The Gold Hunter's Adventures Or, Life In Australia Volume 2 ( Of 2 ) by William H. Thomes (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📕

Then Go To Bed? I Am Ready To Hear A Few Words On Both Sides Of The

Question, But No Long Arguments."

Our Host Meant Work; I Could See That By His Flashing Gray Eyes.

"Can't We Drink The Punch After We Return?" Asked Mr. Brown.

"Ay, And As Much More As You Wish," Promptly Responded Our Host, Rising

From The Table, An Example That We Were Not Slow To Follow.

Jackson, Who Had Remained Waiting In The Room During The Interview, Now

Stepped Forward, As Though Aware That His Services Would Be Required By

His Master.

"Bring Me My Pistols, And Oil-Cloth Coat And Cap, And Be In A Hurry,"

Were The Only Commands That Mr. Wright Issued, And Jackson, Who Knew The

Man's Impulses, Did Not Delay An Instant In Executing The Order, And

With The Articles Named He Brought Coats And Water-Proof Hats For Us,

While To Our Surprise, He Placed Upon The Table The Revolvers Belonging

To Mr. Brown And Myself, Cleaned, Oiled, And Loaded.

"I Supposed That You Would Want Them In Good Condition When You Left The

Farm, So While You Were At Supper I Took The Liberty Of Attending To

Them," Jackson Said, In An Apologetic Tone, As Though Fearful That He

Had Exceeded Instructions.

"You Are Deserving Of A Pardon, And Hang Me If I Don't Get You One

Before Six Months Are Passed," Cried My Friend, Enthusiastically, After

A Slight Examination Of His Weapon, Which Showed Him That It Was Loaded

Correctly And Capped With Great Nicety.

The Poor Fellow Started With Surprise, And His Face Flushed With

Agitation. I Saw Him Turn Away, As Though Ashamed To Display His

Weakness.

"There Is No Such Joyful News For Me, Sir," He Said, At Length, In As

Firm A Voice As He Could Command.

"Don't You Believe That Story," Cried Mr. Brown, Heartily. "Plenty Of

Men Have Received Pardons, And They Didn't Deserve Them As Much As You.

My Word For That."

"Bushrangers Get There Before Us," Muttered The Natives.

"Kala Is Right. We Must Be Under Way, Or The Fellows Will Slip Through

Our Fingers. One Drink All Round, And Here's Success To Our Expedition."

While I Was Fitting My Head Gear The Door Opened, And In Walked Day, His

Eyes Glistening As Though He Had Drank A Cup Too Much Of Mr. Wright's

Strong Water.

"No, You Don't," He Said, Surveying Us From Head To Foot; "If You Think

That You Can Get Off Without The Best Ghost That The Country Can Produce

You Are Mistaken. You Can Count Me In." "Then Hurry And Get Ready," I

Exclaimed, "For We Have Not A Moment To Lose."

"Ready?" Asked The Shepherd, "Ain't I All Reedy As I Am? I Don't Want

Your Ile-Skins To Keep Off A Little Wet. I'm Used To It. Lead The Way,

Blackies, And I'll Keep Close To Your Heels."

"But You Have No Weapons," Mr. Wright Said.

"Ain't I Got 'Em? Look Here!" And To My Surprise, He Produced From The

Bosom Of His Flannel Shirt A Large Pair Of Horse Pistols, Which He Had

Borrowed From One Of The Farm Hands.

"You'll Do; Go Ahead," Our Host Said. And As We Sallied Into The Entry

We Saw That All The Laborers Were Drawn Up In A Line, As Though To Take

Formal Leave Of Us.

"Please, Sir, Let Me Go Wid You," I Heard The Familiar Voice Of The

Irishman, Who Greeted Me On My Arrival, Say.

"And Me," Cried A Dozen Voices, In The Same Breath.

"I Don't Want You All, But Mike May Go," Was The Brief Reply.

"Glory To God! We'll Lick Thunder Out Of All The Bloody Bushrangers That

Iver Dared To Show Their Homely Faces This Side Of The Loddon. I'm Off;"

And Mike, Who Feared That The Order For His Going Would Be Revoked,

Snatched A Long Spear That Stood In The Entry, And Rushed Out Of The

House Hatless And Shoeless, And Full Of Fight.

"Take Good Care Of The House, Jackson," Mr. Wright Said, Addressing His

Servant, Who Stood Near Him.

