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

tucker-box. “Is this Martin?⁠—” for the man on the grey horse was approaching at a canter.

“No,” I replied; “he’s a stranger to me.”

“But that’s Martin on the brown horse,” said Thompson, with rising vexation. “Keep him on a string, Tom, if you can. Don’t let him drive us into a lie about last night, for, after all, I’ll be hanged if I’m man enough to tell him the truth, nor won’t be for the next fortnight or three weeks.”

By this time, the man on the grey horse was passing us. In response to Thompson’s invitation, he stopped and dismounted.

“Jist help yourself, an’ your friends’ll like you the better, as the sayin’ is,” said Cooper, handing him a pannikin.

“Thanks. I’ll do so; I didn’t have any breakfast this morning,” replied the stranger, picking up a johnnycake (which liberal shepherds give a grosser name), and eating it with relish, while the interior lamina of dough spued out from between the charred crusts under the pressure of his strong teeth. “Been having a little mishap?”

“Yes; nothing broke, though.”

“How long since my lads passed? I see their tracks on the road.”

“About three hours,” replied Thompson. “Did you meet an old man and a young fellow, with wool-grey horse behind one of the wagons? Good day, Mr. Martin. Have a drink of tea?”

“Yes, I met them,” replied the stranger. “Old Price’s teams, I think⁠—Good day, Martin⁠—six or seven miles from here; Dixon travelling behind, with another fellow driving his team⁠—long-lost brother, apparently.”

“Where did you fellows have your bullocks last night?” demanded Martin, his eye resting on the sun-cracked stucco which covered three-fourths of Damper’s colossal personality.

“And did you see a dark chestnut horse; bang tail; star and snip; white hind feet; saddle and bridle on?” I asked. “I ran across Moriarty this morning,” I continued, turning politely to Martin; “and he told me he was after a horse of that description; but he was in a hurry⁠—”

“Dark chestnut horse; bang tail; star and snip; white hind feet; JR near shoulder; like 2 in circle off thigh,” said the stranger reflectively. “Yes; I saw the horse this morning, but the owner has got him again⁠—redheaded young fellow; tweed pants, strapped with moleskin. I met him at the Nalrooka boundary shortly after sunrise⁠—thirty miles from here, I should say. I was speaking to him. He told me the horse had slung him and got away from him last night, and he had found him by good luck before daylight this morning. He came down on his hand, poor beggar; it’s swelled like a boxing-glove. But he’s taking it out of the horse.”

Now, in the Riverina of that period, it was considered much more disgraceful to be had by a scoundrel than to commit a felony yourself; therefore Martin, partly grasping the situation, assumed an oblivious, and even drowsy, air.

“Did the young fellow say where he was going?” I asked, pitying Martin’s dilemma, and admiring his greatness of soul, for I had more than once been there myself.

“No; he only wanted to borrow a pipe of tobacco; but after we parted I saw him strike out across the plain to the right.”

Martin yawned, turned his horse, and rode slowly toward the selection. Very slowly, so that the stranger might overtake him soon. Come weal, come woe, he wouldn’t trail his honour in the dust before three cynical onlookers.

“Well, I’ll push on,” said the stranger, setting down his pannikin. “I want to pull my chaps, and I’m thinking about my horse. I say”⁠—glancing after Martin, and lowering his voice⁠—“you fellows have a devil of a bad show for tonight.”

“You’re right,” replied Thompson.

“Tell you what you’ll do: Camp at the belars, and they’ll think you’re on for the ration-paddock; then, between the two lights, just scoot for the Dead Horse Swamp.”

“Never any grass there,” said Thompson.

“That’s the beauty of it,” replied the stranger. “They’ve been putting down a tank in the middle of the swamp this winter; and the contractor had about a dozen young fellows, every one of them with a horse and a dog, kicking up (sheol)’s delight. There hasn’t been a smell of a sheep within coo-ee of the swamp for the last three months; and the paddock was mustered for shearing just before the contractor left. It’s into your hand for tonight. Well, I must⁠—”

“I beg your pardon,” said Thompson hesitatingly⁠—“Are you coming direct from Hay?”

“Well, I left on Saturday morning.”

“The mailman was telling me,” continued Thompson wistfully, “that Permewan and Wright had three ton of dynamite for Broken Hill. Do you know is it gone yet?”

“Not when I left,” replied the Encyclopedia Australiensis. “They’re offering eighty, and I’ve no doubt they’ll spring to a hundred. Extra-hazardous tack; and there’s not a blade of grass once you pass the Merowie. Good day, boys.” And, nodding to us collectively, he departed.

“Steve,” said I; “are you a man to go fooling with high explosives⁠—considering the thing that’s on you?”

“Well,” replied Thompson doggedly, “it’s come to this with me, that I must make a spoon or spoil a horn; and if that infernal thing would only keep off till I got the stuff delivered, I’d be right. My bullocks are fit for any track in Australia.”

“Let’s git down to Hay fust,” interposed Cooper; “then you can do as you like; but I’ll be wantin’ a waybill that’ll take me safe out o’ Port Phillip. Say, Collins; I’ll buy that new saddle off o’ you. Mine’s all in splinters, for my horse he’s a beggar to roll.”

“I’d hardly feel justified in selling it,” I replied. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll sell you my own saddle cheap⁠—say, three notes⁠—and give you Bum’s bridle in.”

Cooper agreed to the proposal. Then, as Pup had been eating about ten pounds of salt mutton, stolen from the bullock drivers’ stores, I enticed him to take a good drink of water, knowing he would need it before the day was over. It was absolutely imperative that I should go thirty miles, and then, if