Robbery Under Arms by Rolf Boldrewood (epub read online books TXT) 📕

Starlight laughed at him a bit for being foolhardy, and said we should hear of his being caught and committed for trial. “Why, they’ll know the dog,” says he, “and make him give evidence in court. I’ve known that done before now. Inspector Merlin nailed a chap through his dog.”

Father grinned. “I know’d that case⁠—a sheep-stealing one. They wanted to make out Brummy was the man as owned the dorg⁠—a remarkable dorg he was, too, and had been seen driving the sheep.”

“Well, what did the dog do? Identify the prisoner, didn’t he?”

“Well, the dashed fool of a coolie did. Jumps up as soon as he was brought into court, and whines and scratches at the dock rails and barks, and goes on tremenjus, trying to get at Brummy.”

“How did his master like it?”

“Oh! Brummy? He looked as black as the ace of spades. He’d have made it hot for that dorg if he could ha’ got at him. But I suppose he forgived him when he came out.”

“Why should he?”

“Because the jury fetched him in guilty without leaving the box, and the judge give him seven years. You wouldn’t find this old varmint a-doin’ no such foolishness as that.”

Here he looks at Crib, as was lyin’ down a good way off, and not letting on to know anything. He saw father’s old mare brought up, though, and saddled, and knowed quite well what that meant. He never rode her unless he was going out of the Hollow.

“I believe that dog could stick up a man himself as well as some fellows we know,” says Starlight, “and he’d do it, too, if your father gave him the word.”

I never could make out for ever so long, where dad went to get the newspapers he showed us and his letters besides. Letters he got⁠—plenty of ’em⁠—though he couldn’t read nor write. Of course someone read ’em for him. Who it could be to be trusted that much I never could think. The story about the dog in Court seemed to put him into an extra good humour.

“You can come, Dick,” he says, “if you ain’t afeard of being took.” Then he looked over at Starlight. I got my horse sharp, and in 10 minutes we were off.

Twenty miles and more to the east of us was an outstation of Mr. Falkland’s. A rocky, thick place, with a few open ridges, well grassed and just up to keeping one strong flock of sheep all the year round.

When we got near the place the road was rough enough, nothing but wild horse and cattle tracks to be seen near it. Dad gets off, and we hobbled out our horses where there was a bit of grass at the foot of a big rock. Then we walks over to a small creek with springs in it, and follows it down to a hut and sheepyard. My word! it was a lonesome spot to live sure enough.

We went into the hut; so neat and clean it was. A “hatter” of course the shepherd would be; bed made up; kindling wood for next day’s fire in the corner. A shelf with a few books, a sheepskin mat or two on the floor, and a pair of old boots cut down for slippers. A bit of a table made of two boards, with the legs stuck in the ground; a slab form outside the door, and two three-legged stools inside.

Father takes the frying-pan; it had some fat in it. He finds a leg and loin of mutton hung up in a bag, with some damper. I made up the fire, and we soon fried some chops. There was plenty of tea in the kettle, it only wanted warming up. Father took a pound of good tobacco out of his coat pocket and laid it on the shelf. We got the sugar and salt in a bit of a cupboard where all sorts of odds and ends were kept. We had a real good feed⁠—mind you, we’d been four hours coming that five and twenty mile, and hard going to do that. After that away we went, and tracked about till we saw which way the sheep went out in the morning. We cut the fresh tracks at last, and followed on till we could see the line a shepherd would most likely take along a gully. After another hour we came upon the flock camped, and all comfortable⁠—a fine looking lot of sheep too⁠—on a little bit of a flat by the water. It was the middle of the day and warmish by this time.

The shepherd was sitting on a log with his dog beside him, and taking it easy, as all shepherds do, until it was time to start and feed quietly home.

“Well, Davy,” says father, “Davy Jones, had any dingoes about, old lad?” That wasn’t his name, Dad told me afterwards. His real name was David Carstairs. He was a deal older man than father, and quite a different sort. No mistake about that. I often wondered what made them hang together so. A tall, broad-shouldered old fellow when he stood up, and had once been very upright you could see, like a soldier, which he had been. Now he was stooped, and beginning to get stiff in his joints. He must have been well over 70 years old. But he was that active still⁠—more than you’d think⁠—that with the help of a couple of good dogs he could manage his flock pretty well, old as he was. Mr. Falkland wasn’t the master to send away an old servant as long as he could crawl. Davey had been with him getting on for 20 years, and a good shepherd all the time. “Well, Poacher Ben,” he called out, quite hearty, when we walked up, “and ye’re no bangit. The Lord’s aye gracious. What new villainy are ye meditatin’ or carryin’ oot?”

“It makes no odds to you,