“The Phantom Knight, his glory fled,
Mourns o’er the fields he heaped with dead.“—_Scott._
Jack had the privilege of lifting Maud from her horse, and then their
three nags were unsaddled and hobbled. Rejoicing in this “constitutional
freedom,” they availed themselves of it to the extent of drinking of the
lake, rolling in the sand, and cropping with relish the long grass which
only grew on the lake-side.
“Here is the very spot—how strange it seems!” said Mark, “that we should
be drinking bottled ale and eating _pâtés de foie gras_ just where
spears were flying and guns volleying. It was night, however, when we
made our charge. We had been tracking all day, and were guided by their
fires latterly.”
“Did they make much of a fight?” asked Jack.
“They were plucky enough for a while. Our party had a few nasty wounds.
They had some advantage in throwing their spears, as they were close,
and we could not see them as well as they saw us. Poor old Bob! the
spear that killed him was a long slender one. It went nearly through
him. They took to the lake at last.”
“And have they never inhabited these miamis since?” asked Maud.
“Never, from that day to this. Blacks are very superstitious. They
believe in all kinds of demons and spirits. You ask Wildduck when she
comes up.”
They walked over the “dark and bloody ground” when the repast was over.
There were the ruined wigwams just as their occupants had fled from them
at the first volley of their white foes, nearly a generation since.
Marks of haste were apparent. The wooden buckets used for water, and
scooped from the bole of a tree, a boomerang or two, a broken spear,
mouldered away together.
“The situation,” said Jack, “is not without a tinge of romance. This
isn’t particularly like Highland scenery; and blacks always return and
carry off their dead, if possible; otherwise Sir Walter’s lines might
stand fairly descriptive—
“‘A dreary glen—
Where scattered lay the bones of men,
In some forgotten battle slain,
And bleached by drifting wind and rain.’”
“It must be a terrible thing in a deed like this not to be _quite_
certain whether one was in the right or not. Very likely some of those
buccaneers of stockmen provoked this tribe, if you only knew it, Mark.”
“Perhaps they did, my dear—more than likely. But we had only plain facts
to go upon. They were killing our cattle and servants. We did not
declare war. It was the other way. Injustice may have been done, but my
conscience is clear.”
“There comes old man Jack, and Mrs. old man Jack, collectively,” said
Redgrave. “Let us hear what they say about it.”
Slowly, and with sad countenances, the little band approached, and sat
down at a short distance from the luncheon. They were regaled with the
delicacies of civilization. Maud administered port wine to Wildduck,
and, guardedly, to old Nannie. The others declined the juice of the
grape, but partook freely of the eatables.
“Now, then, Wildduck,” said Redgrave, “tell us anything you know about
this battle. Your people never lived here since?”
“Never, take my oath,” said Wildduck, “never no more—too many wandings
(demons). One black fellow sleep there one night, years ago; he frighten
to death—close up. He tell me——-”
“What did he tell you, Wildduck?” said Maud.
“Well,” began the girl, sitting down on her heels in the soft grass, “he
was out after cattle and tracked ’em here at sundown. So he says, ‘I’ll
camp at the old miamis, blest if I don’t. Baal me frighten,’ he say.
Well, he lie down long a that middle big one miami and go fast asleep.
In the middle of the night he wake up. _All the place was full of
blacks._ Plenty—plenty,” spreading out both her hands. “They ran about
with spears, and womrahs, and heilaman. Then he saw white fellows, and
fire came out of their guns. Very dark night. Then a white fellow, big
man with red hair, fire twice—clear light shine, and he saw a tall black
fellow send spear right through him. He say,” said the girl, lowering
her voice, “just like old man Jack.”
“This _is_ something like the legitimate drama, Miss Stangrove,” said
Jack. “You see there is more good, solid tragedy in Australian life than
you fancied.”
“Go on, Wildduck,” said she. “What a strange scene—only to imagine! What
happened then?”
