the middle of the button which he still held upside down. “Thet’s no
anker!” The dog subtly indicated that there was another side to the
button. “There ain’t,” shouted the old man. “What do you know about
an anker; you never see a real one on a ship in yer life!” There was
an inaudible disparaging reference to “imperdent kerloneyals” which
seemed to crush the dog. To mollify him the man got on his knees, and
bending his neck, showed the dog a faded anchor on the top of the
cabbage tree hat on his head. A little resentment would have served
the dog, but he was too eager for peace.
Noting this, the old man returned to the button for reminiscences.
“An’ yet you thort at fust a thing like thet would do.” There was a
sign of dissent from the dog. “Yer know yer did--Sir. An’ wot’s more
yer don’t bark at ’er like yer used ter!”
The dog was uneasy, and intimated that he would prefer to have that
past buried.
“None er thet now; yer know yer don’t.” Bending the button he
continued, “They can’t never do anythin’ right, an’ orlways,
continerally they gets a man inter trouble.”
He had accidently turned the button, he reversed it looking swiftly
at the dog. “Carn’t de nothin’ with it. A thing like thet! Might as
well fling it in the fire!” He put it carefully away.
“W’ere’s ’e now?” he asked abruptly. The dog indicated the route
taken by the cart.
“An’ ’ow long as ’e bin away?” The dog looked at the tally stick
hanging on the wall. “Yes, orl thet time! What does ’e care about me
an’ you, now ’e’s got ’er! ’e was fust rate afore ’e got er. Wish I
’ad er gorn down thet time ’e took their sheep. I’d er seen no woman
didn’t grab ’im. They’re stuck away down there an’ us orl alone ’ere
by ourselves with only ther sheep. Scrammy sez ’e wouldn’t stay if ’e
wus me. See’s there any signs er ’em comin’ back!”
While the dog was out he hastily tried to fix the button, but failed.
“On’y mist, no dust?” he asked, when his messenger returned. “No
fear,” he growled, “’e won’t come back no more; stay down there an’
nuss ther babby. It’ll be a gal too, sure to be! Women are orlways
’avin’ gals. It’ll be a gal sure enough.”
He looked sternly at the unagreeing dog. “Yer don’t think so! Course
yer don’t. You on ’er side? Yer are Loo!”
The dog’s name was “Warderloo” (Waterloo) and had three
abbreviations. “Now then, War!” meant mutual understanding and
perfect fellowship. “What’s thet, Warder?” meant serious business.
But “Loo” was ever sorrowfully reminiscent. And accordingly “Loo” was
now much affected and disconcerted by the steady accusing eyes of the
old man.
“An’ wot’s more,” he continued, “I believe ye’ll fool roun’, ye’ll
fool aroun’ ’er wusser nor ever w’en she comes back with ther babby.”
At this grave charge the dog, either from dignity or injury, was
silent. His master, slowly and with some additions, repeated the
prophecy, and again the dog gave him only silent attention.
“’Ere she comes with ther babby,” he cried, flinging up his arms in
clumsy feigned surprise. Loo was not deceived, and stood still.
“Oh I’m a ole liar, am I? Yit’s come ter thet; ez it? Well better fer
I ter be a liar ’n fer you ter lose yer manners,--Sir.”
In vain Loo protested. His master turned round, and when poor Loo
faced that way, he drew his feet under him on the bunk and faced
the wall. When the distressed Loo, from outside the hut, caught his
eye through the cracks, he closed his own, to stifle remorse at the
eloquent dumb appeal.
Usually their little differences took some time to evaporate; the
master sulked with his silent mate till some daring feat with snake
or dingo on the dog’s part mollified him. Loo, probably on the look
out for such foes, moved to the end of the hut nearest the sheep.
Two hasty squints revealed his departure, but not his whereabouts,
to the old man, who coughed and waited, but for once expected too
much from poor Loo. His legs grew cramped, still he did not care to
make the first move. It was a godsend when an undemonstrative ewe and
demonstrative lamb came in.
Before that ewe he held the whole of her disgraceful past, and under
the circumstances, “er imperdence--’er blarsted imperdence--” in
unceremoniously intruding on his privacy with her blanky blind udder,
and more than blanky bastard, was something he could not and would
not stand.
“None er yer sauce now!” He jumped down, and shook his fist at the
unashamed, silent mother. “Warder,” he shouted, “Warder, put ’em out!”
Warder did so, and when he came back his master explained to him that
the thing that “continerally an’ orlways” upset him was “thet dam
ole yeo.” It was the only sorrow he had or ever would have in life.
