GYP’S LAND
The cattle were tracked down and regathered without difficulty. In the
virgin forest no slot but their own could possibly exist. When they
quitted the scene of their encounter, the explorers passed into a region
of grand savannahs and endless forest parks, waving with luxuriant
grasses. Each day awakened fresh raptures of admiration. But the rudest
stock-rider never alluded to the ease with which they now followed the
well-fed herd, without a curse (in the nature of an epitaph) upon those
who had robbed them of a comrade and a commander.
‘A magnificent country,’ said Argyll, as on the third day they camped
the foremost drove on the bank of a broad river in the marshy meadows,
on which the cattle spread out, luxuriating in the wild abundance of
pasture; ‘and how picturesque those snow-peaks; the groves of timber,
sending their promontories into the plains; the fantastic rocks! It is a
pastoral paradise. And to think that the only man of our party who fell
a victim should be poor Warleigh, the discoverer of this land of
promise!’
‘The way of the world, my dear fellow,’ said Ardmillan. ‘The moment a
man gets his foot on the threshold of success, Nemesis is aroused. Poor
Gyp had been fighting against his demon for years, and had reached the
region of respectability. He would soon have been rich enough to
conciliate Mrs. Grundy. She would have enlarged upon his ancient birth,
his handsome face and figure, with the mildest admission that he had
been, years ago, a little wild. Of course he is slain within sight of
his promised land.’
‘We had all got very fond of him, and that’s the truth,’ said Hamilton.
‘He was the gentlest creature, considering his tremendous
strength—self-denying in every way, and so modest about his own
endowments. It was very touching to listen to his regrets for the
ignorance in which he had been suffered to grow up. I had planned,
indeed, to supply some of his deficiencies after we were settled.’
‘I should think so,’ said Fred Churbett. ‘I wouldn’t have minded doing a
little myself. I don’t go in for “moral pocket-ankercher” business, but
a man of his calibre was better worth saving than a province of savages.
Amongst us we should have coached him up, in a year or so, fit to run
for the society little-go; and now to think that one of these wretched
anthropoids should have slain our Bayard!’
‘What made it such a beastly shame,’ said Neil Barrington, ‘is that we
shall all get “disgustingly rich,” as Hotson said, and be known as the
pioneers of Gyp’s Land (as the men have christened the district), while
the real hero lies in a half-forgotten grave.’
‘Time may make us as unthankful as the rest of the world,’ said Wilfred.
‘We can only console ourselves with the thought that we sincerely
mourned our poor friend, and that Hubert Warleigh’s memory will remain
green, long after recognition of his services has faded away. It has had
a lasting effect upon O’More. The poor fellow believes himself to blame
for the disaster. I have scarcely seen him smile since.’
‘He’s a good, kind-hearted fellow,’ said Fred Churbett, ‘and I honour
him for it. He told me that he never regretted anything so much in his
life as disregarding Warleigh’s advice about the blacks. He said the
poor chap made no answer to some stupid remarks about being afraid of
naked savages, but smiled gravely, and walked away without another word.
Yet, to save O’More’s life, he gave his own!’
‘Whom the gods love die young,’ said Hamilton. ‘Some of us may yet have
cause to envy him. And now, about the choice of runs. How are we to
arrange that?’
‘We are now in the good country,’ said Argyll. ‘Towards the coast, we
shall all meet with more first-class grazing land than we know what to
do with. I think no one should be nearer than seven miles or more than
ten miles from any other member of the Association. I for one will go
nearer to the coast.’
‘And I,’ said Fred Churbett, ‘will stay just where I am. This is good
enough for me, as long as I can defend myself against the lords of the
soil.’
There was no difficulty in locating the herds of the association upon
their ‘pastures new.’ In every direction waved the giant herbage of a
virgin wilderness. There were full-fed, eager-running rivers, for which
the melting snow at their sources furnished abundant supplies. There
were deep fresh-water lakes, on the shores of which were meadows and
headlands rich with matted herbage.