“When white fellow fall down, the tall black fellow give a great jump,
and shout out, only he hear nothing. Then all the blacks make straight
into the lake. He look again—all gone—he hear ’possum, night-owl—that’s
all.”
“And do you believe he saw anything _really_, Wildduck? Come now, tell
the truth,” cross-examined Mark.
“Well, Charley, big one, frighten; I see that myself. But he took a
bottle from the Mailman’s Arms, and he’d never wait till he saw the
bottom—I know that. Here come old man Jack; he look very queer, too.”
The old savage had begun to walk up towards the spot where they had
gathered rather closely together in the interest of Wildduck’s legend.
There was, as she had said, something strange in his appearance.
He walked in a slow and stately manner; he held himself unusually erect.
From time to time he glanced at the old encampment, then at the lake.
His face lit up with the fire of strong passion, and then he would
mutter to himself, as if recalling the past.
“Ask him what he is thinking about, Wildduck,” said Mark.
The girl spoke a few words to the old man. It was the philter that
renews youth, the memory of the passionate past. He stalked forward with
the gait of a warrior. Shaking off the fetters of age, he trod lightly
upon the well-known scene of conflict, with upraised head and lifted
hand. Words issued from his lips with a fiery energy, such as none
present had ever witnessed in him.
“He say,” commenced Wildduck, “this the place where his tribe fight the
white man, long time ago. Misser Stangrove young feller then. Many black
fellow shot—so many—so many (here she spread out her open palms). By and
by all run into lake.”
“Does he remember Red Bob being killed?” asked Maud.
“Red Wanding,” cried the girl, still translating the old man’s speech,
which rolled forth in faltering and passionate tones, “he knew well;
that debil-debil shoot picaninny belonging to him—little girl—‘poor
little girl’ he say. (Here the gray chieftain threw up his arms wildly
towards the sky, while hot tears fell from the eyes still glaring with
unsated wrath and revenge.) He say, before that he always friend to
white fellow—no let black fellow spear cattle.”
“Ask him where _he_ was himself that night,” said Mark.
The inquiry was put to him. Old man Jack replied not for a few moments;
then he walked slowly forward to a large hollow log of the
slowly-rotting eucalyptus, which had lain for a score of years scarce
perceptibly hastening on its path of slow decay. Stooping suddenly, he
thrust in his long arm and withdrew a spear. It was mouldering with age,
but still showed by its sharpened point and smoothed edges how dangerous
a weapon it had been. He felt the point, touched a darkened stain which
reached to a foot from the end, and, suddenly throwing himself with
lightning-like rapidity into the attitude of a thrower of the javelin,
shouted a name thrice with a demoniac malevolence which curdled the
hearts of the hearers. He then snapped the decayed lance, and, throwing
the pieces at Mark’s feet with a softened and humble gesture, relapsed
into his old mute, emotionless manner, and strode away along the border
of the lake.
“He say,” concluded Wildduck, with a half confidential manner, “that
_he_ spear Red Bob that night with _that one spear_. He hide ’em in log,
and never see it again till this day.”
“Some secrets are well kept,” said Mark. “If it had been known within a
few years after the fight, old man Jack would have been shot half a
dozen times over. Now, no one would think of avenging Red Bob’s death
more than that of Julius Cæsar. After all, it was a fair fight; and I
believe old man Jack’s story.”
“Well, I shall never laugh at bush warfare again,” said Maud; “there is
sad earnest sufficient for anybody in this tale.”
“We may as well be turning our horses’ heads homeward. Wildduck, you
come up to-morrow and get something for your cough.”
“Come up now,” accepted Wildduck, with great promptitude. “Too much
frightened of Wanding to-night to stop here.”
