Joe Wilson and His Mates [89]
such as is seldom heard in scrub-lands.
Out in the kitchen long Dave Regan grabbed, from the far side of the table,
where he had thrown it, a burst and battered concertina,
which he had been for the last hour vainly trying to patch and make air-tight;
and, holding it out towards the back-door, between his palms,
as a football is held, he let it drop, and fetched it neatly
on the toe of his riding-boot. It was a beautiful kick,
the concertina shot out into the blackness, from which was projected,
in return, first a short, sudden howl, then a face with one eye glaring
and the other covered by an enormous brick-coloured hand,
and a voice that wanted to know who shot `that lurid loaf of bread?'
But from the schoolroom was heard the loud, free voice
of Joe Matthews, M.C., --
`Take yer partners! Hurry up! Take yer partners! They've got Johnny Mears
with his fiddle!'
The Buck-Jumper.
Saturday afternoon.
There were about a dozen Bush natives, from anywhere, most of them
lanky and easy-going, hanging about the little slab-and-bark hotel
on the edge of the scrub at Capertee Camp (a teamster's camp)
when Cob & Co.'s mail-coach and six came dashing down the siding
from round Crown Ridge, in all its glory, to the end of the twelve-mile stage.
Some wiry, ill-used hacks were hanging to the fence and to saplings
about the place. The fresh coach-horses stood ready in a stock-yard
close to the shanty. As the coach climbed the nearer bank of the creek
at the foot of the ridge, six of the Bushmen detached themselves
from verandah posts, from their heels, from the clay floor of the verandah
and the rough slab wall against which they'd been resting,
and joined a group of four or five who stood round one.
He stood with his back to the corner post of the stock-yard,
his feet well braced out in front of him, and contemplated
the toes of his tight new 'lastic-side boots and whistled softly.
He was a clean-limbed, handsome fellow, with riding-cords,
leggings, and a blue sash; he was Graeco-Roman-nosed, blue-eyed,
and his glossy, curly black hair bunched up in front of the brim
of a new cabbage-tree hat, set well back on his head.
`Do it for a quid, Jack?' asked one.
`Damned if I will, Jim!' said the young man at the post.
`I'll do it for a fiver -- not a blanky sprat less.'
Jim took off his hat and `shoved' it round, and `bobs' were `chucked' into it.
The result was about thirty shillings.
Jack glanced contemptuously into the crown of the hat.
`Not me!' he said, showing some emotion for the first time.
`D'yer think I'm going to risk me blanky neck for your blanky amusement
for thirty blanky bob. I'll ride the blanky horse for a fiver,
and I'll feel the blanky quids in my pocket before I get on.'
Meanwhile the coach had dashed up to the door of the shanty.
There were about twenty passengers aboard -- inside, on the box-seat,
on the tail-board, and hanging on to the roof -- most of them Sydney men
going up to the Mudgee races. They got down and went inside
with the driver for a drink, while the stablemen changed horses.
The Bushmen raised their voices a little and argued.
One of the passengers was a big, stout, hearty man --
a good-hearted, sporting man and a racehorse-owner, according to his brands.
He had a round red face and a white cork hat. `What's those chaps
got on outside?' he asked the publican.
`Oh, it's a bet they've got on about riding a horse,' replied the publican.
`The flash-looking chap with the sash is Flash Jack, the horse-breaker;
and they reckon they've got the champion outlaw in the district out there --
that chestnut horse in the yard.'
The sporting man was interested at once, and went out and joined the Bushmen.
`Well, chaps! what have you got on here?' he asked cheerily.
`Oh,' said Jim carelessly, `it's only a bit of a bet about ridin'
that blanky chestnut in the corner of the yard there.' He indicated
an ungroomed chestnut horse, fenced off by a couple of long sapling poles
in a corner of the stock-yard. `Flash
Out in the kitchen long Dave Regan grabbed, from the far side of the table,
where he had thrown it, a burst and battered concertina,
which he had been for the last hour vainly trying to patch and make air-tight;
and, holding it out towards the back-door, between his palms,
as a football is held, he let it drop, and fetched it neatly
on the toe of his riding-boot. It was a beautiful kick,
the concertina shot out into the blackness, from which was projected,
in return, first a short, sudden howl, then a face with one eye glaring
and the other covered by an enormous brick-coloured hand,
and a voice that wanted to know who shot `that lurid loaf of bread?'
But from the schoolroom was heard the loud, free voice
of Joe Matthews, M.C., --
`Take yer partners! Hurry up! Take yer partners! They've got Johnny Mears
with his fiddle!'
The Buck-Jumper.
Saturday afternoon.
There were about a dozen Bush natives, from anywhere, most of them
lanky and easy-going, hanging about the little slab-and-bark hotel
on the edge of the scrub at Capertee Camp (a teamster's camp)
when Cob & Co.'s mail-coach and six came dashing down the siding
from round Crown Ridge, in all its glory, to the end of the twelve-mile stage.
Some wiry, ill-used hacks were hanging to the fence and to saplings
about the place. The fresh coach-horses stood ready in a stock-yard
close to the shanty. As the coach climbed the nearer bank of the creek
at the foot of the ridge, six of the Bushmen detached themselves
from verandah posts, from their heels, from the clay floor of the verandah
and the rough slab wall against which they'd been resting,
and joined a group of four or five who stood round one.
He stood with his back to the corner post of the stock-yard,
his feet well braced out in front of him, and contemplated
the toes of his tight new 'lastic-side boots and whistled softly.
He was a clean-limbed, handsome fellow, with riding-cords,
leggings, and a blue sash; he was Graeco-Roman-nosed, blue-eyed,
and his glossy, curly black hair bunched up in front of the brim
of a new cabbage-tree hat, set well back on his head.
`Do it for a quid, Jack?' asked one.
`Damned if I will, Jim!' said the young man at the post.
`I'll do it for a fiver -- not a blanky sprat less.'
Jim took off his hat and `shoved' it round, and `bobs' were `chucked' into it.
The result was about thirty shillings.
Jack glanced contemptuously into the crown of the hat.
`Not me!' he said, showing some emotion for the first time.
`D'yer think I'm going to risk me blanky neck for your blanky amusement
for thirty blanky bob. I'll ride the blanky horse for a fiver,
and I'll feel the blanky quids in my pocket before I get on.'
Meanwhile the coach had dashed up to the door of the shanty.
There were about twenty passengers aboard -- inside, on the box-seat,
on the tail-board, and hanging on to the roof -- most of them Sydney men
going up to the Mudgee races. They got down and went inside
with the driver for a drink, while the stablemen changed horses.
The Bushmen raised their voices a little and argued.
One of the passengers was a big, stout, hearty man --
a good-hearted, sporting man and a racehorse-owner, according to his brands.
He had a round red face and a white cork hat. `What's those chaps
got on outside?' he asked the publican.
`Oh, it's a bet they've got on about riding a horse,' replied the publican.
`The flash-looking chap with the sash is Flash Jack, the horse-breaker;
and they reckon they've got the champion outlaw in the district out there --
that chestnut horse in the yard.'
The sporting man was interested at once, and went out and joined the Bushmen.
`Well, chaps! what have you got on here?' he asked cheerily.
`Oh,' said Jim carelessly, `it's only a bit of a bet about ridin'
that blanky chestnut in the corner of the yard there.' He indicated
an ungroomed chestnut horse, fenced off by a couple of long sapling poles
in a corner of the stock-yard. `Flash