‘Come awa’, some o’ ye, an’ catch the creature till I have a look at
him.’
But when caught, nothing was ascertainable beyond the one patent fact
that he was a broken-mouthed, miserable old cull, who ought to have
gone to market as a wether years ago. Earmarks, out of their own
district, are of precious little use as a means of identification
now-a-days.
It will be noticed that Jack forgot all about his twenty minutes’ stay
and chat with the cook in Tara kitchen. The coach had been very much
overdue.
‘Surely you’re not going to take the thing home, Mac?’ said his
friend, as the former lugged the ‘Duke’s’ _locum tenens_ towards the
buggy. ‘He’s only fit to have his throat cut.’
‘Never mind,’ replied M‘Pherson moodily, ‘he’ll mebbe turn out o’ some
use yet.’
Not that the old Scotchman was at all inclined to sit down quietly and
suffer his loss. Very far from it. But he was no favourite, and public
sympathy was absent. Unfeeling people averred that, at the time of the
sale, he had been under the influence of hypnotism, etc., etc.; in
fact, laughed at, and enjoyed the thing as a good joke. Therefore he
was disinclined to blazon his misadventure throughout the Colonies.
Also, he thought it would be bad policy to make too much noise.
Nevertheless, he quietly strained every nerve, and spent money freely
in endeavours to discover the missing animal. Private detectives and
the local police took the matter in hand, and with exactly the same
amount of success.
* * * * *
Meanwhile the ‘Duke’ was thriving. At Tara a big underground cellar,
lit by skylights, had recently been excavated. This was his home.
There, waited upon by the only three in the secret, the great merino
lived on the fat of the land. Some nights the Blakes would let him
out into the garden for a pick, themselves or Brown securing him in
his quarters again before they turned in.
It was a lot of bother, doubtless. But what of that, if they could
only ‘bring old Mac to his bearings,’ and secure Palkara for their
Association!
As for the risk of discovery, they laughed at it. From the minute the
agent (who was ready to swear to the ‘Duke’s’ identity) put him in the
coach at the Burrtown terminus, everything seemed vague and
exceedingly doubtful respecting the spot at which the transfer could
possibly have been effected.
The coach stopped at some half-dozen stations along the road, besides
mail stages, and at none of these places could the slightest clue be
obtained. In common with the rest, Tara was subjected to official
visits.
‘Certainly, Sergeant, happy to show you through all the paddocks. Like
to see the rams? Yes, of course. We’ve got some very fine Havilahs
you’ll be pleased with, I’m sure. Yes; terrible affair about poor
M‘Pherson’s “Duke”! Have another nip before we start?’
So, sheep galore did the unhappy police inspect, and carefully did
they compare, stags, wethers, and ancient ‘horny’ ewes with photos of
the ‘Duke’ until, at length, quite dazed with the apparently endless
quest, to say nothing of the whisky, they audibly cursed the whole
ovine race back to the days of the first breeders.
Only once did the brothers feel a doubt. Driving into town, they met
M‘Pherson and a black-fellow following the old cull, who was steadily
tramping along the road Tara-ward.
‘What’s all this about, M‘Pherson?’ asked one, as they pulled up.
‘Have you taken a droving contract?’
‘Ay,’ replied the old fellow, glaring suspiciously at the pair. ‘Just
thet. I’m wantin’ to see whaur Beelzebub, here, gangs. If he’s gotten
a hame, which I muckle doot, mebbe he’ll mek back.’
But a couple of miles on, Beelzebub struck a patch of clover, and
stuck to it.
The darkey watched him for three days, and, after he had finished
every vestige, the old ram paused irresolutely, scratched his ear with
his hind foot, and meandered calmly back to the township.
So M‘Pherson returned with him to Palkara. A bit of the garden was
fenced off, and here he used to sit and smoke and stare for hours at
Beelzebub, until his friends began to think his loss had affected his
brain.
Like many of his countrymen, M‘Pherson was superstitious, and, deep
down in his heart, was a lurking suspicion of _diablerie_ that would
not be exorcised.
‘It’s no earthly use watching that beast, Mac,’ said Park, riding up
one day, and finding his neighbour at his usual occupation. ‘Look as
hard as you like, and that won’t turn him into the Duke. Now, take my
advice, and I think you stand a show of getting him back again. You
remember you said that night at the Woolpack, that, if you lost him,
you’d join the Association and trust it to recover him for you, or
something to that effect. Well, my notion is that some of the boys
have had a finger in the pie. And I solemnly believe that, if you
don’t soon make your mind up, you’ll never see the Duke any more.
Come, now’s the time! Shearing will start presently. Besides, I know
you want him badly for those Coonong stud ewes.’
Park, himself a prominent member, used all his powers of persuasion,
and to such good purpose, that in the next issue of the local paper
appeared the announcement,—
‘Palkara will start shearing on —— under Conference rules.’
* * * * *
A morning or so afterwards, M‘Pherson going out for his
before-breakfast smoke and usual look at Beelzebub, to his
astonishment saw him not. He had gone. But in his stead stood a
stately, almost perfect animal, the _beau ideal_ of what a ‘Champion’
should be. Around his neck he bore a card, on which the old squatter
presently read,—
‘I am a fully paid-up member of the Pastoralists’ Association of
Australasia.
‘(Signed) Silversheen.’