On Our Selection [11]
in his voice.
"Wot's up with 'em?" Dad asked.
"They're too big altogether."
"Well, take 'em off then!"
Dave jumped down and pulled them off-leaving his socks on.
More than a dozen horses went out, and when the starter said "Off!" did n't they go! Our eyes at once followed Bess. Dave was at her right from the jump--the very opposite to what Dad had told him. In the first furlong she put fully twenty yards of daylight between herself and the field--she came after the field. At the back of the course you could see the whole of Kyle's selection and two of Jerry Keefe's hay-stacks between her and the others. We did n't follow her any further.
After the race was won and they had cheered the winner, Dad was n't to be found anywhere.
Dave sat on the grass quite exhausted. "Ain't y' goin' to pull the saddle off?" Joe asked.
"No," he said. "I AIN'T. You don't want everyone to see her back, do you?"
Joe wished he had sixpence.
About an hour afterwards Dad came staggering along arm-in-arm with another man--an old fencing-mate of his, so he made out.
"Thur yar," he said, taking off his hat and striking Bess on the rump with it; "besh bred mare in the worl'."
The fencing-mate looked at her, but did n't say anything; he could n't.
"Eh?" Dad went on; "say sh'ain't? L'ere-ever y' name is--betcher pound sh'is."
Then a jeering and laughing crowd gathered round, and Dave wished he had n't come to the races.
"She ain't well," said a tall man to Dad--"short in her gallops." Then a short, bulky individual without whiskers shoved his face up into Dad's and asked him if Bess was a mare or a cow. Dad became excited, and only that old Anderson came forward and took him away there must have been a row.
Anderson put him in the dray and drove it home to Shingle Hut.
Dad reckons now that there is nothing in horse-racing, and declares it a fraud. He says, further, that an honest man, by training and racing a horse, is only helping to feed and fatten the rogues and vagabonds that live on the sport.
Chapter VII.
Cranky Jack.
It was early in the day. Traveller after traveller was trudging by Shingle Hut. One who carried no swag halted at the rails and came in. He asked Dad for a job. "I dunno," Dad answered--"What wages would you want?" The man said he would n't want any. Dad engaged him at once.
And SUCH a man! Tall, bony, heavy-jawed, shaven with a reaping-hook, apparently. He had a thick crop of black hair--shaggy, unkempt, and full of grease, grass, and fragments of dry gum-leaves. On his head were two old felt hats--one sewn inside the other. On his back a shirt made from a piece of blue blanket, with white cotton stitches striding up and down it like lines of fencing. His trousers were gloom itself; they were a problem, and bore reliable evidence of his industry. No ordinary person would consider himself out of work while in them. And the new-comer was no ordinary person. He seemed to have all the woe of the world upon him; he was as sad and weird-looking as a widow out in the wet.
In the yard was a large heap of firewood--remarkable truth!--which Dad told him to chop up. He began. And how he worked! The axe rang again--particularly when it left the handle--and pieces of wood scattered everywhere. Dad watched him chopping for a while, then went with Dave to pull corn.
For hours the man chopped away without once looking at the sun. Mother came out. Joy! She had never seen so much wood cut before. She was delighted. She made a cup of tea and took it to the man, and apologised for having no sugar to put in it. He paid no attention to her; he worked harder. Mother waited, holding the tea in her hand. A lump of wood nearly as big as a shingle flew up and shaved her left ear. She put the tea on the ground and went in search of eggs for dinner. (We were out of meat--the kangaroo-dog was lame. He had got "ripped" the last time we killed.)
The tea remained on the ground. Chips fell into it. The dog saw it. He limped towards it eagerly,
"Wot's up with 'em?" Dad asked.
"They're too big altogether."
"Well, take 'em off then!"
Dave jumped down and pulled them off-leaving his socks on.
More than a dozen horses went out, and when the starter said "Off!" did n't they go! Our eyes at once followed Bess. Dave was at her right from the jump--the very opposite to what Dad had told him. In the first furlong she put fully twenty yards of daylight between herself and the field--she came after the field. At the back of the course you could see the whole of Kyle's selection and two of Jerry Keefe's hay-stacks between her and the others. We did n't follow her any further.
After the race was won and they had cheered the winner, Dad was n't to be found anywhere.
Dave sat on the grass quite exhausted. "Ain't y' goin' to pull the saddle off?" Joe asked.
"No," he said. "I AIN'T. You don't want everyone to see her back, do you?"
Joe wished he had sixpence.
About an hour afterwards Dad came staggering along arm-in-arm with another man--an old fencing-mate of his, so he made out.
"Thur yar," he said, taking off his hat and striking Bess on the rump with it; "besh bred mare in the worl'."
The fencing-mate looked at her, but did n't say anything; he could n't.
"Eh?" Dad went on; "say sh'ain't? L'ere-ever y' name is--betcher pound sh'is."
Then a jeering and laughing crowd gathered round, and Dave wished he had n't come to the races.
"She ain't well," said a tall man to Dad--"short in her gallops." Then a short, bulky individual without whiskers shoved his face up into Dad's and asked him if Bess was a mare or a cow. Dad became excited, and only that old Anderson came forward and took him away there must have been a row.
Anderson put him in the dray and drove it home to Shingle Hut.
Dad reckons now that there is nothing in horse-racing, and declares it a fraud. He says, further, that an honest man, by training and racing a horse, is only helping to feed and fatten the rogues and vagabonds that live on the sport.
Chapter VII.
Cranky Jack.
It was early in the day. Traveller after traveller was trudging by Shingle Hut. One who carried no swag halted at the rails and came in. He asked Dad for a job. "I dunno," Dad answered--"What wages would you want?" The man said he would n't want any. Dad engaged him at once.
And SUCH a man! Tall, bony, heavy-jawed, shaven with a reaping-hook, apparently. He had a thick crop of black hair--shaggy, unkempt, and full of grease, grass, and fragments of dry gum-leaves. On his head were two old felt hats--one sewn inside the other. On his back a shirt made from a piece of blue blanket, with white cotton stitches striding up and down it like lines of fencing. His trousers were gloom itself; they were a problem, and bore reliable evidence of his industry. No ordinary person would consider himself out of work while in them. And the new-comer was no ordinary person. He seemed to have all the woe of the world upon him; he was as sad and weird-looking as a widow out in the wet.
In the yard was a large heap of firewood--remarkable truth!--which Dad told him to chop up. He began. And how he worked! The axe rang again--particularly when it left the handle--and pieces of wood scattered everywhere. Dad watched him chopping for a while, then went with Dave to pull corn.
For hours the man chopped away without once looking at the sun. Mother came out. Joy! She had never seen so much wood cut before. She was delighted. She made a cup of tea and took it to the man, and apologised for having no sugar to put in it. He paid no attention to her; he worked harder. Mother waited, holding the tea in her hand. A lump of wood nearly as big as a shingle flew up and shaved her left ear. She put the tea on the ground and went in search of eggs for dinner. (We were out of meat--the kangaroo-dog was lame. He had got "ripped" the last time we killed.)
The tea remained on the ground. Chips fell into it. The dog saw it. He limped towards it eagerly,