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

A cud kerry thon wee shilty ondher may oxther! Ye have a right till be givin’ me a thrifle fur luck. A’ll let ye aff we two notes.”

But after five minutes’ more palaver, M’Nab agreed to an even swap. I had pen and ink in my pocket; my notebook supplied paper; and receipts were soon exchanged. Then the saddles were shifted, and we cantered ahead till we rejoined Thompson. I tied my new acquisition behind the wagon, where, for the first five minutes, he severely tested the inch rope which secured him.

“Now, Mr. M’Nab,” said I, “I’ll give you my word that the mare is just what you see. You may as well tell me what’s wrong with the horse?”

“Ax Billy about thon. Mebbe he’s foun’ out some thricks, or somethin’.”

“Well, look here,” said Billy devoutly⁠—“I hope Gord’ll strike me stark, stiff, stone dead off o’ this saddle if the horse has any tricks, or anythin’ wrong with him, no more nor the man in the moon. Onna bright. There! I’ve swore it.”

“Well, the mare is as good as gold,” I reiterated. “She’s one among a hundred. Call her Fancy.”

“The horse’s name’s Clayopathra,” rejoined M’Nab; “an’ by gog ye’ll fine him wan out iv a thousan’. A chris’ned him Clayopathra, fur A thought till run him.”

“A very good name too,” I replied affably. “I should be sorry to change it.”

And I never did change it, though, often afterward, men of clerkly attainments took me aside and kindly pointed out what they conceived to be a blunder. I have dwelt, perhaps tediously, upon this swap; my excuses are⁠—first, that, having made few such good bargains during the days of my vanity, the memory is a pleasant one; and, second, that the horse will necessarily play a certain part in these memoirs.

“Well, we’ll be pushin’ an, Billy,” said M’Nab; “the sun’s gittin’ low. An’ you needn’t tail me up enny fardher,” he added, turning to Rufus. “Loaf an these people the night. A man thravellin’ his lone, an’ nat a shillin’ in his pocket!”

“O, go an’ bark up a tree, you mongrel!” replied the war-material, with profusion of adjective. “Fat lot o’ good tailin’ you up! A man that sets down to his dinner without askin’ another man whether he’s got a mouth on him or not! Polite sort o’ (person) you are! Gerrout! you bin dragged up on the cheap!”

“Come! A’ll bate ye fifty poun’ A’m betther rairt nor you! Houl’ an’!⁠—A’ll bate ye a hundher’⁠—two hundher’, if ye lek, an’ stake the money down this minit⁠—”

“Stiddy, now! draw it mild, you fellers there!” thundered Cooper from behind. “Mustn’t have no quarrellin’ while I’m knockin’ round.”

“Ye’ll be late gittin’ to the ram-paddock, Tamson,” remarked M’Nab, treating Cooper with the silent contempt usually lavished upon men of his physique. “Axpect thon’s where ye’re makin’ fur?”

“I say⁠—you better camp with us tonight,” suggested Thompson, evading the implied inquiry.

Without replying, the contractor put his horse into a canter, and, accompanied by his esquire, went on his way, pausing only to speak to Mosey for a few minutes as he passed the foremost team.

“Curious sample o’ (folks) you drop across on the track sometimes,” remarked Rufus, who remained with us.

“No end to the variety,” I replied. Then lowering my voice and glancing furtively round, I asked experimentally, “Haven’t I seen you before, somewhere?”

“Queensland, most likely,” he conjectured, whilst finding something of interest on the horizon, at the side farthest from me. “Native o’ that district, I am. Jist comin’ across for the fust time. What’s that bloke’s name with the nex’ team ahead⁠—if it’s a fair question?”

“Bob Dixon.”

“Gosh, I’m in luck!” He spurred his mare forward, and attached himself to Dixon for the rest of the afternoon.

But time, according to its deplorable habit, had been passing, and the glitter had died off the plain as the sun went on its way to make a futile attempt at purifying the microbe-laden atmosphere of Europe.

At last we reached the spot selected as a camp. Close on our left was the clump of swamp box which covered about fifty acres of the nearer portion of the selection, leaving a few scattered trees outside the fence. On our right, the bare plain extended indefinitely.

I ought to explain that this selection was a mile-square block, which had been taken up, four years previously, by a business man of Melbourne, whose aim was to show the public how to graze scientifically on a small area. Now Runnymede owned the selection, whilst its former occupier was vending sixpenny parcels of inferior fruit on a railway platform. The fence⁠—erected by the experimentalist⁠—was of the best kind; two rails and four wires; sheep-proof and cattle-proof.

The wagons drew off the track, and stopped beside the fence in the deepening twilight. The bullocks were unyoked with all speed, and stood around waiting to see what provision would be made for the night.

“Look ’ere,” said Mosey, taking a dead pine sapling from the stock of firewood under his wagon, and, of course, emphasising his address by an easy and not ungraceful clatter of the adjective used so largely by poets in denunciation of war⁠—“we ain’t goin’ to travel these carrion a mile to the gate, an’ most likely fine it locked when we git there. Hold on till I git my internal machine to work on the fence. Dad! Where’s that ole morepoke? O, you’re there, are you? Fetch the jack off o’ your wagon⁠—come! fly roun’! you’re (very) slow for a young fellow. Bum,” (abbreviation of “bummer,” and applied to the redheaded fellow) “you surround them carrion, or we’ll be losin’ the run o’ them two steers.”

A low groan from Bum’s mare followed the heavy stroke of the ruffian’s spurs. “Some o’ you other (fellows) keep roun’ that side,” said he; “I’ll go this road. Up! you Red Roverite!”⁠—No use⁠ ⁠… The mare had had enough for one day; she stumbled, and fell, rolling heavily over her rider. “What the (quadruple expletive)’s the matter with her?” he continued,