Wild-fowl swarmed in the pools and shallows. Kangaroos were so plentiful
that old Tom’s dogs ‘were weary at eve when they ceased to slay,’ and
commenced to look with indifference upon the scarcely-thinned droves.
Timber for huts and stock-yards was plentiful; so that axes, mauls, and
wedges were soon in full and cheerful employment. Each squatter selected
an area large enough for his stock for the next dozen years, keeping
sufficiently close to his friends for visiting, but not near enough for
complications. In truth, the rivers and creeks were of such volume that
they easily supplied natural boundaries.
As for Wilfred and Guy, they carefully followed out the instructions of
their lost friend, until they verified the exact site of the ‘run’ he
had recommended to them. This they discovered to be a peninsula. On one
side stretched the shore of a lake, and on the other a deep and rapid
river flowed, forming a natural enclosure many miles in extent, into
which, when they had turned their herd, they had little trouble in
keeping them safely.
‘My word!’ said Guy, ‘this is something like a country. Why, we have run
for five or six thousand head, and not a patch of scrub or a range on
the whole lot of it. Splendid open forest, just enough for shelter;
great marshes and flats, where the stock are up to their eyes in grass
and reeds. When the summer comes, it will be like a garden. It rains
here _every year_ and no mistake.’
‘We are pretty far south,’ said Wilfred; ‘in somewhere about latitude
37—no great distance from the sea. That accounts for the climate. You
can see by the blacks’ miamis, which are substantial and covered with
thatch, that a different kind of dwelling-place is necessary, even for
the aboriginals. You will have to build good warm huts, I fancy, or the
winter gales and sleet-storms will perish you.’
‘You let me alone for that!’ said the ardent youngster. ‘We shall have
lots of time to work, as soon as the cattle are broken in and the
working bullocks get strong. Our drays must come by sea; but sledges are
all right for drawing split stuff. I shall build on that bluff above the
lake. We can keep a good look-out there for the blacks, that they don’t
come sneaking up by day or night. Oh, how jolly it all is! If I could
forget about dear old Hubert, I should be perfectly happy.’
‘I suppose we shall have to choose a site for the township.’
‘Township!’ said Guy. ‘What do we want with a beastly township? Two
public-houses and a blacksmith’s shop to begin with! The next thing will
be that they will petition the Government to survey some land and cut it
up in farms.’
‘Well, that’s true,’ assented Wilfred, smiling at his impetuosity; ‘but
we must not be altogether selfish. Remember, there is a good landlocked
harbour and a deep anchorage. A township is morally certain to be
formed, and we may as well take the initiative. Besides, we promised
Rockley to let him know if there was any opening for a mercantile
speculation.’
‘That alters the matter,’ said Guy. ‘I would black old Billy’s boots if
he was short of a valet—not to mention kind Mrs. Rockley, whom all the
fellows would walk barefoot to serve. I may be mistaken, but you’re
rather sweet upon Christabel, ain’t you? I’m not in the marrying line
myself, but I don’t know a prettier girl anywhere.’
‘Pooh! don’t talk nonsense, there’s a good fellow,’ said Wilfred with a
dignified air. ‘There are miles of matters to be thought about before
anybody—dark or fair. But you are right in your feelings about Rockley
and his dear, kind wife, which makes me proud of my junior partner. We
shall want somebody to buy and sell for us, to order our stores, etc.;
and as nothing can come from Sydney on wheels, we shall have to get them
from that new settlement they call Port Phillip, that we heard at the
“Snowy” they were making such a talk about. We can’t escape a town; and
as there is bound to be a chief merchant, we had better elect our own
King William to that high office and dignity.’
‘With all my heart,’ said Guy; ‘only you frightened me at first, talking
about a town. We haven’t come all this way—through those hungry forests
and terrible cold rivers, not to mention the blacks—to be crowded out of
our runs, for farmers.’
