The days, after all, passed not so funereally by. The weather was
utterly lovely. The wide plain was fanned by delicious wandering
breezes. Mr. Neuchamp had ample time for philosophical contemplation,
as long as he ‘kept up his side’ of the flock. If he became temporarily
abstracted while musing upon the fact that the ancients travelled their
stock for change of feed, probably doing a little grass stealing, when
the season was dry—
‘Pecusve Calabris ante sidus fervidum
Lucana mutet pascua’—
the dog, Watch, would be sent round by his alert comrade to sweep
in the spreading outsiders and warn him of his laches. Just before
sundown one day the flocks were converging towards a line of timber
suspiciously like a creek. The overseer rode up. He looked with
approval upon the well-filled flock, now quietly feeding, and thus
addressed Ernest—
‘Well, youngster, and how do you like shepherding?’
‘Pretty well,’ he answered; ‘it’s better than I expected.’
‘You and your mate seem to get on very well; the sheep look
first-rate.’
‘Glad you think so. My mate is a person of experience, so is the
dog. It isn’t hard to drive a flock of sheep, I find, with two good
assistants.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose you’d have made much hand of them by yourself.
However, a man’s a man when you’re travelling with sheep on a road like
this. Don’t you listen to those other vagabonds, and you’ll make a
smart chap by and by.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ernest; ‘I’ll try and keep as innocent as I can under
the circumstances.’
The overseer rode off, puzzled as to whether the new hand was laughing
at him or was ‘a shingle short.’ Slightly damaged people, whether from
drink, disappointment, a lonely life, or the heat of the climate, were,
unfortunately, not particularly scarce in the locality.
‘Whatever he is, he and that rowdy-looking card can keep their sheep
and feed them first-rate,’ he said to himself, ‘and that’s all I’ve got
to look out for. Perhaps the young one’s going jackerooing at Jedwood;
if so, he has more sense than he looks to have.’ The month wore on with
dreaminess and peace, so that Mr. Neuchamp began to think he would
not be so unreasonably delighted to get to Garrandilla. Each day,
soon after sunrise, they moved from camp at a pace extremely suitable
to the thick coming fancies which filled the mind of Ernest Neuchamp
during the first hours of the untarnished day. There was the glorious
undisturbed sun, with autumnal tempered beams. On such endless plains
Chaldean and Israelitish shepherds, in the world’s youth, had travelled
or held vigil. No vast awe-striking ruins lay on these great solitudes.
No temple eloquent of the elder races of the earth. But the stars
burned by night in the all-cloudless dark blue dome as they sat in
nominal watch, and Ernest mused of the silent kings of this mysterious
human life, changeless destiny, till the morning star seemed to
approach his solitary couch, as did that lonely orb which held converse
with Morven, the son of Ossian.
In the daily round of guiding and pasturing he learned much of the
complex nature of the under-rated intelligence of the sheep. His
companion, Mr. Jack Windsor, had cultivated a habit of observation,
and knew, as gradually appeared, something, not always a little, of
everything rural.
‘Rum things sheep, sir,’ he would remark, as he commanded Watch to
abstain from troubling and signalled Mr. Neuchamp to come on to his
side; ‘I always see a deal of likeness to the women about ’em. If they
don’t want to do a thing you can’t drive ’em to it. No, not all the men
and dogs in the country. If you want ’em to do anything particular,
pretend you don’t wish ’em to do nothin’ of the sort. Give ‘em lots of
fair play, that’s another good rule, same as women. When it comes to
anything out-and-out serious, act determined, and let them have it,
right down heeling, and all the fight you’re master of.’
As it was from time to time pointed out, when principles and
admonitions came into play, Ernest was enabled to comprehend the many
ways in which stock can be benefited when travelling by discreet and
careful feeding, halting, watering, and humouring. So that he actually
possessed himself of an amount of practical knowledge with which a
year’s ordinary station life might not have provided him. As for the
rest of the men, his easy, unassuming equality of manner had rendered
him personally a favourite with them. They held that a fair fight
settled everything, without appeal, and having come to the conclusion
that Mr. Neuchamp was a swell, presumably with money, travelling with
sheep for his amusement—incomprehensible as was that idea to them—they
felt that he was in a kind of way Jack Windsor’s property, who was
likely to be pecuniarily benefited during the stage of Mr. Neuchamp’s
softness and inexperience. Hence he was in his right to do battle for
him. They would have done the same had they similar golden hopes. And
now the matter being over, and ‘Bouncing Bob’ relegated to a ‘back
seat’ as wit and occasional bully of the camp, they held, after the
English fashion, that the discussion could not be reopened. So all was
peace and harmony.