A brisk gallop home shook off some of the influences of their somewhat
eerie adventure. Maud strove to keep up the lively tone of her ordinary
conversation, but did not wholly succeed. Her subdued bearing rendered
her, in Jack’s eyes, more irresistible than before. He was rapidly
approaching that helpless stage when, in moods of grave or gay, a man
sees only the absolute perfection of his exemplar of all feminine
graces. From the last pitying glance which Maud bestowed on Wildduck, to
the frank kiss which she so lovingly pressed on Mameluke’s neck as she
dismounted, Jack only recognized the rare combination of lofty sentiment
with a warm and affectionate nature.
Next morning Jack was under marching orders. He had left M‘Nab
sufficiently long by himself, in case anything of the nature of work
turned up. He had secured an extremely pleasant change from the monotony
of home. He had, most undeniably, acquired one or more new ideas. How
regretfully he saw Mark finish his breakfast, and wait to say good-bye,
preparatory to a long day’s ride after those eternal shepherds!
“You must come and see us again,” said Mrs. Stangrove, properly careful
to retain the acquaintance of an agreeable neighbour and an eligible
_parti_. “You have no excuse now. We shall not believe in the use and
value of your fencing if it won’t provide you with a little leisure
sometimes.”
“You must all come and see me before shearing,” rejoined he. “I shall
make a stand on my rights in etiquette, and refuse to come again before
you have ‘returned my call,’ as ladies say. I have several novelties
beside the fencing to show, which might interest even ladies. I hope you
won’t give Stangrove any rest till he promises to bring you.”
“We have a natural curiosity to see all the new world you are reported
to have made,” Maud said, “and even your model overseer, Mr. M‘Nab. He
must surely be one of the ‘coming race,’ and have any quantity of ‘vril’
at command. I suppose the land will be filled with such products of a
higher civilization after we early Arcadians are abolished.”
“You must come and see, Miss Stangrove. I will tell you nothing. M‘Nab
is the ideal general-of-division in the grand army of labour, to my
fancy. But whether it is to be Waterloo or Walcheren the future must
decide. _Au revoir!_”
He shook hands with Stangrove, and, mounting, departed with his brace of
hackneys for the trifling day’s ride between there and home. Truth to
tell, he tested the mettle of his steeds much more shrewdly than in his
leisurely downward course. It was nearer to eight hours than nine when
he reined up before the home-paddock gate of Gondaree.
Returning to one’s own particular abode and domicile is not always an
unmixed joy, however much imaginative writers have insisted upon the
aspect. “The watchdog’s honest bay” occasionally displays a want of
recognition calculated to irritate the sensitive mind. Evidence is
sometimes forced upon the unwilling _revenant_ of the proverbial and
unwarrantable playing of mice in the absence of the lord of the castle,
who is thereby unpleasantly reminded that he occupies substantially the
position of the cat. Possibly he is greeted with the unwelcome
announcement that an important business interview has lapsed by reason
of his absence. It may be that he finds his household absent at an
entertainment, thus causing him to moralize upon desolate hearthstones
and shattered statuettes, while he is gloomily performing for himself
the minor offices so promptly bestowed on more fortunate arrivals. Or
fate, being in one of her dark moods—a subtle prescience of evil, only
too true—meets him on the threshold, and he enters his home as chief
mourner. “Happy whom none of these befall;” and in such cheer did our
hero find himself when, after hurried inquiry, it transpired that
“nothing had happened,” that everything was going on as well as could
be, and that Mr. M‘Nab was out at the woolshed (No. 3), and had left
word that he would be in at sundown.
“So everything has gone on well in my absence,” said Jack to his
lieutenant, as they sat placidly smoking after the evening meal. “I
began to be a little nervous as I got near home, though why it should be
I can’t say.”
“So well,” answered M‘Nab, “that if it were not for the woolshed there
would be too little to do. Once a month is often enough to muster the
paddocks, and the percentage of loss has been very trifling. The sheep
are in tip-top condition. The clip will be good and very clean. I hope
we are past our troubles.”
“I hope so too,” echoed Jack. “How many sheep are there in the river
paddock?”
“Nine thousand odd. You never saw anything like them for condition.”