“She wusn’t nat’ral, thet ole yeo.” There was something in the Bible,
he told War, about “yeos” with barren udders. “An’ ’twarn’t as though
she didn’t know.” For that was her third lamb he had had to poddy.
But not another bite would he give this one. He had made up his mind
now, though it had been “worritin’” him all day. “Jes’ look at me,”
showing his lamb-bitten fingers. “Wantin’ ter get blood outer a
stone!”
He shambled round, covered the cabbage-tree hat and the despised
woman-worked button carefully; then his better nature prevailed.
“See ’ere!” and there was that in his voice that indicated a moral
victory. He took off the cloth and placed the button right side up
and in its proper place. “Will thet do yer?” he asked.
After this surrender his excitement was so great, that the dog shared
it. He advised War to lie down “an’ ’ave a spell,” and in strong
agitation he went round the sheep yard twice, each time stopping to
hammer down the hurdles noisily, and calling to War not to “worrit;
they’s orlright now, an’ firm as a rock.”
Through these proceedings the ewe and lamb followed him, the
lamb--lamb fashion--mixing itself with his legs. He had nothing
further to say to the ewe, but from the expression of her eyes she
still had an open mind towards him. Both went with him inside the
hut. Were they intruders? the dog asked. He coughed and affected not
to hear, went to the door, looked out and said the mist was gone, but
the dog re-asked. “I think, War, there’s some er that orker’d little
dam fool’s grub lef’” he said, gently extricating the lamb from
between his legs, “an’ it’ll on’y spile. ’Jes this once ’an no more,
min’ yer, an’ then you skiddy addy,” he said to the ewe. He carried
the lamb outside, for he would not finger-suckle it that night before
Waterloo.
From his bunk head he took an axe, cut in two a myall log, and
brought in half. He threw it on the fire for a back-log, first
scraping the live coals and ashes to a heap for his damper.
He filled and trimmed his slush lamp, and from a series of flat
pockets hanging on the wall he took thread, needle, and beeswax. He
hung a white cloth in a way that defined the eye of the needle which
he held at long range; but vary as he would from long to longest the
thread remained in one hand, the needle in the other. Needle, thread,
light, everything was wrong, he told War. “Es fer me, thenk a Lord
I ken see an’ year’s well’s ever I could. Ehm War! See any change?”
War said there had been no change observable to him. “There ain’t no
change in you neither, War!” he said in gratitude to the grizzled
old dog. But he felt that War had been disappointed at his failure,
and he promised that he would rise betimes to-morrow and sew on the
button by daylight.
“Never mind, War; like ter see ’em after supper?” Comradeship was
never by speech better demonstrated.
From the middle beam the old man untied two bags. Boiled mutton was
in one, and the heel of a damper in another.
“No blowey carn’t get in there, eh?” the dog looked at the meat
uncritically, but critically noted the resting place of two disturbed
“bloweys.”
“No bones!” He had taken great care to omit them. “Neow!” As ever,
War took his word; he caught and swallowed instantly several pieces
flung to him. At the finish his master’s “Eny?” referred to bones.
War’s grateful eyes twinkled. “Not a one.” “Never is neow!” had
reference to a trouble War had had with one long ago.
It was now time for his own supper, but after a few attempts he
shirked it. “Blest if I evven fergot t’bile th’ billy; funny ef me t’
ferget!” He held his head for a moment, then filled the billy, and in
a strange uncertainty went towards and from the fire with it, and in
the end War thought there was no sense at all in putting it so far
from the blaze when it had to boil.
“Tell yer wot, War, w’ile it biles us’ll count ’em. Gimme appertite,
ehm, War?”
War thought “countin’ ’em” was the tonic. Then together they closed
the door, spread a kangaroo skin on the floor, and put the slush lamp
where the light fell on it. The man sat down, so did War, took off
his belt, turned it carefully, tenderly, and opened his knife to cut
the stitching. This was a tedious process, for it was wax thread, and
had been crossed and re-crossed. Then came the chink of the coins
falling. The old man counted each as it rolled out, and the dog
tallied with a paw.
“No more?” Certainly more, said War. A jerk, tenderly calculated,
brought another among the seductive heap.
“All?” no--still the upraised paw. The old man chuckled.
“Ole ’en gets more b’ scratchin’.” This was the dog’s opinion, and
a series of little undulations produced another, and after still
further shaking, yet another.
War was asked with ridiculous insincerity, “All?” and with ridiculous
sincerity his solemn eyes and dropped paw said “all.” Then there
was the honest count straight through, next the side show with its
pretence of “disrememberin’,” or doubts as to the number--doubts
never laid except by a double count. In the first, so intent was the
man, that he forgot his mate; though his relief in being good friends
again, had made him ignore his fear.
