Such Is Life by Joseph Furphy (children's books read aloud .TXT) 📕

I certainly haven’t⁠—but because my last hope for Alf was that you might interest yourself in his present difficulty.”

A half-inquiring, half-incredulous look crossed the frank face of the fine old believer, followed by one of his evanescent frowns.

“Why, d⁠⸺⁠n it, man, haven’t I arranged that already with Bob here?” said he, resuming a normal position on the seat, and taking the reins from his companion’s hand. “We’re going straight to the Dead Man’s Bend. Never you fear; I’ll see Morris through.”

“I’ll never forget your kindness, Mr. Stewart.”

“Nonsense. But isn’t it a most remarkable thing⁠—what we’re too apt to call a mere coincidence? Here I find Bob footsore, through walking in bad boots; and while I’m wondering what in the devil’s name to do with him, you tell me of Morris; and I see immediately why Bob was placed in my way. It’s the legislation of an unsleeping Providence, Collins-nothing short of it. We meet with these Divine adjustments of circumstances every day of our lives, if we only choose to recognise them. Thinking over these things makes me feel devilish small in my own eyes, but all the more confident, knowing that not a sparrow falls to the ground without⁠—Oh, d⁠⸺⁠n it! look where the sun has got to! Goodbye! I mightn’t see you again. I’ve sold Kooltopa.”

“Surely not!”

“Ay. Crowded-out. Going to Queensland. They’ll tell you about it at Poondoo. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Stewart.”

V

Wed. Jan. 9. Trinidad Pad., per Sam Young. Conclave.

Introductory.⁠—On the evening of Tuesday, the 8th, I had called officially at Mondunbarra homestead. No one was visible except Bert Smythe, the managing partner’s younger brother, who was leaving the store, with a ring of keys on his finger. His icy response to my respectful greeting revived certain memories connected with the Chinese boundary man, and Warrigal Alf’s bullocks, as related in last chapter. In the fewest words possible, Bert informed me that Mr. Smythe was in Melbourne, and wouldn’t be back for another week. If I chose to leave the K form with himself, it would be filled up and posted to our Central Office immediately on Mr. Smythe’s return. Which would save me the trouble of calling at the station again for some time. I gave him the K form, and he was moving away toward the barracks, when I asked him if he could let me have a bob’s worth of flour and a bob’s worth of tea and sugar. Without a word, he turned back to the store, and supplied the articles required, whilst I monologued pleasantly on the topics of the day. When I inquired where I would be likely to find a bit of grass, he glanced at my half-starved horses; and I honoured him for the evident accession of sympathy which dictated his ready reply. He informed me that the only available grass was to be found in the near end of Sam Young’s paddock, and proceeded to give me directions that a child might follow. Fixing these in my mind, I went round by the slaughter-yard, to solicit from the Tungusan butcher a pluck for Pup; and, altogether, by the time I reached Sam Young’s paddock, night had imperceptibly set-in. The atmosphere was charged with smoke⁠—probably from some big fire among the spinifex, far away northward⁠—and a nucleus of brighter light on the meridian showed the position of a gibbous moon. Yet the hazy, uniform light, disciplining the eye to its standard, seemed rather like a noonday dulled to the same shade. The temperature was perfect for comfort, so I fared well enough; whilst with respect to my horses, I could only hope that Bert had been unfaithful to his chief and clan.

Now for the record of Wednesday, the 9th:⁠—

Just at sunrise, one glance round the vicinity brought me out of my possum-rug with an impression that there was nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man. The country on all sides was as bare as the palm of your hand; and my horses, a quarter of a mile away, were nibbling at the stumps of cotton-bush. Breakfast, however, was the first consideration, as I hadn’t bothered about supper on the previous night⁠—though filling my water-bag at a tank on the way.

Whilst baking a johnnycake of such inferior quality as to richly deserve its back-country designation, and meanwhile boiling my quart-pot on a separate handful of such semi-combustibles as the plain afforded, I found myself slowly approached by a Chinaman, on a roan horse. And though it is impossible to recognise any individual Chow, I fancied that this unit bore something more than a racial resemblance to the one from whom I had recovered Alf’s bullocks. Moreover, he was riding the same horse.

“Mornin’, John,” said I condescendingly. “You scoot-um long-a homestation big one hurry.”

“Lidee boundly,” replied the early bird, in his mechanical tone.

“Borak this you paddock, John?”

“My plully paddock, all li.”

“You name Sam Young?”

“Paul Sam Young,” corrected the boundary man. “You wantee glass you holse?⁠—two-tlee day-goo’ glass? Me lay you on, all li.”

“It is the voice of a god, and not of a man!” I replied. “Have-um drink o’ tea, Paul? Have-um bit o’ du-pang? Where me find-um grass?”

“Tlinidad Paddock, all li-plully goo’ glass.”

“How me fetch-um that peller?”

Paul dismounted, and, declining my meagre hospitality, gave me copious information respecting the Trinidad. The nearest corner of this paddock was only eight miles away; but it would be expedient to go round by certain tracks, making the distance twelve or fourteen miles. It was a small paddock⁠—five by two-being portion of a five by ten, recently divided. There was no water in it. It was crossed by a shallow billabong which had been dammed when the dividing fence was erected; but the first flood in the Lachlan had burst an opening in the embankment, so that even at the end of the previous winter there was no water in the paddock, except a drop of sludgy stuff in the excavation. Hence the grass. There was no stock