Joe Wilson and His Mates [35]
know is,
how do you manage when you sell it?'
He glared at her, and scratched his head. `Sell it?
Why, we only goes halves in a steer with some one, or sells steers
to the butcher -- or maybe some meat to a party of fencers or surveyors,
or tank-sinkers, or them sorter people ----'
`Yes, yes; but what I want to know is, how much am I to send your mother
for this?'
`How much what?'
`Money, of course, you stupid boy,' said Mary. `You seem a very stupid boy.'
Then he saw what she was driving at. He began to fling his heels convulsively
against the sides of his horse, jerking his body backward and forward
at the same time, as if to wind up and start some clockwork machinery
inside the horse, that made it go, and seemed to need repairing or oiling.
`We ain't that sorter people, missus,' he said. `We don't sell meat
to new people that come to settle here.' Then, jerking his thumb
contemptuously towards the ridges, `Go over ter Wall's if yer wanter buy meat;
they sell meat ter strangers.' (Wall was the big squatter over the ridges.)
`Oh!' said Mary, `I'm SO sorry. Thank your mother for me. She IS kind.'
`Oh, that's nothink. She said to tell yer she'll be up as soon as she can.
She'd have come up yisterday evening -- she thought yer'd feel lonely
comin' new to a place like this -- but she couldn't git up.'
The machinery inside the old horse showed signs of starting.
You almost heard the wooden joints CREAK as he lurched forward,
like an old propped-up humpy when the rotting props give way;
but at the sound of Mary's voice he settled back on his foundations again.
It must have been a very poor selection that couldn't afford
a better spare horse than that.
`Reach me that lump er wood, will yer, missus?' said the boy,
and he pointed to one of my `spreads' (for the team-chains)
that lay inside the fence. `I'll fling it back agin over the fence
when I git this ole cow started.'
`But wait a minute -- I've forgotten your mother's name,' said Mary.
He grabbed at his thatch impatiently. `Me mother -- oh! --
the old woman's name's Mrs Spicer. (Git up, karnt yer!)'
He twisted himself round, and brought the stretcher down
on one of the horse's `points' (and he had many) with a crack
that must have jarred his wrist.
`Do you go to school?' asked Mary. There was a three-days-a-week school
over the ridges at Wall's station.
`No!' he jerked out, keeping his legs going. `Me -- why I'm going on
fur fifteen. The last teacher at Wall's finished me.
I'm going to Queensland next month drovin'.' (Queensland border
was over three hundred miles away.)
`Finished you? How?' asked Mary.
`Me edgercation, of course! How do yer expect me to start this horse
when yer keep talkin'?'
He split the `spread' over the horse's point, threw the pieces over the fence,
and was off, his elbows and legs flinging wildly, and the old saw-stool
lumbering along the road like an old working bullock trying a canter.
That horse wasn't a trotter.
And next month he DID start for Queensland. He was a younger son
and a surplus boy on a wretched, poverty-stricken selection;
and as there was `northin' doin'' in the district, his father
(in a burst of fatherly kindness, I suppose) made him a present
of the old horse and a new pair of Blucher boots, and I gave him
an old saddle and a coat, and he started for the Never-Never Country.
And I'll bet he got there. But I'm doubtful if the old horse did.
Mary gave the boy five shillings, and I don't think he had anything more
except a clean shirt and an extra pair of white cotton socks.
`Spicer's farm' was a big bark humpy on a patchy clearing in the native
apple-tree scrub. The clearing was fenced in by a light `dog-legged' fence
(a fence of sapling poles resting on forks and X-shaped uprights),
and the dusty ground round the house was almost entirely covered
with cattle-dung. There was no attempt at cultivation
when I came to live on the creek; but there were old furrow-marks
amongst the stumps of another shapeless
how do you manage when you sell it?'
He glared at her, and scratched his head. `Sell it?
Why, we only goes halves in a steer with some one, or sells steers
to the butcher -- or maybe some meat to a party of fencers or surveyors,
or tank-sinkers, or them sorter people ----'
`Yes, yes; but what I want to know is, how much am I to send your mother
for this?'
`How much what?'
`Money, of course, you stupid boy,' said Mary. `You seem a very stupid boy.'
Then he saw what she was driving at. He began to fling his heels convulsively
against the sides of his horse, jerking his body backward and forward
at the same time, as if to wind up and start some clockwork machinery
inside the horse, that made it go, and seemed to need repairing or oiling.
`We ain't that sorter people, missus,' he said. `We don't sell meat
to new people that come to settle here.' Then, jerking his thumb
contemptuously towards the ridges, `Go over ter Wall's if yer wanter buy meat;
they sell meat ter strangers.' (Wall was the big squatter over the ridges.)
`Oh!' said Mary, `I'm SO sorry. Thank your mother for me. She IS kind.'
`Oh, that's nothink. She said to tell yer she'll be up as soon as she can.
She'd have come up yisterday evening -- she thought yer'd feel lonely
comin' new to a place like this -- but she couldn't git up.'
The machinery inside the old horse showed signs of starting.
You almost heard the wooden joints CREAK as he lurched forward,
like an old propped-up humpy when the rotting props give way;
but at the sound of Mary's voice he settled back on his foundations again.
It must have been a very poor selection that couldn't afford
a better spare horse than that.
`Reach me that lump er wood, will yer, missus?' said the boy,
and he pointed to one of my `spreads' (for the team-chains)
that lay inside the fence. `I'll fling it back agin over the fence
when I git this ole cow started.'
`But wait a minute -- I've forgotten your mother's name,' said Mary.
He grabbed at his thatch impatiently. `Me mother -- oh! --
the old woman's name's Mrs Spicer. (Git up, karnt yer!)'
He twisted himself round, and brought the stretcher down
on one of the horse's `points' (and he had many) with a crack
that must have jarred his wrist.
`Do you go to school?' asked Mary. There was a three-days-a-week school
over the ridges at Wall's station.
`No!' he jerked out, keeping his legs going. `Me -- why I'm going on
fur fifteen. The last teacher at Wall's finished me.
I'm going to Queensland next month drovin'.' (Queensland border
was over three hundred miles away.)
`Finished you? How?' asked Mary.
`Me edgercation, of course! How do yer expect me to start this horse
when yer keep talkin'?'
He split the `spread' over the horse's point, threw the pieces over the fence,
and was off, his elbows and legs flinging wildly, and the old saw-stool
lumbering along the road like an old working bullock trying a canter.
That horse wasn't a trotter.
And next month he DID start for Queensland. He was a younger son
and a surplus boy on a wretched, poverty-stricken selection;
and as there was `northin' doin'' in the district, his father
(in a burst of fatherly kindness, I suppose) made him a present
of the old horse and a new pair of Blucher boots, and I gave him
an old saddle and a coat, and he started for the Never-Never Country.
And I'll bet he got there. But I'm doubtful if the old horse did.
Mary gave the boy five shillings, and I don't think he had anything more
except a clean shirt and an extra pair of white cotton socks.
`Spicer's farm' was a big bark humpy on a patchy clearing in the native
apple-tree scrub. The clearing was fenced in by a light `dog-legged' fence
(a fence of sapling poles resting on forks and X-shaped uprights),
and the dusty ground round the house was almost entirely covered
with cattle-dung. There was no attempt at cultivation
when I came to live on the creek; but there were old furrow-marks
amongst the stumps of another shapeless