One day, as they were sleepily voyaging over the grass ocean, Jack
Windsor, who had gone out of his way to look at a man leading a
horse, returned with exciting news. The horse aforesaid was young,
and in his opinion a great beauty—‘a regular out-and-outer,’ was the
expression—and, by great chance, for sale. ‘Would Mr. Neuchamp like to
buy him? If he wanted a horse at Garrandilla, he could not do a better
thing.’
‘When you get there, sir, of course you’ll want a hack. There’ll be no
more walking, I’ll be bound. You’ll have messages to carry, boundary
riding to do, cattle-driving, getting in the horses—all sorts of fast
work. Well, either they’ll give you a stiff-legged old screw, that’ll
fall down and break your neck some day, or a green half-broken young
one that’ll half kill you another road. I know the sort of horses the
young gentlemen get at a station where a man like Mr. Jedwood’s the
boss.’
‘Very well, what does he want for the colt? Is he a very good one?’
‘I haven’t seen his equal for years; don’t know as I ever saw a better.
Why he’s fool enough to sell him I can’t tell. But it’s all square. I
know the man, and where his run is; you’d better go over and see him.’
‘So I will; but how can he be kept or broken in?’
‘I’ll break him; I can rough-ride a bit, and will put him among the
other horses and short-hobble him.’
Accordingly Ernest went over and saw a noble, good-tempered-looking
dark gray colt. He had a large full eye, black mane, legs, and tail,
with a shoulder noticeable even amid the rounded proportions of
colthood.
‘So this young horse is for sale?’ he said inquiringly of a middle-aged
stout man, like enough to be a brother to their own overseer.
‘Yes!’ said the man, pulling at the halter, which had galled the colt’s
under jaw. ‘I started to take him down to the lower station, and he’s
such a brute to lead that he has nearly pulled me off more than once. I
won’t lead him a step farther if we can deal.’
‘What will you take for him?’ asked Ernest.
‘Well,’ said the stranger, ‘I believe he’s a real good ‘un, though he’s
never been backed yet. I don’t know or care much about horses myself;
they’re useless brutes, and eat more grass than they are worth. I’ll
take ten pounds for him.’
‘Very well,’ said Ernest, ‘he’s mine at that price, and I will send a
man over with the money, if you will deliver the horse to him.’
Jack Windsor was overjoyed to hear that the colt was actually bought.
‘I can break him easy enough,’ he said, with all the eagerness of a
schoolboy. ‘He is half handled now, and it will be easy for me to back
him.’
‘But how shall we keep him till we get to Garrandilla?’
‘Oh! I’ll square it with the chap that looks after the spare horses;
there’s a mare with them as he’ll likely take to. He can’t get away far
in hobbles anyhow.’
So Jack being sent off with the whole of Mr. Neuchamp’s remaining
capital, in half an hour returned with the colt at the end of a long
halter, and a properly witnessed receipt from John Williams of Boro,
which he handed to Ernest.
‘I made him draw out a receipt, all regular, and get the nearest man
I could cooey to, to sign it. There’s no knowing but somebody might
claim the colt without this—say you’d worked him on the cross. There’s
nothing like being safe with a good horse like this.’
Mr. Neuchamp was pleased with his purchase, which he immediately
christened ‘Osmund,’ after an old hunter with a favourite family name
at Neuchampstead.
‘I’ll do nothing but handle him to-day,’ said Windsor; ‘to-morrow I’ll
get a spare saddle and bridle, and will tackle him.’
‘Good gracious!’ said Ernest, ‘is that the way you break horses in this
country? Have you no cavesson, or breaking-bit, or web surcingle?’
‘All them’s very well when you’ve got ’em,’ said Mr. Windsor; ‘but they
don’t have saddlers’ shops on the plains, and if a man can ride he can
do without ‘em, and do justice to his horse too.’