“Isn’t there a risk in having them there at this time of year? The river
_might_ come down; and Stangrove told me the greater part of that
paddock is under water in a big flood.”
“Plenty of time to get them out. If the worst came we could soon rig a
temporary bridge over the anabranch creek.”
“People about here say,” objected Jack, “that when a _real_ flood comes
down all sorts of places are filled which you wouldn’t expect; and sheep
are the stupidest things—except pigs—that ever were tried in water and a
hurry.”
“You needn’t be uneasy; I’ll have them out of that hours before there is
any danger,” said M‘Nab, confidently. “Meanwhile, if they don’t use the
feed the travelling stock will only have the benefit of it. What did you
think of Mr. Stangrove’s place, sir?”
“I was agreeably surprised,” said Jack, with an air of much gravity.
“The whole affair is old-fashioned, of course; but the stock are very
good, in fine order, and everything about the place very neat and nice.
Mr. Stangrove and his family are exceedingly nice people.”
“So I’ve heard,” said M‘Nab. “So I believe (as if that was a point so
unimportant as to merit the merest assent); but the _Run_!—the run is
one of the best and largest on the river, and to think of its being
thrown away upon less than twenty thousand sheep, a thousand head of
cattle, and a few mobs of rubbishy horses!”
“Dreadful, isn’t it?” said Jack, smiling at M‘Nab’s righteous
indignation; “but Stangrove is one of those men who thinks he has a
right to do what he wills with his own. And really he has something to
say for himself.”
“I can’t think it, sir; I can’t think it,” asserted the stern
utilitarian. “The State ought to step in and interfere when a man is
clearly wasting and misusing the public lands. I’d give all the
shepherding, non-fencing men five years’ warning; if at the end of that
time they had not contrived to fence and dig wells the country should be
resumed and let by tender to men who would work the Crown lands decently
and profitably.”
“You’re rather too advanced a land-reformer,” said his employer. “You
might have the tables turned upon you by the farmers. However, you can
argue the point of eviction with Mr. Stangrove, who will be here with
the ladies, I hope, before shearing. But he has fought for his land
once, and I feel sure would do so again if need were. Still I think he
will be rather astonished at our four boundary riders.”
The first necessity was an inspection of the new wool-shed, which was
raising its unpretending form, like a species of degenerate ph[oe]nix,
from the ashes of its glorious predecessor. It was strong and
substantial, full of necessary conveniences—good enough—but not the
model edifice—the exemplar of a district, the pride of Lower Riverina.
Now befell a halcyon time of a couple of months of Jack’s existence,
during which the millennium, as far as Gondaree was concerned, seemed to
have arrived.
The weather was perfect; there was just enough rain, not more than was
needed to “freshen up” the pasture from time to time. There were ten
thousand fat sheep; the lambing had commenced, and prospects were
splendid.
Better than all, the reactionary reign of economy directly proceeding
from M‘Nab’s well-calculated outlay had set in. With forty-two thousand
“countable” sheep and twenty thousand lambing ewes, “in full blast,”
there were but the four boundary riders, M‘Nab, the cook, and Ah Sing,
plus the shed workmen. “This was something like,” Jack said to himself.
“Fancy the small army I should have billeted upon me if I were like
Stangrove, and had the same proportion of hands to employ. The very
thought of it is madness, or insolvency—which comes to the same thing.”
“I really believe we could do with even fewer hands upon a pinch,” said
M‘Nab. “Ah Sing is of course a luxury, though a justifiable one. The
boundary-riders come in for their own rations, so a ration-carrier is
unnecessary. The two that live at the homestead cook for themselves.
There is next to no work in the store till shearing; you or I can give
out anything that is wanted. The cook chops his own wood, and fetches it
in once a week; water is at the door. If it were not for having to
convoy travelling sheep, one man could watch and the rest go to sleep
till shearing. There are no dingoes, and we have no township near us to
breed tame dogs. Next year we must have thirty thousand lambing-sheep by
hook or by crook, and then you may put Gondaree into the market with
sixty thousand sheep as soon after as you please.”