"You Don't Wish Me To Accompany You, Sir?" He Asked.

"No, No. Stay Here And Take Care Of The House, And Mind That You Defend

It Against All Odds, In Case Of An Attack."

"Bushrangers Move Quick," Muttered Kala.

"I'm Coming. Now, Gentlemen, We Will Try The Speed Of Your Limbs;" And

Out Of The House We Sallied, And Stood In The Driving Storm For A Few

Minutes, Completely Blinded By The Sudden Transition From Light To

Pitchy Darkness.

"Follow Kala," Muttered The Native; But The Request Was An

Impossibility, Because Kala Was Invisible Even A Foot From Where We

Stood.

"Give The Strangers Your Arms, And Lead Them Until Their Eyes Get

Accustomed To The Darkness," Mr. Wright Said, Addressing The Natives.

"That Is A Good Arrangement For Us, But How Are You To Find The Way?"

Cried Mr. Brown.

"We Know Every Foot Of Land Within A Circle Of Five Miles," Was The

Prompt Response Of Our Host; And To Show That He Made No Idle Boast, He

Started Towards The Field Of Wheat Which We Had Noticed Early In The

Afternoon, While We Followed Close At His Heels As Best We Could, Much

To The Disgust Of The Natives, I Have No Doubt, For They Could Scarcely

Restrain Their Impatience At The Slowness Of Our Pace.

The Dogs Saluted Us With A Mighty Howl As We Passed Them, But A Word

From Their Master Quieted Their Valor, And By The Time We Had Got Clear

Of The Cattle Pens Our Eyes Were Sufficiently Accustomed To The

Darkness, And Were Enabled To Dispense With The Guidance Of Kala And

Iala, Who Gladly Got At The Head Of The Column And Led The Way Towards

The Creek, Which It Was Stated The Bushrangers Would Have To Pass.

"Under This Tree," Said Our Host, Pointing To A Gum Tree Of Gigantic

Proportions, "I Killed One Of The Largest Diamond Snakes That I Ever

Saw In The Country. There Used To Be A Nest Of Them Near This Place, But

I Think That They Are Exterminated By This Time. You Recollect The

Snake, Do You Not?" He Continued, Addressing The Natives In Their

Dialect.

"We Remember," Was The Brief Reply.

"Couldn't You Conveniently Change The Conversation?" Mr. Brown Asked,

And I Shared His Interest In The Matter, For I Didn't Like The Topic In

So Dark A Night.

"Pooh! You Ain't Afraid Of Snakes, Are You?" Mr. Wright Asked, In A Tone

That Implied That He Was Not.

"Well, I Don't Care If I Confess That I Have Seen More Agreeable Sights

Than A D----N Big, Black Snake, With A Mouth Large Enough To Swallow A

Baby Without Much Trouble. I Don't Wish To Be Rigid, But It Strikes Me

That I Prefer Daylight When The Conversation Is Tending Towards Such

Cheerful Topics."

I Could See That Mr. Brown Was Intently Engaged In Scanning The Ground

While Speaking, As Though He Feared There Might Be A Few Of The Varmints

Unkilled From The Nest Spoken Of.

"About A Mile Further, Gentlemen," And We Felt Thankful For The

Information, For A More Disagreeable Night's Tramp, So Far, I Had Never

Experienced. Still, The Thoughts Of The Two Suffering Women Enabled Me

To Keep My Spirits Up, And To Press Forward With Eagerness To The Point

At Which We Expected To Relieve Them.

There Was No Cessation To The Rain, And The Lightning Was As Vivid As

Ever, But The Thunder Was Rolling Away To The Southward, And Muttering

And Growling As Though Sorry At Having Relinquished The Battle Without

More Of A Struggle.

"If I Was Only As Wet Within As I'm Without, It's In Fighting Trim I'd

Be," Mike Said, Addressing The Shepherd, Who Was Tugging Along With The

Most Stoical Indifference As To The Fulling Rain And Bad Road.

"I Can Fight, Wet Or Dry," Was The Answer.

"And Can't I Do The Same?" Asked Mike, Inclined To Take Umbrage At The

Remark.

"Show Me A Thing That An Irishman Can't Do As Well As An Englishman,"

Cried Mike.

"Can You Play The Ghost Like Me?" Demanded The Shepherd.

"And Why Not?"