‘You needn’t be alarmed, Guy. Remember, this district is a very large
one. You will have twenty years’ squatting tenure, you may be sure,
before an acre of your land is sold.’
Guy was correct in his anticipations of the probability of there being
water-carriage before long. The surplus hands, who were paid off and
sent back to New South Wales, talked largely, as is their wont, about
the wonderful new district. Port Phillip, just settled, had a staff of
adventurers on hand, ready for any kind of enterprise. Within a few
weeks a brig, with a reasonable supply of passengers, did actually
arrive at the little roadstead, which had already been dignified with
the title of The Port. There was the usual assortment of alert
individuals that invariably turn up at the last new and promising
settlement in Australia,—land speculators, storekeepers, gentlemen of no
particular calling, waifs and strays, artisans and contractors. But
among the babel of strange tongues resounded one familiar voice, the
resonant cheery tones of which soon made themselves heard, to the great
astonishment and equal joy of such of the wayfarers as had assembled at
the disembarkation. Their old and tried friend, Mr. William Rockley,
once more greeted them in the flesh.
‘Well, here you all are, safe and sound, except poor Gyp Warleigh!’ said
that gentleman, after the ceremony of greeting and hand-shaking had been
most cordially performed. ‘Most melancholy occurrence—terrible, in
fact—heard of it at Port Phillip—all the news there, of course—very
rising place. Ran down in the _Rebecca_, brig—nearly ran on shore too.
Thought I’d come on and see you all; find out if anything was to be
done. Nothing like first chance, at a new settlement, eh? Queer fellow,
our captain; too much brandy and water. Catch me sailing with him after
we get back.’
Mr. Rockley added new life and vigour to the infant settlement. His
practical eye fixed upon a spot more suitable for a township than The
Port, which he disparaged as a ‘one-horse’ place, which would never come
to much. Indifferent anchorage, with no protection against south-east
gales. Might be made decent with a breakwater; but take time—time. A few
miles up the river—fine stream, deep water, and good wharfage. He should
run up a store, and send down a cargo of odds and ends at once. Fine
district—good soil, splendid climate, and so on. Must progress—_must_
progress. Never seen finer grass, splendidly watered too. You’ve fallen
on your feet, I can tell you. All through Gyp Warleigh too. Poor
fellow!—awful pity!
Mr. Rockley borrowed a horse, rode inland and visited the stations,
being equally encouraging and sanguine about their prospects. ‘_Can’t_
go wrong; lots of fat cattle in a year or two; make all your fortunes;
can’t help it; only look out for the rascally blacks; don’t allow
yourselves to be lulled into security; have a slap at you again some
day, take my word for it. Know them well; never trust a blackfellow;
always make him walk in front of you—can’t help using a tomahawk if he
sees a chance; keep ’em at arm’s length—no cruelty—but make ’em keep
their distance. Glorious rains at Yass and all over New South Wales.
Season changed with a vengeance! Stock rising like mad; ewes two guineas
a head and not to be got. Cattle, horses, snapped up the moment they’re
offered. Everybody wild to bring stock overland to Port Phillip. By
Jove! that _is_ a wonderful place if you like; fine harbour—make
half-a-dozen of Sydney—thirty miles from the Heads to the town. Not so
picturesque of course; but splendid open country, plains, forests, and
fertile land right up to the town. Great place by and by. Nothing but
speculation, champagne, and kite-flying at present. Bought town
allotments; buy some more as we go back. You’d better pick up two or
three corner lots, Wilfred, my boy. Money? Never mind _that_! I’ll find
the cash. Your security’s first-rate now, I can tell you.’
And so their guest rattled on, brimful of great ideas, large
investments, and goodwill to all men, as of yore.