“What about these ten thousand fat sheep?” said Jack. “Isn’t it time we
were thinking of drafting and sending them on the road?”
“If I were you, Mr. Redgrave, I would not sell them, unless you were
obliged, till after shearing. They are worth from twelve to fourteen
shillings all round in Melbourne, let us say. Well, the wethers will cut
six shillings’ worth of wool, and the ewes five. It would pay you to
shear them and sell them as store sheep.”
“That’s all very well; but if you don’t sell at the proper time I always
notice that it ends in keeping them for another year; by which you lose
interest, and risk a fall in the market.”
“Not much chance of sheep falling below ten shillings,” rejoined M‘Nab.
“We can send them in very prime about March. We may just as soon make
one expense of the shearing.”
“Well,” yielded Jack, “I dare say it won’t make much difference. We
shall have it—the clip—and if they only fetch ten shillings there will
be a profit of five and twenty per cent. They don’t cost anything for
shepherding, that’s one comfort.”
So matters wore on till July. To complete the astonishing success and
enjoyment of the situation, Jack received a letter from Stangrove, to
say that he was going to drive over, and would bring the ladies for a
day’s visit to Gondaree.
Jack’s cup well-nigh overflowed. To think of having her actually in the
cottage, under his very roof—to have the happiness of beholding her
walking about the garden and homestead, criticising everything, as she
would be sure to do. Perhaps even appreciating, with that clear
intellect of hers, the scope and breadth of the system of management, of
his life pleasures even. Could she be won to take an interest, then what
delirious, immeasurable joy!
Preparations were made. A feminine supernumerary was secured from the
woolshed camp. Fortunately the cook was undeniable, and he needed but a
word to “impress himself” and execute marvels. The cottage was entirely
given up to the ladies, and the bachelors’ quarters made ready for
occupation by Stangrove, M‘Nab, and himself. So might they retire, and
smoke and talk sheep _ad libitum_. The small flower-garden round the
cottage, or rather at the side, as its verandah almost overhung the
river, was made neat. Even M‘Nab, though grumbling somewhat at a
feminine invasion “just before shearing,” looked out his best suit of
clothes, and prepared to abide the onset. Had there ever been a lady at
Gondaree before? Jack began to consider. It was exceedingly doubtful.
At the appointed day, just before sundown, Stangrove’s buggy rattled up
behind, as usual, a very fast pair of horses. He was a great man for
pace, and, having lots of horses to pick out of, generally had something
only slightly inferior to public performers. Indeed, his friends used to
complain that he never could be got to stay a night with any one on the
road—being always bent upon some impossible distance in the day, and
insisting upon going twenty or thirty miles farther, in order to
accomplish it. However that might be, no man drove better horses.
“Here we are at last, Redgrave,” said he, as Jack rushed out to satisfy
himself that Maud was actually in the flesh at his gates. “We should
have been here before, but the ladies, of course, kept me waiting.
However, I think we’ve done it under seven hours—that’s not so bad.”
“Bad! I should think not—splendid going!” said Jack. “I must get you to
sell me a pair of buggy horses; mine are slow enough for a poison cart.
Mrs. Stangrove, how good of you to cheer up a lonely bachelor! Miss
Stangrove, I throw myself and household on your mercy. Will you, ladies,
deign to walk in? you will find an attendant, and take possession of my
house and all that is in it. Stangrove, we must take out the nags
ourselves; no spare hands on a fenced-in run, you perceive.”
“All right, Redgrave, that’s the style I like. Mind you keep it up.”
The stable was well found, though the groom was absent. Abundance of hay
had been supplied, and the buggy was placed under cover. The friends
were soon sauntering down by the river, and of course talking sheep, in
the interval before dinner.
“Saw a lot of your weaners as we came along,” said Stangrove. “How well
they look. Much larger than mine, and the wool very clean. It certainly
makes a man think. How many are there in that paddock?”
