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

knew I was forgetting something⁠—but how could that be, when, in the most restricted sense of the word, I had nothing to forget?

Thus musing, I had gone through half my provant; now I turned round to give the rest to ⸻ Ah! where was Pup? I knew he had followed me on my first journey up the drain, but I hadn’t seen him since, and had been too busy to notice his absence. He would probably be at the farmhouse. I must get my clothes changed, and look after him.

It was about a mile and a half northward to the river. Before reaching it, I saw, crossing the flat in the direction of the Victorian river road, a swagman whom I recognised in the distance as my friend Andy. In casual surprise⁠—for, as you may remember, I had last seen him on the New South Wales side, eight or ten miles away, and going in the opposite direction⁠—I went on without exchange of greeting. Shortly afterwards, I came plump upon Abraham, sitting on his horse, and talking to a young fellow with an axe on his shoulder. I respectfully swerved aside, not wishing, in this particular case, to come under the provisions of that unsound rule which judges a man by the clothes he wears.

Presently I became aware of the jingle of a horse-bell, and the smoke of a campfire; and, close to the river, I found a tilted spring-cart, near which an elderly man, with tattooed arms, sat on a log, enjoying his after-breakfast smoke. Now, if I had only known this a couple of hours earlier!

After the usual civilities, I reinforced my provant by a pannikin of tea, some fried fish, and a slice off the edge of a damper which rivalled the nether millstone in more than one respect; thus assuring myself that I had attained Carlyle’s definition of a man: “An omnivorous biped that wears ⸻.” Meanwhile, in response to my host’s invitation to tell him what I was lagged for, I explained that I was travelling; my horses were on the other side of the river; I had come across to see a friend, had been bushed all night, and wanted to get back.

He could manage the river for me, he said. He followed fishing and duck-shooting for a living; but there was so many informers about these times that a man had to keep his weather-eye open if he wanted to use a net or a punt-gun. People needn’t be so particular, for there was ole Q⁠⸺ had been warning and threatening him yesterday, and here was the two young Q⁠⸺⁠s out this morning at the skreek of daylight, falling red-gum spars to build a big shed, and the ole (man) out on horseback, picking the best saplings on the river. Ole Q⁠⸺ was a J.P. His place was just across the flat, with a garden reaching down to the lagoon. Q⁠⸺ himself was the two ends and the bight of a sanguinary dog.

After breakfast, the old fellow furnished me with smoking-tackle, and paddled me across the river. During the passage, for want of something else to say, I mentioned to him that I had seen Andy crossing the flat, apparently from his camp. He explained that the swagman had been on his way to a new sawmill, the day before, but had met one of the owners, who told him the mill wouldn’t start till after harvest, and promised him work on the farm in the meantime. So Andy, on his return journey, had seen the outlaw’s fire in the dusk; and, after someone-sided conversation across the river, the latter had ferried him over, and entertained him for the night. I mention this merely to show with what waste of energy the so-called sundowner often hunts for work, particularly if he happens to be the victim of any physical infirmity.

On reaching the north bank, I reminded the old fellow that I wanted to return by-and-by to look after a dog I had lost when I was bushed; and he promised to bring his skiff for me when I would sing-out.

In a couple of hours I was at my camp. In another fifteen minutes I was arrayed in my best and only. Shortly afterward, my horses were equipped, and Cleopatra being in fine trim, was bucking furiously in the sand-bed where I had mounted. In an hour and a half more, I had unsaddled and hobbled both horses on a patch of good grass, nearly opposite where the spring-cart stood. My persecuted acquaintance, in response to my coo-ee, appeared with his skiff, and ferried me over. Then I hurried across the flat, to the residence of Mr. Q⁠⸺. A man loses no time when such a dog as Pup is at stake.

It couldn’t have been later than half-past-one when I walked up along the garden fence, and approached the door of the kitchen. A modest-looking and singularly handsome girl had just filled a bucket of water at the water-slide, and was hammering the peg into the barrel with an old pole-pin. I recognised her as Jim, and forgave her on sight.

“Good day to you, ma’am,” said I affably. “Sultry weather isn’t it? I’m looking for a big blue kangaroo dog, with a red leather collar. Answers to the name of ‘Pup.’ ”

She hesitated a moment. “You better see my father. He’s at dinner. Will you come this way, please.”

I followed her into the parlour. In passing through the kitchen, I noticed that dinner was over, and a second young woman⁠—apparently the original owner of my boots⁠—was disposing the crockery on the dresser. In the parlour, Mr. Q⁠⸺, a man of overpowering dignity, redolent of the Bench, and, as I think, his age some fifty, or by’r lady inclining to threescore, was dining in solitary grandeur, waited on by young woman number three. Lucullus was dining with Lucullus.

“Good day, sir,” said I, with a respectful salaam. “Have I the honour of addressing Mr. Q⁠⸺?”

“Your business, sir?” he