d bin treatin’ like a brother, on account of him bein’ fly-blowed, an’ the both of us travellin’ the same road. Best shape saddle I ever had a leg over, that was. Will I have a try?”

“Not worth while, Jack,” I replied. “He might prop a little, certainly; but it’s only playfulness.” So I swung into the deep seat of the stolen saddle, and lightly touched the lotus-loving Memphian with both spurs.

First, a reeling, dancing, uncertain panorama of buildings, fences, and spectators; then a mechanical response to the surging, jerking, concussive saddle, and a guarded strain on the dragging reins. Also a tranquil cognisance of favourable comment, exchanged by competent judges⁠—no excitement, no admiration, remember; not a trace of new-chum interest, but a certain dignified and judicious approbation, honourable alike to critic and artist. Fools admire, but men of wit approve.

“You see, it’s⁠—only playfulness⁠—I remarked indifferently; the words being punctuated by necessity, rather than by choice. Magnificent, but⁠—not war. There’s not a-shadow of vice in his composition. As the poet says:⁠—

This is mere⁠—madness,
And thus awhile the⁠—fit will work⁠—on him.
Anon as patient as the female⁠—dove,
When that her⁠—golden couplets have disclosed,
His silence will⁠—sit drooping.

There you are!” And Cleopatra stood still; slightly panting, it is true, but with lamblike guilelessness in his madonna face.

Then, as the toilers of the station slowly dispersed to see about getting up an appetite for supper, Moriarty advanced, and laid both hands on Cleopatra’s mane.

“Collins!” he exclaimed; “I’m better pleased than if I had won ten bob. What do you think?⁠—that verse you quoted from Shakespeare brought the question to my mind like a shot of a gun; the very question I wanted to ask you a couple of hours ago. I know it’s been asked before; in fact, I met with it in an English magazine, where the writer uses the very words you quoted just now. I thought perhaps you had never met with the question, and it might interest you⁠—Was Hamlet mad?”

Of some few amiable qualities with which it has pleased heaven to endow me beyond the majority of my fellows, a Marlborough-temper is by no means the least in importance. I looked down in