Wilfred, who had indeed now no particular reason for remaining, but on
the contrary many motives to draw him towards The Chase, was only too
glad to avail himself of a passage in the _Rebecca_, the truculent
captain notwithstanding. That worthy, who appeared to be a compound of
sailor and smuggler, with a dash of pirate, swaggered about the beach
for a few days, and after a comprehensive carouse with such of his late
passengers as he could induce to join him, announced his intention of
sailing next day—and did so.
Arrived at Melbourne, as the infant city had just been christened,
Wilfred was astonished at the life and excitement everywhere
discernible. On the flats bordering the river Yarra Yarra had been
hastily erected a medley of huts, cottages, and tents, in which resided
a miscellaneous rout of settlers, storekeepers, speculators,
auctioneers, publicans, Government officials, artisans, and labourers.
He witnessed for the first time the initial stage of urban colonisation.
What he chiefly wondered at was the restless energy, the sanguine
spirits, the dauntless courage of the miscellaneous host employed in
founding the southern metropolis.
The situation had been well chosen. The river which bisected the baby
city, though not broad, was yet clear, deep, and, as its aboriginal name
implied, ‘ever flowing.’ Large vessels were compelled to remain in the
bay, but coasters came up the river and discharged on the banks of the
natural basin, which had decided the site of the town.
Around—afar—stretching even to the distant horizon, were broad plains,
park-like forests, hill and dale. The soil was rich for the most part;
while a far blue range to the north-east pointed to an untried region,
beyond which might lie (ay, and _did_ lie) treasures yet undreamed of.
‘All truly wonderful,’ said Wilfred. ‘The world is a large place, as the
little bird said. We have got outside of our garden wall with a
vengeance. How slow it seems of us to have been sitting still at Lake
William, ignorant of this grand country, only five hundred miles off—not
to mention “Gyp’s Land.” I wonder if this will ever be much of a town.
It is a long way from Sydney, which must always be the seat of
Government.’
‘Will it be much of a place?’ echoed Rockley in a half-amused,
meditative way. ‘I am inclined to think it will. Let us ask this
gentleman. How do you do, Mr. Fawkner?’ he said, shaking hands with a
brisk, energetic personage, who came bustling along the river-bank.
‘Fine weather. Thriving settlement this of yours. My friend is doubting
whether it will ever come to much. Thinks it too far from Sydney.’
‘What!’ said the little man, who, dressed in corduroy trousers, with a
buff waistcoat and long-skirted coat, looked like an Australian edition
of Cobbett. ‘Will it prosper? Why, sir, it will be the metropolis of the
South—the London of this New Britain, sir! Nothing can stay its
progress. Tasmania, where I came from, possesses a glorious climate and
fine soil, but no extent, sir, no scope. New South Wales has fine soil,
boundless territory, but eccentric climate. In Port Phillip, sir, below
35 south latitude, you have climate, soil, and extent of territory
combined.’
Here the little man struck his stick into the damp, black soil with such
energy that he could hardly pull it out again.
‘I agree with you,’ said Rockley good-humouredly, smiling at Fawkner’s
vehemence as if he, personally, were the most imperturbable of men. ‘But
you won’t get the Sydney officials to do much for you for years to come.
Five hundred miles is a long way from the seat of Government.’
‘Cut the painter, sir, if they neglect us,’ said the pioneer democrat.
‘We shall soon be big enough to govern ourselves. Seen the first number
of the _Port Phillip Patriot_? Here it is—printed with my own hands
yesterday.’
Mr. Fawkner put his hand into a pocket of the long-skirted coat, and
produced a very small, neatly printed broadsheet, in which the
editorials and local news struggled amid a crowd of advertisements of
auctions, notices of land sales, and other financial assignations.
‘And now, gentlemen, I must bid you good-bye,’ said the little man.
‘Canvassing for subscriptions to build a wooden bridge across the Yarra.
Cost a lot of money, but must be done—must be done. Large trade with
South Yarra—lime, timber, firewood—shortest way to the bay too.’