“Nine thousand,” answered Jack, carelessly. “They have been there since
they were weaned.”
“And how often are they counted?”
“Once a month, regularly.”
“What percentage of loss?”
“Next to none at all; the fact is we have no dogs, and the season has
been so far, glorious.”
“Well, I have five shepherds for the same number,” said Stangrove; “have
had one or two ‘smashes,’ endless riding, bother, and trouble. It seems
very nice to turn them loose and never have any work or expense with
them—the most troublesome of one’s whole flock—till shearing. However,
as I said before, my mind is made up for the next couple of years—after
that, I won’t say——”
“I think I hear the dinner-bell,” said Jack; “the ladies will be
wondering what has become of us.”
M‘Nab having arrived about this time, looking highly presentable, the
masculine contingent entered the cottage, and dinner was announced.
“Your housekeeping does not need to fear criticism,” said Mrs.
Stangrove, as she tasted the clear soup. This was a _spécialité_ of
Monsieur Jean Dubois, an artist who, but for having contracted the
colonial preference for cognac, our _vin ordinaire_, would have graced
still a metropolitan establishment.
“We women are always complimented upon our domestic efficiency, home
comforts, and so on,” said Maud. “It appears to me that bachelors always
live more comfortably than the married people of our acquaintance.”
“I don’t think that is always the case,” pleaded Mrs. Stangrove. “But in
many instances I have noted that you gentlemen, who are living by
yourselves, always seem to get the best servants.”
“‘Kinder they than Missises are,’ Thackeray says, you know; but it must
be quite an accidental circumstance. In by far the greater number of
instances a lone bachelor is oppressed, neglected, and perhaps robbed.”
“I am not so sure of that,” persisted Maud. “You exaggerate your chances
of misfortune. I know when I am travelling with Mark we generally find
ourselves much better put up, as he calls it, at a bachelor residence
than at a regular family establishment. Don’t we, Mark?”
“Well, I can’t altogether deny it,” deposed Stangrove, thus adjured. “It
may not last, and the bachelor may be living on his capital of comfort.
But I must say that, unless I know a man’s wife is one of the right
sort, I prefer the unmarried host. You fling yourself into the best
chair in the room as soon as you have made yourself decent. You are safe
to be asked to take a glass of grog without any unnecessary waste of
time. And you are absolutely certain that no possible cloud can cast a
shade over the evening’s _abandon_. Whereas, in the case of the ‘double
event,’ the odds are greater that it won’t come off so successfully.”
“What _are_ you saying about married people, Mark? You’re surely in a
wicked sarcastic humour. Don’t believe him Mr. Redgrave.”
“My dear! you are the exceptional helpmate, as I am always ready to
testify. But there _may_ be cases, you know, when the husband has just
stated that he’ll be hanged if he will have his mother-in-law for
another six months, just yet; or the cook, not being able to ‘hit it’
with the mistress’s slightly explosive temper, has left at a moment’s
notice, and there is nothing but half-cold mutton and quite hot
soda-bread to be procured; the grog, too, has run out, which is _never_
the case in a bachelor’s establishment—and so—and so. Unless the lady of
the house is partial to strangers (like you, my dear), give me Tom, or
Dick, and Liberty Hall.”
“So I say too,” added Maud. “Of course being a single young person, I
feel flattered by the respectful admiration I meet with at such houses.
It’s not proper, I suppose. I ought to feel more pleased to be under the
wing of a staid, overworked, slightly soured mother of a family, who
keeps me waiting for tea till all the children are put to bed, and gives
me something to stitch at during the evening; but I don’t—and so there’s
no use saying I do.”
“I’m afraid your tastes border on the Bohemian, Miss Stangrove,” said
Jack. “I’m rather a Philistine myself, I own, in the matter of young
ladies.”