So next day Jack procured an old bridle and saddle, the bit belonging
to which he carefully wrapped round with rag, thinly increasing its
bulk and rendering it fit for ‘mouthing’ or slightly bruising, _without
cutting_, the corners of the lips of a young horse. This and the
saddle, by means of patience and persuasion, he managed to get fairly
placed and buckled upon Osmund, who objected a little, but finally
marched along not very much alarmed by his novel accoutrements. All
this time the sheep-driving was efficiently conducted by Mr. Neuchamp
and the dog Watch, who amply justified the anticipations indulged in by
Mr. Windsor at the time of his purchase.
In about another week they expected to arrive at Garrandilla, when
the curtain would rise on the first act of the drama of Colonial
Experience, with Mr. E. Neuchamp in the _rôle_ of first gentleman.
Two or three days only had passed when Jack Windsor announced to Mr.
Neuchamp that the colt was quite quiet enough to back, and that he
would perform the ceremony that very morning, as soon as the sheep were
steadied to their first feed.
‘Back him, now!’ exclaimed Ernest in tones of horror, ‘why, he cannot
be nearly mouthed.’
‘Oh yes, he is,’ assented Mr. Windsor, playfully pressing against
the bit and causing Osmund to retrograde; ‘he’s got mouth enough for
anything, and between leading and hobbling he’s steady enough to make
a wheeler in a coach. When I have finished you won’t find fault with
him for not being steady, I’ll be bound. Just you stand close to his
shoulder, and hold him while I get up.’
Ernest, though much mistrusting the preliminary instruction of a
week’s leading, and the simple addition of a bridle and saddle as
being sufficient to take the place of all the two months’ lunging,
belting, cavessoning, driving, dressing, which had been the invariable
curriculum of the colts at Neuchampstead, deferred to his follower’s
opinion.
‘I don’t think he’s got any bucking in him,’ he said; ‘he carries his
head too high for that, and his mouth’s that tight, I could pull him
on to his tail if he tried any tricks. He’s a bit frightened, and when
he’s got over that he’ll go like an old horse.’
‘I should say that buckjumping was produced in this country by bad
breaking,’ said Mr. Neuchamp oracularly. ‘It all depends upon how a
horse is treated.’
‘Don’t you believe it, sir. Bucking is like other vices. Runs in the
blood. I’ve seen horses that had twice and three times the time taken
over ’em that this colt has, and by good grooms too, in good stables,
and they’d buck, and buck too till they’d half kill themselves, or you.
And as for a stranger, they’d eat him.’
‘And how do you account for that?’ asked Mr. Neuchamp. ‘Why should one
horse be free from that particular vice, and another with the same
amount, or even more handling, be unmanageable from it?’
‘Why do boys at the same school turn out different? It depends upon the
families they come off. So it is with the horses. One strain will be
reg’lar cannibals, no matter how steady you are with ’em; the others
you can catch and ride away, and they’ll be as quiet as lambs, and yet
game all the time, as I believe this one of ours is.’
As he spoke he touched the colt’s side, and he moved off after the
sheep in a steady and confident manner, more like an old horse than a
young one. He occasionally stopped and sidled, or indulged in a playful
plunge or kick. Of course these little irregularities were only amusing
to Mr. Windsor, who was in truth a matchless rough-rider, and wellnigh
impossible to be thrown by horses of good family or bad. By the end of
the day Osmund was apparently as quiet as a trooper, and when unsaddled
and turned out seemed quite at home with the cart-horses.
‘Now,’ said Mr. Windsor, as they sat at their evening meal, ‘you’ve
got, sir, what everybody is always a-talkin’ about and never seems
to get, an out-and-out good hack, fast and easy and well bred, and
a stunner to look at. I’ll forfeit my month’s wages if he ain’t a
sticker, as well. These quiet ones are just as game as the savages, and
indeed more so, in my opinion, because they can eat and rest themselves
better. And I wouldn’t sell him, if I was you, if I was offered double
what you gave for him.’
‘I don’t think I will,’ said Ernest; ‘but surely good horses are easily
picked up in this country, if one is a fair judge. There must be such
thousands upon thousands.’
‘So there are,’ replied the Australian, ‘but we might be gray before
you dropped on another nag like this, ‘specially for ten notes. Look at
his shoulder, how it goes back; see what loins he has; good ribs; with
out-and-out legs and feet. He’s more than three-parts bred; and if he
don’t gallop and jump a bit I’m much deceived. He’s a bottler, that’s
what he is; and if you ever go for to sell him, you’ll be sorry for it.’