But the dog had heard an outside sound, and, moving to the door,
waited for certainty. At this stage the man missed his mate’s eyes.
He lay face downward, covering his treasure, when he realised that
his friend was uneasy. And as the dog kept watch, he thrust them
back hurriedly, missing all the pleasure and excitement of a final
recount.
With dumb show he asked several questions of his sentinel, and
took his answers from his eyes. Then, when Warder relieved began
to walk about, the old man with forced confidence chaffed him. He
sought refuge from his own fears by trying to banish the dog’s, and
suggested dingoes at the sheep yard, or a “goanner” on the roof.
“Well ’twas ’possum,” he said, making a pretence of even then hearing
and distinguishing the sound.
But round his waist the belt did not go that night. Only its bulk in
his life of solitariness could have conceived its hiding place.
He bustled around as one having many tasks, but these he did
aimlessly. With a pretence of unconcern he attempted to hum, but
broke off frequently to listen. He was plainly afraid of the dog’s
keen ears missing something. But his mate’s tense body proclaimed him
on duty.
“I know who yer thort ’twas, Warder!” They were sitting side by
side, yet he spoke very loudly. “Scrammy ’and, Ehm?” He had guessed
correctly.
“An’ yer thort yer see ’im lars’ night!” He was right again.
“An’ yer thort ’twas ’im that ’ad bin ramsakin’ the place yesterday,
when we was shepherdin’. An’ yer thort ’t must ’ave bin ’im shook
the tommy!” The dog’s manner evinced that he had not altered this
opinion. The old man’s heart beat loudly.
“No fear, Warder! Scrammy’s gone, gone ’long ways now, Warder!” But
Warder’s pricked ears doing double duty showed he was unconvinced.
“’Sides, Scrammy wouldn’t ’urt er merskeeter,” he continued. “Poor
ole Scrammy! ’Twarn’t ’im shook the tommy, Warder!” The dog seemed to
be waiting for the suggestion of another thief having unseen crept
into their isolated lives, but his master had none to offer. Both
were silent, then the man piled wood on the fire, remarking that he
was going to sit up all night. He asked the dog to go with him to the
table to feed and trim the slush lamp.
Those quavering shadows along the wall were caused by its sizzeling
flare flickering in the darkness, the dog explained. “Thort it
mighter bin ther blacks outside,” the man said. “They ain’t so
fur away, I know! ’Twar them killed ther lamb down in ther creek.”
He spoke unusually loudly. He hoped they wouldn’t catch “poor ole
one-’anded Scrammy.” He said how sorry he was for “poor ole Scrammy,
cos Scrammy wouldn’t ’urt no one. He on’y jes’ came ter see us cos ’e
was a ole friend. He was gone along ways ter look fur work, cos ’e
was stoney broke after blueing ’is cheque at ther shanty sixty miles
away.”
“I tole ’im,” he continued in an altered voice, “thet I couldn’t
lend ’im eny cos I ’ad sent all my little bit er money (he whispered
‘money’) to ther bank be ther boss. Didn’ I?” Emphatically his mate
intimated that this was the case. He held his head in his shaking
hands, and complained to the dog of having “come over dizzy.”
He was silent for a few moments, then, abruptly raising his voice, he
remarked that their master was a better tracker than “Saddle-strap
Jimmy,” or any of the blacks. He looked at the tally stick, and
suddenly announced that he knew for a certainty that the boss and his
wife would return that night or early next morning, and that he must
see about making them a damper. He got up and began laboriously to
mix soda and salt with the flour. He looked at the muddy coloured
water in the bucket near the wall, and altered his mind.
“I’ll bile it first, War, same as ’er does, cos jus’ neow an’ then t’
day I comes over dizzy-like. See th’ mist t’s even! Two more, then
rain--rain, an’ them two out in it without no tilt on the cart.” He
sat down for a moment, even before he dusted his ungoverned floury
hands.
“Pint er tea, War, jes’ t’ warm ther worms an’ lif’ me ’art, eh!”
Every movement of the dog was in accord with this plan.
His master looked at the billy, and said, “’twarn’t bilin’,” and
that a watched pot never boiled. He rested a while silently with his
floury hands covering his face. He bent his mouth to the dog’s ear
and whispered. Warder, before replying, pointed his ears and raised
his head. The old man’s hand rested on the dog’s neck.
“Tell yer wot, War, w’ile it’s bilin’ I’ll ’ave another go at ther
button, cos I want ter give ’im ther ’at soon as he comes. S’pose
they’ll orl come!” He had sat down again, and seemed to whistle his
words. “Think they’ll orl come, Loo?”
