Robbery Under Arms Rolf Boldrewood (best way to read an ebook .TXT) 📖

was money well spent, and, you mark my words, a shilling spent in grog often buys a man twenty times the worth of it in information, let alone a pound.

Billy had grown a squarish-set, middle-sized chap; his hair wasn’t so long, and his clothes were better; his eye was as bright and bold-looking. As he stood tapping one of his boots with his whip, he looked for all the world like a bull-terrier.

“My colonial oath, Dick, you’re quite the gentleman⁠—free with your money just the same as ever. You takes after the old governor; he always paid well if you told him the truth. I remember him giving me a hidin’ when I was a kiddy for saying something I wasn’t sure of. My word! I was that sore for a week after I couldn’t button my shirt. But ain’t it a pity about Jim?”

“Oh, that’s it. What about Jim?”

“Why, the p’leece grabbed him, of course. You fellers don’t think you’re going on forever and ever, keepin’ the country in a state of terrorism, as the papers say. No, Dick, it’s wrong and wicked and sinful. You’ll have to knock under and give us young uns a chance.”

Here the impudent young rascal looked in my face as bold as brass and burst out laughing. He certainly was the cheekiest young scoundrel I ever came across. But in his own line you couldn’t lick him.

“Jim’s took,” he said, and he looked curiously over at me. “I seen the p’leece a-takin’ him across the country to Bargo early this morning. There was poor old Jim a-lookin’ as if he was goin’ to be hanged, with a chap leading the screw he was on, and Jim’s long legs tied underneath. I was gatherin’ cattle, I was. I drew some up just for a stall, and had a good look.”

“How many men were with him?”

“Only two; and they’re to pass through Bargo Brush about sundown tonight, or a bit earlier. I asked one of the men the road; said I’d lost myself, and would be late home. Ha! ha! ha!”

And how the young villain laughed till the tears came into his eyes, while he danced about like a blackfellow.

“See here, Billy,” I said, “here’s another pound for you, and there’ll be a fiver after if you stick well to me today. I won’t let Jim be walked off to Berrima without a flutter to save him. It’ll be the death of him. He’s not like me, and he’s got a young wife besides.”

“More fool he, Dick. What does a cross cove want with a wife? He can’t never expect to do any good with a wife follerin’ of him about. I’m agin marrying, leastways as long as a chap’s sound on his pins. But I’ll stick to you, Dick, and, what’s more, I can take you a shortcut to the brush, and we can wait in a gully and see the traps come up. You have a snack and lie down for a bit. I seen you were done when you came up. I’ll have the horses ready saddled up.”

“How about the police? Suppose they come this way.”

“Not they. They split and took across towards the Mountain Hut, where you all camped with the horses. I didn’t see ’em; but I cut their tracks. Five shod horses. They might be here tomorrow.”

A bush telegraph ain’t a bad thing. They’re not all as good as Billy the Boy. But the worst of ’em, like a bad sheep dog, is a deal better than none.

A bush telegraph, you see, is mostly worked about the neighbourhood he was born in. He’s not much good anywhere else. He’s like a blackfellow outside of his own “tauri.” He’s at sea. But within twenty or thirty miles of where he was born and bred he knows every track, every range, every hill, every creek, as well as all the shortcuts and byroads. He can bring you miles shorter than anyone that only follows the road. He can mostly track like a blackfellow, and tell you whether the cattle or horses which he sees the tracks of are belonging to his country or are strangers. He can get you a fresh horse on a pinch, night or day, for he knows everybody’s paddocks and yards, as well as the number, looks, pace, and pluck of everybody’s riding horses⁠—of many of which he has “taken a turn” out of⁠—that is, ridden them hard and far, and returned them during the night. Of course he can be fined⁠—even imprisoned for this⁠—when he is caught in the act. Herein lies the difficulty. I felt like another man after a wash, a nip, and a real good meal, with the two girls sitting close by, and chattering away as usual.

“Do you know,” says Bella, “it half serves you right. Not that that Port Phillip woman was right to peach. She ought to have had her tongue torn out first, let alone go open-mouthed at it. But mightn’t you have come down here from the Turon on Sundays and holidays now and then, and had a yarn with us all?”

“Of course we ought, and we deserve to be kicked⁠—the lot of us; but there were good reasons why we didn’t like to. We were regularly boxed up with the diggers, nobody knew who we were, or where we came from, and only for this Jezebel never would have known. If we’d come here they’d have all dropped that we were old friends, and then they’d have known all about us.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve lost your characters,” says Maddie. “You won’t have to be so particular now, and you can come as often as Sir Ferdinand will let you. Goodbye. Billy’s waving his hat.”

It wasn’t long before I was in the saddle and off again. I’d made a bit of a bargain with Jonathan, who sold me a pair of riding boots, butcher’s, and a big tweed poncho. The boots were easier to take a long rough