‘Well, I don’t think I will, Jack,’ asserted Mr. Neuchamp. ‘I shall
always want a horse while I’m in the country, and I think I shall make
a pet of this one.’
For the remaining days, before the ‘reporter’ entered the Garrandilla
gate, to give legal notice of the invading army of fleece-bearing
locusts, Osmund was ridden daily, and became more docile and obedient
to the _manège_ day by day.
As the long lines of sheep, flock after flock, fed up and finally
mingled at the Garrandilla gate, a big man, with a distinctly northern
face, rode up on a powerful horse and looked keenly at the array of
sheep, horses, men, and dogs.
‘Where’s the person in charge?’ he asked of one of the shepherds.
‘I believe he has gone to the township,’ said the man; ‘he’ll be here
to-night.’
‘Have you seen anything of a young gentleman coming up to my station? I
am Mr. Jedwood.’
‘Not that I know of. There’s two chaps with that last flock, one of
’em’s a “new chum.”’
Mr. Jedwood rode down to the flock indicated, and there discovered Mr.
Neuchamp in the act of eating a piece of boiled corned mutton, and
looking around in an unsatisfied manner, as if anxious for more.
‘You are Mr. Neuchamp, I think, a gentleman introduced by letter to me
by my old friend Paul Frankston?’
‘The same,’ said Ernest, putting down his damper and mutton carefully
and standing up. ‘I intended to present myself to-morrow morning, after
being settled with.’
‘Settled with?’ said Jedwood, in a tone of astonishment. ‘You don’t
mean to say you’ve really hired yourself to drive travelling sheep!
Not but it’s a sensible thing enough to do; still you’re the first
“colonial experience” young fellow that it ever occurred to within my
knowledge.’
‘I had reasons for it, which can be better explained by and by,’
answered Ernest. ‘In the meantime, there is a travelling companion of
mine whom I should feel obliged if you could employ at Garrandilla.
Jack, come here!’
Mr. Jedwood looked keenly at the ingenuous countenance of Mr. Jack
Windsor, and then, after suffering his eye to fall approvingly upon his
athletic frame, said—
‘There’s always employment at Garrandilla for men that know how to
work, and are not afraid to put out their strength. What can you do,
young man?’
‘Well, most things,’ answered the Australian, with quiet confidence;
‘fence, split, milk, drive bullocks, stock-keep, plough, make dams,
build huts; I’m not particular, till August, then I’m a shearer.’
‘Can you break horses?’ asked the squatter, ‘for I have a lot of colts
I want badly to put to work, and I can’t get a decent man to handle
them.’
‘I can break horses with here and there one,’ responded this
accomplished new-world labourer. ‘Mr. Neuchamp and I finished one as we
come along, didn’t we, sir?’
‘_You_ did, and wonderfully well and quickly, too,’ assented Ernest.
‘I had nothing to do but to hold him. I think I can give my personal
guarantee, Mr. Jedwood, if you think it of any value, that Jack can
tame any horse in the land.’
‘Then you can come up to-morrow with Mr. Neuchamp,’ said the squatter,
‘and I’ll hire you till shearing. Shall I send a horse for you?’ he
added, addressing Ernest.
‘No, thanks, I have my own here; I’ll ride him up.’
‘You seem to be pretty well provided for a new arrival,’ said the
proprietor good-humouredly. ‘What with your wages in hand, a horse,
a man, and a month’s character as a travelling drover, you have not
wasted your time much, though old Paul seemed quite anxious about you,
and wrote several letters.’
On the following morning Mr. Neuchamp had a short interview with his
master, the overseer, who was in high good humour, having secured two
hands in their place at the township aforesaid, one of them a shepherd,
most fortunately, at the right (_i.e._ the concluding) end of his
cheque.
‘Well, you’re going to leave us, I suppose, just as you’re getting used
to the sheep; but I can’t complain, as you gave me fair notice. You’ve
been a month, that makes five pounds each. Here’s your money, lads,’
with which he tendered a five-pound cheque to each of them. ‘Good-day
to you, and good luck.’
‘Good-morning. You have my best wishes,’ said Ernest, making a bow
which quite overwhelmed the overseer.