‘Put us down for five pounds,’ said Rockley. ‘It will improve the value
of the corner allotments we intend to buy—won’t it, Wilfred? Good-bye.’
‘Wonderful man that,’ said Rockley; ‘shrewd, energetic, rather too fond
of politics. Came over in the first vessel from Van Diemen’s Land. He
and Batman thought they were going to divide all this country between
them. You see that clear hill over there? They say that’s where Batman
stood when he said, “All that I see is mine, and all that I don’t see.”’
‘Very good,’ said Wilfred. ‘Grand conception of the true adventurer. And
were his aspirations fulfilled?’
‘Well, he bought all the land hereabouts—a few millions of acres—from
blackfellows who called themselves chiefs. The other colonists disputed
his royalty. The Government backed them up, and sent a superintendent to
reign over them. However, he will do very well. Who’s this tall man
coming along? St. Maur, as I’m a living sinner!’
And that gentleman it turned out to be, extremely well-dressed, and
sauntering about as if in Bond Street. His greeting, however, was most
cordial, and smacked more of the wilderness than of the _pavé_.
‘By Jove!’ he said, ‘you here, Rockley? I was just thinking of you and
Effingham. Can’t say how glad I am. Come into my miami. What a pity you
couldn’t have a throw in! Lots of money to be made. Made some myself
already.’
‘Daresay,’ said Rockley. ‘You’re pretty quick when there’s a spec. on
hand. What have you been about?’
‘Mixed herd of cattle. Turned overlander, as they call it here; brought
over one on my own account, and another that I picked up on the road.
Just going over to see Howie’s horses sold. I want a hack. You come and
lunch with me and Dutton and Tom Carne. We’re over at “The Lamb”—some
fellows from Adelaide there.’
‘Certainly,’ said Rockley, always ready for anything in the way of
speculation or enterprise. ‘Nothing better to do; and, by the way,
Effingham, _we_ shall want horses for riding home; for, as for going
back with that atrocious, reckless, buccaneering ruffian, I’ll see him
d——d first!’
Here the sentence, ending with more force than elegance, merged in the
loud ringing of an auctioneer’s bell in close proximity to a large
stock-yard at the corner of Bourke and Swanston Streets, near where a
seductive soft-goods establishment now stands.
The yard contained over a hundred head of horses, which were permitted
to run out one at a time, when, being completely encircled by the crowd,
they remained confused, if not quieted, until their fate was decided.
An upstanding, unbroken grey filly happened to be separated just as they
arrived—
And struggling fiercely, but in vain,
And snorting with erected mane.
The desert-born was on the point of being knocked down for fifty pounds,
when Wilfred, infected by the extravagance of the day, bid another
pound. She finally became his at the low price of sixty guineas.
‘She’s very green,’ said St. Maur; ‘just haltered, I should say.
However, she has plenty of condition, and if you are going a journey,
will be quiet enough in a week.’
‘I like her looks,’ said Wilfred. ‘It’s an awful price; but stock have
risen so, that we shall reap the advantage in another shape. But for
Rockley I should have gone back by sea.’
‘I never consider a few pounds,’ said that gentleman, ‘where my life’s
concerned. I can just tell you, sir, that, in my opinion, the _Rebecca_
is more than likely never to see Sydney at all if bad weather comes on.
I shall buy that brown cob.’
After the cob had been bought, and a handsome chestnut by St. Maur, the
friends strolled up to the famous Lamb Inn, long disestablished, like
the cafés of the Quartier Latin, and there met with certain choice
spirits, also rejoicing in the designation of ‘overlanders.’ They seemed
on terms of intimacy with St. Maur, and cordially greeted his two
friends. One and all had been lately concerned in large stock
transactions—had been equally fortunate in their sales. Apparently they
were minded to indemnify themselves for the perils of the waste by a
full measure of such luxuries as the infant city afforded.