Loo would not commit himself about “orl,” not being quite sure of his
master’s mind.
The old man’s mouth twitched, a violent effort jerked him. “Might be
a boy arter orl; ain’t cocky sure!” His head wagged irresponsibly,
and his hat fell off as he rolled into the bunk. He made no effort
to replace it, and, for once unheeded, the fire flickered on his
polished head. Never before had the dog seen its baldness. The change
from night-cap to hat had always been effected out of his sight.
“War, ain’t cocky sure it’ll be a gal?”
The dog discreetly or modestly dropped his eyes, but his master had
not done with concessions.
“Warder!” Warder looked at him. “Tell yer wot, you can go every
Sunday evenin’ an’ see if ’tis a boy!”
He turned over on his side, with his face to the wall. Into the
gnarled uncontrolled hand swaying over the bunk the dog laid his paw.
When the old man got up, he didn’t put on his hat nor even pick it
up. Altogether there was an unusualness about him to-night that
distressed his mate. He sat up after a few moments, and threw back
his head, listening strainingly for outside sounds. The silence
soothed him, and he lay down again. A faded look was in his eyes.
“Thort I ’eard bells--church bells,” he said to the dog looking up
too, but at him. “Couldn’t ’ave. No church bells in the bush. Ain’t
’eard ’em since I lef’ th’ ole country.” He turned his best ear to
the fancied sound. He had left his dog and the hut, and was dreaming
of shadowy days.
He raised himself from the bunk, and followed the dog’s eyes to a
little smoke-stained bottle on the shelf. “No, no, War!” he said.
“Thet’s for sickness; mus’ be a lot worser’n wot I am!” Breathing
noisily, he went through a list of diseases, among which were palsy,
snake-bite, “dropersy,” and “suddint death,” before he would be
justified in taking the last of his painkiller.
His pipe was in his hidden belt, but he had another in one of those
little pockets. He tried it, said “’twouldn’t draw’r,” and very
slowly and clumsily stripped the edge of a cabbage tree frond hanging
from the rafter, and tried to push it through the stem, but could
not find the opening. He explained to the intent dog that the hole
was stopped up, but it didn’t matter. He placed it under the bunk
where he sat, because first he would “’ave a swig er tea.” His head
kept wagging at the billy. No, until the billy boiled he was going
to have a little snooze. The dog was to keep quiet until the billy
boiled.
Involuntarily he murmured, looking at his mate, “Funny w’ere ther
tommy’awk’s gone ter!” Then he missed the axe. “My Gord, Warder!”
he said, “I lef’ the axe outside; clean forgot it!” This discovery
alarmed the dog, and he suggested they should bring it in.
“No, no!” he said, and his floury face grew ghastly.
He stood still; all his faculties seemed paralyzed for a time, then
fell stiffly on his bunk. Quite suddenly he staggered to his feet,
rubbed his eyes, and between broken breaths he complained of the bad
light, and that the mist had come again.
One thing the dog did when he saw his master’s face even by that
indifferent light, he barked low, and terribly human.
The old man motioned for silence. “Ah!” His jaw fell but only for a
moment. Then a steely grimness took possession. He clung to the table
and beckoned the dog with one crooked finger. “Scrammy?” cunningly,
cautiously, indicating outside, and as subtly the dog replied. Then
he groped for his bunk, and lay with his eyes fixed on the billy, his
mouth open.
He brought his palms together after a while. “’Cline our ’earts ter
keep this lawr,” he whispered, and for a moment his eyes rested on
the hiding place, then turned to the dog.
And though soon after there was a sinister sound outside, which
the watchful dog immediately challenged, the man on the bunk lay
undisturbed.
Warder growling savagely went along the back wall of the hut, and
despite the semidarkness his eyes scintillating with menace through
the cracks, drove from them a crouching figure who turned hastily
to grip the axe near the myall logs. He stumbled over the lamb’s
feeding-pan lying in the hut’s shadow. The moonlight glittering on
the blade recalled the menace of the dog’s eyes. The man grabbed the
weapon swiftly, but even with it he felt the chances were unequal.
But he had planned to fix the dog. He would unpen the sheep, and the
lurking dingoes, coming up from the creek to worry the lambs, would
prove work for the dog. He crouched silently to again deceive this
man and dog, and crept towards the sheep yard. But the hurdles of the
yard faced the hut, and the way those thousand eyes reflected the
rising moon was disconcerting. The whole of the night seemed pregnant
with eyes.
All the shadows were slanting the wrong way, and the moon was facing
him, with its man calmly watching every movement. It would be dawn
before it set. He backed from the yard to the myall’s scant screen.
