Joe Wilson and His Mates [45]
she'd started, -- just as if I wasn't there, --
and it used to make me mad. She'd keep driving at me till I took her advice
or lost my temper, -- I did both at the same time, mostly.
I took my pipe and went out to smoke and cool down.
A couple of days after the potato breeze, I started with the team
down to Cudgeegong for a load of fencing-wire I had to bring out;
and after I'd kissed Mary good-bye, she said --
`Look here, Joe, if you bring out a bag of seed-potatoes,
James and I will slice them, and old Corny George down the creek
would bring his plough up in the dray and plough the ground for very little.
We could put the potatoes in ourselves if the ground were only ploughed.'
I thought she'd forgotten all about it. There was no time to argue --
I'd be sure to lose my temper, and then I'd either have to waste an hour
comforting Mary or go off in a `huff', as the women call it,
and be miserable for the trip. So I said I'd see about it. She gave me
another hug and a kiss. `Don't forget, Joe,' she said as I started.
`Think it over on the road.' I reckon she had the best of it that time.
About five miles along, just as I turned into the main road,
I heard some one galloping after me, and I saw young James on his hack.
I got a start, for I thought that something had gone wrong at home.
I remember, the first day I left Mary on the creek, for the first
five or six miles I was half-a-dozen times on the point of turning back --
only I thought she'd laugh at me.
`What is it, James?' I shouted, before he came up -- but I saw
he was grinning.
`Mary says to tell you not to forget to bring a hoe out with you.'
`You clear off home!' I said, `or I'll lay the whip about your young hide;
and don't come riding after me again as if the run was on fire.'
`Well, you needn't get shirty with me!' he said. `*I* don't want to have
anything to do with a hoe.' And he rode off.
I DID get thinking about those potatoes, though I hadn't meant to.
I knew of an independent man in that district who'd made his money
out of a crop of potatoes; but that was away back in the roaring 'Fifties
-- '54 -- when spuds went up to twenty-eight shillings a hundredweight
(in Sydney), on account of the gold rush. We might get good rain now,
and, anyway, it wouldn't cost much to put the potatoes in.
If they came on well, it would be a few pounds in my pocket;
if the crop was a failure, I'd have a better show with Mary
next time she was struck by an idea outside housekeeping,
and have something to grumble about when I felt grumpy.
I got a couple of bags of potatoes -- we could use those that were left over;
and I got a small iron plough and a harrow that Little the blacksmith
had lying in his yard and let me have cheap -- only about a pound more
than I told Mary I gave for them. When I took advice, I generally made
the mistake of taking more than was offered, or adding notions of my own.
It was vanity, I suppose. If the crop came on well I could claim
the plough-and-harrow part of the idea, anyway. (It didn't strike me
that if the crop failed Mary would have the plough and harrow against me,
for old Corny would plough the ground for ten or fifteen shillings.)
Anyway, I'd want a plough and harrow later on, and I might as well get it now;
it would give James something to do.
I came out by the western road, by Guntawang, and up the creek home;
and the first thing I saw was old Corny George ploughing the flat.
And Mary was down on the bank superintending. She'd got James
with the trace-chains and the spare horses, and had made him clear off
every stick and bush where another furrow might be squeezed in.
Old Corny looked pretty grumpy on it -- he'd broken all his ploughshares
but one, in the roots; and James didn't look much brighter.
Mary had an old felt hat and a new pair of 'lastic-side boots of mine on,
and the boots were covered with clay, for she'd been down hustling James
to get a rotten old stump out of the way by the time Corny came round
with his next furrow.
`I thought
and it used to make me mad. She'd keep driving at me till I took her advice
or lost my temper, -- I did both at the same time, mostly.
I took my pipe and went out to smoke and cool down.
A couple of days after the potato breeze, I started with the team
down to Cudgeegong for a load of fencing-wire I had to bring out;
and after I'd kissed Mary good-bye, she said --
`Look here, Joe, if you bring out a bag of seed-potatoes,
James and I will slice them, and old Corny George down the creek
would bring his plough up in the dray and plough the ground for very little.
We could put the potatoes in ourselves if the ground were only ploughed.'
I thought she'd forgotten all about it. There was no time to argue --
I'd be sure to lose my temper, and then I'd either have to waste an hour
comforting Mary or go off in a `huff', as the women call it,
and be miserable for the trip. So I said I'd see about it. She gave me
another hug and a kiss. `Don't forget, Joe,' she said as I started.
`Think it over on the road.' I reckon she had the best of it that time.
About five miles along, just as I turned into the main road,
I heard some one galloping after me, and I saw young James on his hack.
I got a start, for I thought that something had gone wrong at home.
I remember, the first day I left Mary on the creek, for the first
five or six miles I was half-a-dozen times on the point of turning back --
only I thought she'd laugh at me.
`What is it, James?' I shouted, before he came up -- but I saw
he was grinning.
`Mary says to tell you not to forget to bring a hoe out with you.'
`You clear off home!' I said, `or I'll lay the whip about your young hide;
and don't come riding after me again as if the run was on fire.'
`Well, you needn't get shirty with me!' he said. `*I* don't want to have
anything to do with a hoe.' And he rode off.
I DID get thinking about those potatoes, though I hadn't meant to.
I knew of an independent man in that district who'd made his money
out of a crop of potatoes; but that was away back in the roaring 'Fifties
-- '54 -- when spuds went up to twenty-eight shillings a hundredweight
(in Sydney), on account of the gold rush. We might get good rain now,
and, anyway, it wouldn't cost much to put the potatoes in.
If they came on well, it would be a few pounds in my pocket;
if the crop was a failure, I'd have a better show with Mary
next time she was struck by an idea outside housekeeping,
and have something to grumble about when I felt grumpy.
I got a couple of bags of potatoes -- we could use those that were left over;
and I got a small iron plough and a harrow that Little the blacksmith
had lying in his yard and let me have cheap -- only about a pound more
than I told Mary I gave for them. When I took advice, I generally made
the mistake of taking more than was offered, or adding notions of my own.
It was vanity, I suppose. If the crop came on well I could claim
the plough-and-harrow part of the idea, anyway. (It didn't strike me
that if the crop failed Mary would have the plough and harrow against me,
for old Corny would plough the ground for ten or fifteen shillings.)
Anyway, I'd want a plough and harrow later on, and I might as well get it now;
it would give James something to do.
I came out by the western road, by Guntawang, and up the creek home;
and the first thing I saw was old Corny George ploughing the flat.
And Mary was down on the bank superintending. She'd got James
with the trace-chains and the spare horses, and had made him clear off
every stick and bush where another furrow might be squeezed in.
Old Corny looked pretty grumpy on it -- he'd broken all his ploughshares
but one, in the roots; and James didn't look much brighter.
Mary had an old felt hat and a new pair of 'lastic-side boots of mine on,
and the boots were covered with clay, for she'd been down hustling James
to get a rotten old stump out of the way by the time Corny came round
with his next furrow.
`I thought