‘Great place this Melbourne, St. Maur,’ said a tall man with bushy
whiskers. ‘Decomposed basaltic formation, with an outcrop of empty
champagne bottles. I saw a heap opposite Northcott’s office yesterday
like a glass-blower’s débris. As fast as they emptied them they threw
them out of the window. Accumulation in time—you know.’
‘Northcott does a great business in allotments and house property,’ said
St. Maur; ‘but it can’t last for ever. Too much of that champagne
element. But what’s become of Warden—he was to have been here?’
‘Forgot about the hour, I daresay,’ said the man with the whiskers.
‘Most absent fellow I know. Remember what he said to the Governor’s wife
at Adelaide? She asked him at dinner what he would take. Joe looked up
from a dream (not of fair women, but of drovers and dealers), and
thinking of the cattle he had just brought over, replied, “Six pounds a
head all round, and the calves given in!”’
Mr. Joe Warden, blue-eyed and fair-haired as Cedric the Saxon, long
afterwards famed as the most daring and successful of the explorers of
that historic period, shortly joined them, apologising for his
unpunctuality by declaring that he had bought two corner allotments and
a flock of ewes within the last ten minutes.
‘This is the kingdom of unlimited loo as applied to real estate—the
region of golden opportunity, you see, Rockley,’ said St. Maur. ‘We are
all hard at it buying and selling from morning to night. Must go the
pace or be left behind. Half-acre allotments in Collins Street have
brought as much as seventy pounds this very morning. Try that claret.’
‘Quite right too. A very fair wine,’ quoth Mr. Rockley, slowly savouring
the ruby fluid. ‘My dear St. Maur, you are right to buy everything that
you can, as long as your credit lasts. I can see—and I stake my business
reputation on the fact—a tremendous future in store for this town. It is
not much in itself. The river’s a mere ditch; the harbour a great ugly
bay; the site of the town too flat; but the country!—the country around
is grand and extensive. Nothing can take that away. It is not so rich as
the spot my friend and I have just left; but it’s fine—very fine. I’m
not so young as I was, but I shall pitch my tent here and never go back
to Sydney.’
‘I hope to see Sydney again,’ said St. Maur; ‘but in the meantime I
shall stay and watch the markets. I quite agree with you that there is
money to be made.’
‘Of course there is,’ said Rockley; ‘but how long will it last? People
can’t live upon buying and selling to each other for ever. Some fine day
there will be an awful smash, in which some of you brisk young people
will be caught. But the settlement is so first-class in soil and
situation that it _must_ pull through. I shall buy a few allotments,
just to give me an interest, as the racing men say.’
‘We can accommodate you,’ said Mr. Raymond. ‘But why don’t you stay and
set up in business here? You’d make a fortune a month, with your name
and connections. Never mind Mrs. R. for the present; we’re all bachelors
here.’
‘I see that—and a very jolly set you are. I wouldn’t mind a month or two
here at all. But my friend Effingham and I are tied to time to get home,
and as we’re going overland we haven’t much time to spare.’
‘Well, look us up whenever you come back. The door of the Lamb Inn is
always open—night or day, for that matter. St. Maur and I are thinking
of buying it, aren’t we, Bertram, and turning it into a Club? We offered
Jones a thousand for it, but he wouldn’t take less than twelve hundred.’
‘That would have been only a hundred apiece for a dozen of us,’ said the
man with the large whiskers, whose name was Macleod. ‘Almost concluded
it, but Morton died of D.T., Southey got married, and Ingoldsby went
home. Nice idea, you know, being our own landlords.’
‘Not bad at all,’ said Rockley, who approved of everything when he was
in a good-humour. ‘A _very_ original, business-like idea. Well, I must
say good-bye to you all, gentlemen. I really wish I could stay longer.’
‘Stay till next week,’ pleaded Raymond. ‘We are going to give a ball. No
end of an entertainment. Two real carriages just landed, and the
families pledged to bring them.’