"Because, Who Ever Heard Of A Ghost Speaking With The Brogue?" Asked The

Stockman, Triumphantly.

"Bedad, I Didn't Think Of That," Mike Muttered, Completely Crushed By

This New Evidence Of His Companion's Superiority.

"If You Two Grumblers Don't Stop Your Wrangling I'll Choke You," Mr.

Wright Exclaimed, Angrily.

"I'm Dumb," Mike Said.

"I'm Silent As A Corpse," Cried The Undertaker.

"I'll Spake No More This Night," Continued Mike.

"See That You Don't," Answered Our Host.

"Divil A Bit, Till I See A Bushranger, And Then I'll Give Him A Taste Of

My Spear."

"That You May Do, And You Shall Have A Glass Of Grog For Every One That

You Kill," Answered Mr. Wright.

"Holy St. Patrick! You Don't Say So. Don't Any One Go Near 'Em But Me.

I'll Fight The Thaves And Vagabonds Every One, Single Handed And Alone,

Like A Killarney Man That I Am."

For Twenty Minutes We Continued On Our Course, Expecting To Strike The

Creek Every Moment,--Yet The Night Was So Dark That It Was Impossible To

Tell Whether We Were On The Trail, Or Wading Over The Pasturage Of The

Farm.

Even Kala Was At Fault, And Glanced Towards The Trees, And Examined Them

To Discover If We Were In The Proper Locality, But Apparently Without

Much Success, And I Began To Think That Our Expedition Was A Failure,

When The Native Uttered A Grunt.

"Well, Kala, What Now?" Asked Mr. Wright

"There Be Creek," He Said, And By The Aid Of A Flash Of Lightning We

Could See His Thin Black Arm Pointing To A Line Of Trees On Our Right.

"And The Trail?" Suggested Our Host.

"We Reach It By And By. Come Now, And Don't Talk."

We Followed The Native, With The Renewed Hope Of Soon Terminating An

Adventure, And As We Gained The Edge Of The Gum Trees, Which Were

Convincing Proof That We Were Near The Water, The Australians Bent

Themselves To The Task Of Finding The Trail, Or The Place Where The

Bushrangers Were Expected To Ford. On Their Hands And Knees They Crawled

About From Place To Place, Aided Occasionally By A Flash Of Lightning,

But Still They Were Unsuccessful, Though Not Discouraged. Their Natures

Were Too Patient For That.

"To The Devil With The Trail," Muttered Mike, Hitting One Of The

Prostrate Natives With His Spear. "Let's Find The Brook, And Then We'll

Be All Right, Shan't We? Find The Main Thing First, And Then Toiler Up

The Little Ones, Used To Be The Advice Of Me Father, God Rest His Soul,

And Keep Him Well Supplied Wid Whiskey In The Nixt World! Ah, What Man

He Was To Be Sure! You Knew Him, Sir?" Continued Mike, Addressing Mr.

Wright, Who Was Awaiting The Result Of The Australians With Exemplary

Patience, Considering That The Rain Was Falling In Torrents.

"Be Quiet," Said Our Host, "Or If You Must Do Something Go And See How

Near We Are To The Creek, And Don't Make A Noise."

"I'll Do That Same," Muttered Mike, "But It's The Opinion Of A Man Who

Knows More Than A Dozen Nagers, That The Creek Is A Mile From Here In

The Udder Direction."

He Went On His Mission, Grumbling At The Supposition That The Creek Was

Near Us, When Suddenly We Heard A Loud Splash, And Mike's Voice Raised

In Supplication.

"That D----D Irishman Has Tumbled Into The Creek," Cried Mr. Wright,

Endeavoring To Suppress A Laugh That Did Find Utterance.

"Here's The River, Sure!" Shouted Mike, "And A Cussed Mane One It Is.

Help Me Out!"

"Be Quiet," Said Mr. Wright, "Or You'll Alarm The Bushrangers."

"And Do You Intend That I Shall Strangle Myself For The Purpose Of

Letting The Blackguards Git Kilt?" Remonstrated The Hibernian; "I've

Swallowed A Gallon Of The Dirty Water Already, And It's Cowld On My

Stomach. Help Me Out, Will Ye?"

We Reached The Scene Of The Irishman's Disaster, And Were Compelled To

Wait For A Flash Of Lightning For The Purpose Of Seeing