“Thinking, no doubt, as is the manner of men, that stupidity contains a
great element of safety for women. I could prove to you that you are
utterly wrong; but you might think me more a person of independent
ideas—that is, more unladylike than ever. So I abstain. How nicely your
verandah looks over the river. It is quite a balcony. Isn’t it very
unpleasantly near in flood-time?”
“The oldest inhabitant has never seen water cover this point,” said
Jack. “I ascertained that very carefully before I built here. If you
look over to those low green marshy flats on the other side, you will
see that miles of water must spread out for every additional inch the
river rises.”
“Yes, Steamboat Point is all right,” said Mark. “I’ve heard the blacks
admit that. I’ve seen a big flood or two here too; but the water runs
back into the creeks and anabranches in a wonderful way. Gets behind you
and cuts you off before you can help yourself, sometimes, in the night.
If I were you I would have every weaner out of those river paddocks
before spring.”
“We could have them out soon enough if there was any danger,” here
interposed M‘Nab.
“You would find it hard, take my word for it,” said Stangrove, “if the
river came down a banker.”
“I could whip a bridge over any back creek here in half an hour,” said
M‘Nab, decisively, “that would cross every sheep we have there in two
hours.”
“There’s a Napoleonic ring about that, Mr. M‘Nab,” said Maud; “but the
Duke would have had all his forces—I mean his sheep—withdrawn from the
position of danger in good time. One or two of Buonaparte’s bridges
broke down with him, you remember.”
“It doesn’t look much like a flood at present,” said Jack; “though this
is no warranty in Australia, which is a land specially dedicated to the
unforeseen. Let us hope that there will be nothing so sensational at or
before shearing this year.”
“Not even bushrangers,” said Maud. “What does this mean?” handing over
to her brother the _Warroo Watch-tower and Down-river Advertiser_, in
which figured the following paragraph: “We regret sincerely to be
compelled to state that the rumours as to a party of desperadoes having
taken to the bush are not without foundation. Last week two drays were
robbed near Mud Springs by a party of five men, well armed and mounted.
The day before yesterday the mailman and several travellers on the Oxley
road were stopped and robbed by the same gang. They are said to be led
by the notorious Redcap, and to have stated that they were coming into
the Warroo frontage to give the squatters a turn.”
Mrs. Stangrove turned pale, Maud laughed, while Mark devoted himself
very properly to calm the apprehensions of his wife.
“Maud,” he said, “this is no laughing matter. It is the beginning of a
period, whether long or short, of great trouble and anxiety, it may be
danger, I am not an alarmist; but I wish we were well out of this
matter.”
“It seems very ridiculous,” said Jack; “every man’s hand will be against
them, and they _must_ be run or shot down, ultimately.”
“Nothing more certain,” admitted Stangrove; “but these fellows generally
‘turn out’ from the merest folly or recklessness, and become gradually
hardened to bloodshed. They are like raw troops, mere rustics at first.
But they soon learn the part of ‘first robber,’ and generally lose some
of their own blood, or spill that of better men, before they get taken.”
“We have a dray just loading up from town. There is time—yes, just
time,” said M‘Nab, consulting his pocket-book, “to write by mail. We can
order revolvers, and a repeating rifle or two, and have them up in five
weeks. Can we get anything for you?”
“Certainly, and much obliged,” said Stangrove; “if they know that we are
well armed, they will be all the more chary of coming to close quarters.
You may order for me a brace of repeating rifles and three revolvers.”
“With some of the neighbours we might turn out a respectable force, and
hunt the fellows down,” said Jack, who felt ready for anything in the
immediate proximity of Maud, and only wished the gang would attack
Gondaree then and there.
There was no such luck, however. The ordinary station life was
unruffled. The ladies rode and drove about with cheerful energy. Maud
admired the paddocks and the unshepherded sheep immensely, and vainly
tried to extort her brother’s consent to begin the reformed system as
soon as they returned to Juandah.
Mark had said that he would defer the enterprise for two years, and he
was a man who, slow in forming resolves, always adhered to them.