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NUGGETS IN THE DEVIL'S PUNCH BOWL
AND OTHER AUSTRALIAN TALES
* * * * * *
_Crown 8vo. cloth. 6s._
THE KIDNAPPED SQUATTER
And Other Australian Tales
BY
ANDREW ROBERTSON
LONDON AND NEW YORK
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
* * * * * *
NUGGETS IN THE DEVIL'S PUNCH BOWL
AND OTHER AUSTRALIAN TALES
by
ANDREW ROBERTSON
Author of "The Kidnapped Squatter," etc.
London
Longmans, Green, and Co.
And New York: 15 East 16th Street
Melbourne
Melville, Mullen, and Slade
1894
(All rights reserved)
Printed by
Hazell, Watson, and Viney, Ld.,
London and Aylesbury.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
NUGGETS IN THE DEVIL'S PUNCH BOWL 1
LANKY TIM 59
LOST IN THE BUSH 103
THUNDER-AND-LIGHTNING 159
NUGGETS IN THE DEVIL'S PUNCH BOWL
CHAPTER I
Bill Marlock had been shearing all the morning, with long slashing cuts
before which the fleece fell, fold upon fold. He was the "ringer" of the
shed, and his reputation was at stake, for Norman Campbell was running
him close. To-day was Saturday, and it was known from the tally that
Bill was only one sheep ahead, and that Norman was making every effort
to finish the week "one better" than the record shearer of Yantala
woolshed. The two men were working side by side, and eyeing each other
from time to time with furtive glances. Norman suddenly straightened
himself, and, quick as a frightened snake, thrust his long body across
the "board," with the sheep he had shorn in his sinewy hands, and shot
it into the tally pen among the white, shivering sheep. Then he dashed
into the catching pen, and seized the smaller of two sheep that
remained. At almost the same moment Bill had his hands upon the same
sheep, but took them off when he saw the other man was before him, and
was obliged to content himself, much to his chagrin, with the "cobbler,"
a grizzled, wiry-haired old patriarch that every one had shunned.
When Bill carried out this sheep there was a loud roar from all the
shearers who caught from that pen, followed by derisive laughter.
"Who shaved the cobbler?" was shouted from one end of the shed to the
other.
When almost every man had slashed and stabbed Bill with these cutting
words, a whisper ran round the "board" that Norman had beaten Bill in
his tally, and that the beaten man was groaning over his defeat and
climbing down from the position of the fastest shearer in the shed.
Bill did not like this: that was clear. He had known all the morning
that his pride of place was slipping from him, for his wrist ached and
was giving way under the strain. He finished shearing the "cobbler" when
the manager shouted "Smoko!" Then Bill slid down on the slippery floor
without a word, and laid his head upon his outstretched arm.
The sun was hot. Everything was frizzling, frying, or baking. The
stunted white-gums drooped and yawned; the grass hung limp; the tall
thistles bowed their heads and shut their eyes; the lizards were as
quiet as the granite boulders on which they lay; the crows sat
motionless on the fences; and the clouds were too lazy to move.
"Ee takes es gruel without choking, an' doesn't find no bones in't,"
said Jack Jewell, with a jerk of his left thumb towards Bill.
"Ol' Bill's panned out. Ef ee isn't ringer 'is porridge 'as no salt
in't," said Tom Wren.
"He! he!" giggled a weak little man; "it's like ridin' in a kerridge,
an' comin' down to hobblin' on yer own trotters."
Peter Amos, a greybeard, shook his head solemnly as he buried his nose
in a pannikin of tea, and said, "Let him that thinketh he standeth take
heed lest he fall--that's gospel wisdom; an' don't 'it a man wen's
down--that's worldly wisdom, an' looks like as it 'ad jumped out o' the
Bible stark naked."
"Mair like the man i' the parable, Peter," said Sandy McKerrow, "wha
took the highest room wi' a swagger, an' had to climb down to the lowest
room wi' his tail 'tween his legs."
"Aye, man, that's verra true, verra true," said another known as
"Scottie."
Here a stalwart giant, with a shock of red hair, stood up, with doubled
fists, and spat on the floor; then said, "If any of you mongrel mules
says another word against Bill, I'll rattle your teeth down your throat
like dice in a box."
Meanwhile the subject of this conversation had closed his eyes, and was
fast asleep. All his senses were locked, bolted, and barred. Sheep,
shears, tallies, and pride of place were forgotten. He was in the land
of dreams, that ancient land of gold, precious stones, ivory castles,
battle, murder, and sudden death.
Silence reigned in the shed. The men quietly ladled the tea out of the
buckets into their pannikins, or struck a match on the seat of their
trousers, lit their pipes, and smoked.
Bill slept on, but suddenly his brow was knitted and his hands were
clenched. Then he opened his eyes, and looked round with a scared face.
"Boys," he said, "I've had a dream! I'll never shear another sheep!"
He slowly rose and stood up, then he took his oilstone, and with it
smashed his shears into fragments.
"Good-bye all," he said; then slid into the count-out pen, vaulted two
fences, got his saddle and swag. When he caught his horse, he saddled
up, mounted, and rode away across the ranges.
"There's a roaring fire in that volcano," said Peter Amos, keeping the
words well between his teeth, for fear of the giant with the shock of
red hair.