Even they had moulted with age. From under his coat the handle of the
axe protruded. His mind worked his body. Hugging the axe, he crept
towards some object, straightened himself to reach, then with the
hook on his handless arm, drew back an imaginary bolt, and stooping
entered. With the axe in readiness he crept to the bunk. Twice he
raised it and struck.
It was easy enough out there, yet even in imagination his skin was
wet and his mouth was dry. Even if the man slept, there was the dog.
He must risk letting out the sheep. He covered the blade of the axe
and went in a circuit to the sheep, and got over the yard on the
side opposite to the hut. They rushed from him and huddled together,
leaving him, although stooping, exposed. He had calculated for this,
but not for the effect upon himself. Could they in the hut see him,
he would be no match for the dog even with the axe. Heedlessly,
fear-driven, he rushed to where he could see the door, regardless of
exposing himself. Nothing counted now, but that the dog or the old
man should not steal upon him unawares.
The door was still closed. No call for “Warder!” came from it, though
he stood there a conspicuous object. While he watched he saw an ewe
lamb make for the hut’s shelter. He stooped, still watching, and
listened, but could hear nothing. He crept forward and loosened the
hurdles. Never were they noisier, he was sure. He knew that the sheep
would not go through while he was there. He crept away, but although
the leader noted the freed exit, he and those he led were creatures
of habit. None were hungry, and they were unused to feeding at night,
though in the morning came man and dog never so early they were
waiting.
Round the yard and past the gateway he drove them again and again. He
began to feel impotently frenzied in the fear that the extraordinary
lightness meant that daylight must be near. Every moment he persuaded
himself that he could see more plainly. He held out his one hand and
was convinced.
He straightened himself, rushed among them, caught one, and ran it
kicking through the opening. It came back the moment he freed it.
However it served his purpose, for as he crouched there, baffled,
he unexpectedly saw them file out. Then they rushed through in an
impatient struggling crowd, each fearing to be last with this invader.
When he “barrowed” out the first, he had kept his eyes on the hut,
and had seen an old ewe and lamb run to it and bunt the closed door.
But if there was any movement inside, the noise of the nearer sheep
killed it.
They were all round the hut, for above it hung the moon, and they
all made for the light. He crept after them, his ears straining for
sound, but his head bobbing above them to watch the still closed
door.
Inside, long since, the back-log had split with an explosion that
scattered the coals near enough to cause the billy to boil, and the
blaze showed the old man’s eyes set on the billy. The dog looked
into them, then laid his head between his paws, and still watching
his master’s face, beat the ground with his tail. He whined softly
and went back to his post at the door, his eyes snapping flintily,
his teeth bared. Along his back the hair rose like bristles. He sent
an assurance of help to the importunate ewe and lamb. As the sheep
neared the hut, he ran to the bunk, raised his head to a level with
his master’s, and barked softly. He waited, and despite the eager
light in his intelligent face, his master and mate did not ask him
any questions as to the cause of these calling sheep. Why did he not
rise, and with him re-yard them, then gloatingly ask him where was
the chinky crow by day, or sneaking dingo by night, that was any
match for them, and then demand from his four-footed trusty mate the
usual straightforward answer? Was there to be no discussion as to
which heard the noise first, nor the final compromise of a dead-heat?
The silence puzzled the man outside sorely; he crouched, watching
both door and shutter. The sheep were all round the hut. Man and dog
inside must hear them. Why, when a dingo came that night he camped
with them, they heard it before it could reach a lamb. If only he had
known then what he knew now! His hold on the axe tightened. No one
had seen him come; none should see him go! Why didn’t that old fellow
wake to-night? for now, as he crept nearer the hut, he could hear the
whining dog, and understood, he was appealing to his master.
He lay flat on the ground and tried to puzzle it out. The sheep had
rushed back disorganised and were again near the hut and yard. Both
inside must know. They were waiting for him. They were preparing for
him, and that was why they were letting the dingoes play up with the
sheep. That was the reason they did not openly show fight.
Still he would have sacrificed half of the coveted wealth to be
absolutely certain of what their silence meant. It was surely almost
daylight. He spread out the fingers of his one hand; he could see
the colour of the blood in the veins. He must act quickly, or he
would have to hide about for another day. And the absent man might
return. To encourage himself, he tried to imagine the possession
of that glittering heap that he had seen them counting on the mat.
Yet he had grown cold and dejected, and felt for the first time the
weight of the axe. It would be all right if the door would open,
the old man come out and send the dog to round up the sheep. It was
getting daylight, and soon shelter would be impossible.