Joe Wilson and His Mates [102]
truth as he could.
`I'll hurry her off to Sydney,' she said. `We can get away this week
as well as next.' Then she stood for a minute before us, breathing quickly,
her hands behind her back and her eyes shining in the moonlight.
She looked splendid.
`I want to thank you for her sake,' she said quickly. `You are good men!
I like the Bushmen! They are grand men -- they are noble!
I'll probably never see either of you again, so it doesn't matter,'
and she put her white hand on Andy's shoulder and kissed him fair and square
on the mouth. `And you, too!' she said to me. I was taller than Andy,
and had to stoop. `Good-bye!' she said, and ran to the gate and in,
waving her hand to us. We lifted our hats again and turned down the road.
I don't think it did either of us any harm.
A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs.
This is a story -- about the only one -- of Job Falconer,
Boss of the Talbragar sheep-station up country in New South Wales
in the early Eighties -- when there were still runs in the Dingo-Scrubs
out of the hands of the banks, and yet squatters who lived on their stations.
Job would never tell the story himself, at least not complete,
and as his family grew up he would become as angry as it was
in his easy-going nature to become if reference were made to the incident
in his presence. But his wife -- little, plump, bright-eyed Gerty Falconer --
often told the story (in the mysterious voice which women use
in speaking of private matters amongst themselves -- but with
brightening eyes) to women friends over tea; and always to a new woman friend.
And on such occasions she would be particularly tender
towards the unconscious Job, and ruffle his thin, sandy hair in a way
that embarrassed him in company -- made him look as sheepish
as an old big-horned ram that has just been shorn and turned amongst the ewes.
And the woman friend on parting would give Job's hand a squeeze
which would surprise him mildly, and look at him as if she could love him.
According to a theory of mine, Job, to fit the story, should have been tall,
and dark, and stern, or gloomy and quick-tempered. But he wasn't.
He was fairly tall, but he was fresh-complexioned and sandy
(his skin was pink to scarlet in some weathers, with blotches of umber),
and his eyes were pale-grey; his big forehead loomed babyishly,
his arms were short, and his legs bowed to the saddle.
Altogether he was an awkward, unlovely Bush bird -- on foot;
in the saddle it was different. He hadn't even a `temper'.
The impression on Job's mind which many years afterwards
brought about the incident was strong enough. When Job was a boy of fourteen
he saw his father's horse come home riderless -- circling and snorting
up by the stockyard, head jerked down whenever the hoof trod on
one of the snapped ends of the bridle-reins, and saddle twisted over the side
with bruised pommel and knee-pad broken off.
Job's father wasn't hurt much, but Job's mother, an emotional woman,
and then in a delicate state of health, survived the shock
for three months only. `She wasn't quite right in her head,' they said,
`from the day the horse came home till the last hour before she died.'
And, strange to say, Job's father (from whom Job inherited
his seemingly placid nature) died three months later.
The doctor from the town was of the opinion that he must have
`sustained internal injuries' when the horse threw him.
`Doc. Wild' (eccentric Bush doctor) reckoned that Job's father was hurt inside
when his wife died, and hurt so badly that he couldn't pull round.
But doctors differ all over the world.
Well, the story of Job himself came about in this way.
He had been married a year, and had lately started wool-raising
on a pastoral lease he had taken up at Talbragar: it was a new run,
with new slab-and-bark huts on the creek for a homestead,
new shearing-shed, yards -- wife and everything new, and he was
expecting a baby. Job felt brand-new himself at the time, so he said.
It was a lonely place for a young woman; but Gerty
`I'll hurry her off to Sydney,' she said. `We can get away this week
as well as next.' Then she stood for a minute before us, breathing quickly,
her hands behind her back and her eyes shining in the moonlight.
She looked splendid.
`I want to thank you for her sake,' she said quickly. `You are good men!
I like the Bushmen! They are grand men -- they are noble!
I'll probably never see either of you again, so it doesn't matter,'
and she put her white hand on Andy's shoulder and kissed him fair and square
on the mouth. `And you, too!' she said to me. I was taller than Andy,
and had to stoop. `Good-bye!' she said, and ran to the gate and in,
waving her hand to us. We lifted our hats again and turned down the road.
I don't think it did either of us any harm.
A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs.
This is a story -- about the only one -- of Job Falconer,
Boss of the Talbragar sheep-station up country in New South Wales
in the early Eighties -- when there were still runs in the Dingo-Scrubs
out of the hands of the banks, and yet squatters who lived on their stations.
Job would never tell the story himself, at least not complete,
and as his family grew up he would become as angry as it was
in his easy-going nature to become if reference were made to the incident
in his presence. But his wife -- little, plump, bright-eyed Gerty Falconer --
often told the story (in the mysterious voice which women use
in speaking of private matters amongst themselves -- but with
brightening eyes) to women friends over tea; and always to a new woman friend.
And on such occasions she would be particularly tender
towards the unconscious Job, and ruffle his thin, sandy hair in a way
that embarrassed him in company -- made him look as sheepish
as an old big-horned ram that has just been shorn and turned amongst the ewes.
And the woman friend on parting would give Job's hand a squeeze
which would surprise him mildly, and look at him as if she could love him.
According to a theory of mine, Job, to fit the story, should have been tall,
and dark, and stern, or gloomy and quick-tempered. But he wasn't.
He was fairly tall, but he was fresh-complexioned and sandy
(his skin was pink to scarlet in some weathers, with blotches of umber),
and his eyes were pale-grey; his big forehead loomed babyishly,
his arms were short, and his legs bowed to the saddle.
Altogether he was an awkward, unlovely Bush bird -- on foot;
in the saddle it was different. He hadn't even a `temper'.
The impression on Job's mind which many years afterwards
brought about the incident was strong enough. When Job was a boy of fourteen
he saw his father's horse come home riderless -- circling and snorting
up by the stockyard, head jerked down whenever the hoof trod on
one of the snapped ends of the bridle-reins, and saddle twisted over the side
with bruised pommel and knee-pad broken off.
Job's father wasn't hurt much, but Job's mother, an emotional woman,
and then in a delicate state of health, survived the shock
for three months only. `She wasn't quite right in her head,' they said,
`from the day the horse came home till the last hour before she died.'
And, strange to say, Job's father (from whom Job inherited
his seemingly placid nature) died three months later.
The doctor from the town was of the opinion that he must have
`sustained internal injuries' when the horse threw him.
`Doc. Wild' (eccentric Bush doctor) reckoned that Job's father was hurt inside
when his wife died, and hurt so badly that he couldn't pull round.
But doctors differ all over the world.
Well, the story of Job himself came about in this way.
He had been married a year, and had lately started wool-raising
on a pastoral lease he had taken up at Talbragar: it was a new run,
with new slab-and-bark huts on the creek for a homestead,
new shearing-shed, yards -- wife and everything new, and he was
expecting a baby. Job felt brand-new himself at the time, so he said.
It was a lonely place for a young woman; but Gerty