‘Here you are, Jack,’ said Mr. Neuchamp, as soon as the man of sheep
had departed; ‘I always intended you to have my share of the profits of
this droving transaction.’
‘That be hanged for a yarn! I beg your pardon. I mean, I couldn’t think
of taking it, sir.’ And Jack’s face really assumed a most unwonted
expression—that of genuine diffidence and modesty.
‘But you must,’ said Ernest imperatively; ‘you must take it, in payment
for the discovery and breaking of Osmund, besides you will want a
fit-out in clothing and other things.’ So he cast the cheque at his
feet.
‘Well, if I must, I must,’ said Mr. Windsor reluctantly. ‘It’s a good
while since I was as rich as this, and all on the square, too; that’s
what gets me. Never mind, sir, if we both live you’ll get over-value
for this bit o’ paper some day.’
It was now time to make tracks for Garrandilla. Ernest did not see any
road, or know the precise line of country, but Mr. Windsor taking the
matter in hand, they soon found themselves in front of a very small
slab cottage, standing solemnly alone, at the rear of which, however,
were huts, sheds, farm buildings, and haystacks, in such number and
abundance that Ernest thought they must have fallen upon the township
by mistake.
Mr. Jedwood, however, appeared at the door, and walking out to meet
them, told Windsor to betake himself to the stables, and to remain
there until he came out to see him, to feed the horse, and to inquire
of the groom, who would inform him where he could feed himself. He then
invited Ernest to follow him into the house.
‘I am glad to find that you have turned up at last,’ said his host;
‘not that, of course, never having seen you, I should have grieved
overmuch myself if you hadn’t, but poor old Paul seemed so anxious
that, for his sake, I began to feel an interest in you. If you will
walk this way I will show you your room in the barracks—there is a pile
of letters for you.’
Ernest felt really pleased to be placed in possession once more of
any sort of bedroom, and proceeded to render himself presentable
to general society. After these necessary changes had been
accomplished, he commenced to look over his letters, of which there
were—_Americanicé_—‘quite a number.’
First of all he opened one in the bluff characters of Mr. Frankston,
bold, and easily read, as the true heart of the writer. It ran thus:—
MY DEAR BOY—What, in the name of all the rocks and shoals between the
Sow and Pigs and Maafu Reef, are you cruising about so long before
turning up at Garrandilla? Is the reason masculine, feminine, or
neuter? By the bye, Charley Carryall was here the other day. Told me
some first-rate yarns—sorry you weren’t at Morahmee to hear ‘em. Well,
but why haven’t you fetched your whaling-ground—I mean your run—yet?
Antonia was in a great way when she saw the telegram, in the _Evening
Times_, that you had been apprehended and locked up for keeping
company with ’another prisoner.’ Ha, ha, ha! Can’t help it, couldn’t
really! She kept picturing you in a dungeon, and all the rest of it. I
said that you would enjoy it for a day or two, during the hot weather.
What do you think about walking? Have you got a horse yet? We are all
very middling. Couldn’t you square it with Jedwood to come down at
Christmas? There’s not much work doing then anywhere. The verandah at
Morahmee won’t be half a bad place about that time, if it’s as hot as
it was last year. I saw Hartley Selmore the other day. He sold Gammon
Downs to a young fellow, just out. My head clerk is rather a queer old
character.
‘Ah! sir,’ he said, ‘don’t you think Mr. Selmore will go to hell for
selling such a place to that poor young gentleman?’
‘Really I don’t know,’ I answered; ‘there always seems a sufficient
supply of young fellows with a little money and no brains. If they
were not gobbled up by the Selmores, some other big fish would be sure
to have them.’
However, Antonia said Hartley was a cold-blooded rascal, and I was
nearly as bad for making light of his villainy. So I did not take much
by my joke.
Stock has fallen since you left town, and will fall more yet if the
war does not come to an end, and this very dry season. So your money
is all the safer in the bank. Don’t on any account invest without
consulting me. Work as hard as you like, but don’t get sunstroke.
Avoid brandy and water; and when you’re very tired of wool and
bullocks, see if you can’t find the road to Morahmee again. Remember
me to our Jedwood. He’ll keep you up to the mark, unless he’s
altered.—Your old friend,
PAUL FRANKSTON.