‘I notice a good many stumps in Collins Street,’ said Wilfred. ‘Won’t
that be a little dangerous for returning?’
‘Not with decent horses,’ said a young fellow with a dark moustache and
one arm. ‘I drove tandem through it about two o’clock this morning.’
‘But you do everything so well, Blakesley,’ said St. Maur. ‘Speaking as
an ordinary person, I must say I should funk the “Rue Bourke” or Collins
after dark. But that is not our affair. Providence _couldn’t_ injure a
lady when there are only ten in the community.’
‘What about that brig, the _Rebecca_, that’s sailing to-morrow for
Sydney?’ said a fresh-coloured, middle-aged personage who had spoken
little, and, indeed, seemed oppressed with thought. ‘You came down in
her, Rockley, didn’t you?’
‘Like nothing about her,’ said that gentleman with decision. ‘Badly
found, badly manned, and the worst thing about her is the skipper. You
don’t catch me in her again, I can tell you. Effingham and I are going
overland.’
‘Indeed!’ said the speaker, much surprised. ‘I thought we should have
been fellow-passengers. I never dreamed of any one riding all the way to
Sydney, five or six hundred miles, when they could go by sea! If I’d
known, I’d have changed my mind and started with you. It’s too late now;
I’ve paid my passage.’
‘Look here, Bowerdale,’ said Mr. Rockley with earnestness, ‘I’ve paid my
passage, and I forfeit it cheerfully rather than run the risk. If you
knew Captain Jackson, you’d do it too. He’ll lose the ship and all hands
some day, as sure as my name’s Rockley.’
‘There’s a good deal of luck in these things, I believe,’ said the
other. ‘I must risk it anyhow. I can’t afford to lose the money, and I
want to get back to my wife and chicks as soon as I can. We officials
haven’t unlimited leave either, you know.’
‘D——n the leave!’ said Mr. Rockley volcanically, ‘and the money too. I’ll
settle the last for you, and you can pay when you sell that suburban
land you bought in Collingwood. There’s a fortune in _that_. Your
chief’s a good fellow; he’ll arrange the leave. Half the Civil Servants
in Sydney have had a shot at Melbourne land, you know. Say the word, and
come with us. There’s a spare horse, isn’t there, Effingham?’
‘Lots of horse-flesh,’ said Wilfred, following his friend’s cue. ‘Mr.
Bowerdale will just complete our party—make it pleasanter for all.’
‘You _are_ a good fellow, Rockley,’ said Mr. Bowerdale, smiling; ‘and I
thank you, Mr. Effingham; but I can’t alter my arrangements, though I
feel strangely tempted to do so. I have had a fit of the blues all the
morning. Liver, I suppose—too much excitement. But I make a point of
always carrying a thing through.’
‘Take your own way,’ grumbled Rockley. ‘Well, I must be off, St. Maur.
Effingham, did you forget about the pack-saddle? It’s a strange thing
nobody can remember anything but myself. St. Maur, I beg to thank you
and these gentlemen for their most pleasant entertainment. Come and see
me at Yass, all of you, when you stop land-buying, or it stops you.
Good-bye, Bowerdale; I can’t help thinking you’re a d——d fool.’
So the worthy and choleric gentleman departed, with his surplus steam
not wholly blown off. All the way back he kept exploding at intervals,
with remarks uncomplimentary to his unconvinced friend, who left by the
_Rebecca_, which, with crew, captain, and passengers, was _never more
heard of_.
* * * * *
On the following morning Mr. Rockley and Wilfred rode forth along the
Sydney road, then far from macadamised, and chiefly marked out by
dray-ruts and a mile-wide trail made by the overlanders. Mr. Rockley
rode one stout cob and led another. Wilfred bestrode an ambling black
horse of uncertain pedigree, and led the grey filly, upon whose
reluctant back he had managed to place a pack-saddle with their joint
necessaries.