On Our Selection [23]
and, using both hands, calmly belted Smith's horse over the ribs for two minutes, by the sun. He tried him again. The horse threw himself down in the furrow. Dad took the scraper again, welted him on the rump, dug it into his back-bone, prodded him in the side, then threw it at him disgustedly. Then Dad sat down awhile and breathed heavily. He rose again and pulled Smith's horse by the head. He was pulling hard when Dave and Joe came up. Joe had a bow-and-arrow in his hand, and said!, "He's a good furrer 'orse, eh, Dad? Smith SAID you could n't pull him out of it."
Shall I ever forget the look on Dad's face! He brandished the scraper and sprang wildly at Joe and yelled, "Damn y', you WHELP! what do you want here?"
Joe left. The horse lay in the furrow. Blood was dropping from its mouth. Dave pointed it out, and Dad opened the brute's jaws and examined them. No teeth were there. He looked on the ground round about--none there either. He looked at the horse's mouth again, then hit him viciously with his clenched fist and said, "The old ----, he never DID have any!" At length he unharnessed the brute as it lay--pulled the winkers off, hurled them at its head, kicked it once--twice--three times--and the furrow-horse jumped up, trotted away triumphantly, and joyously rolled in the dam where all our water came from, drinking-water included.
Dad went straightaway to Smith's place, and told Smith he was a dirty, mean, despicable swindler--or something like that. Smith smiled. Dad put one leg through the slip-rails and promised Smith, if he'd only come along, to split palings out of him. But Smith did n't. The instinct of self-preservation must have been deep in that man Smith. Then Dad went home and said he would shoot the ---- horse there and then, and went looking for the gun. The horse died in the paddock of old age, but Dad never ploughed with him again.
Dad followed the plough early and late. One day he was giving the horses a spell after some hours' work, when Joe came to say that a policeman was at the house wanting to see him. Dad thought of the roan mare, and Smith, and turned very pale. Joe said: "There's "Q.P." on his saddle-cloth; what's that for, Dad?" But he did n't answer--he was thinking hard. "And," Joe went on, "there's somethin' sticking out of his pocket--Dave thinks it'll be 'ancuffs." Dad shuddered. On the way to the house Joe wished to speak about the policeman, but Dad seemed to have lock-jaw. When he found the officer of the law only wanted to know the number of stock he owned, he talked freely--he was delighted. He said, "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," and "Jusso, sir," to everything the policeman said.
Dad wished to learn some law. He said: "Now, tell me this: supposing a horse gets into my paddock--or into your paddock--and I advertise that horse and nobody claims him, can't I put my brand on him?" The policeman jerked back his head and stared at the shingles long enough to recall all the robberies he had committed, and said: "Ye can--that's so--ye can."
"I knew it," answered Dad; "but a lawyer in town told Maloney, over there, y' could n't."
"COULD N'T?" And the policeman laughed till he nearly had the house down, only stopping to ask, while the tears ran over his well-fed cheeks, "Did he charge him forrit?" and laughed again. He went away laughing, and for all I know the wooden-head may be laughing yet.
Everything was favourable to a good harvest. The rain fell just when it was wanted, and one could almost see the corn growing. How it encouraged Dad, and what new life it seemed to give him! In the cool of the evenings he would walk along the headlands and admire the forming cobs, and listen to the rustling of the rows of drooping blades as they swayed and beat against each other in the breeze. Then he would go home filled with fresh hopes and talk of nothing but the good prospect of that crop.
And how we worked! Joe was the only one who played. I remember him finding something on a chain one day. He had never seen anything like it before.
Shall I ever forget the look on Dad's face! He brandished the scraper and sprang wildly at Joe and yelled, "Damn y', you WHELP! what do you want here?"
Joe left. The horse lay in the furrow. Blood was dropping from its mouth. Dave pointed it out, and Dad opened the brute's jaws and examined them. No teeth were there. He looked on the ground round about--none there either. He looked at the horse's mouth again, then hit him viciously with his clenched fist and said, "The old ----, he never DID have any!" At length he unharnessed the brute as it lay--pulled the winkers off, hurled them at its head, kicked it once--twice--three times--and the furrow-horse jumped up, trotted away triumphantly, and joyously rolled in the dam where all our water came from, drinking-water included.
Dad went straightaway to Smith's place, and told Smith he was a dirty, mean, despicable swindler--or something like that. Smith smiled. Dad put one leg through the slip-rails and promised Smith, if he'd only come along, to split palings out of him. But Smith did n't. The instinct of self-preservation must have been deep in that man Smith. Then Dad went home and said he would shoot the ---- horse there and then, and went looking for the gun. The horse died in the paddock of old age, but Dad never ploughed with him again.
Dad followed the plough early and late. One day he was giving the horses a spell after some hours' work, when Joe came to say that a policeman was at the house wanting to see him. Dad thought of the roan mare, and Smith, and turned very pale. Joe said: "There's "Q.P." on his saddle-cloth; what's that for, Dad?" But he did n't answer--he was thinking hard. "And," Joe went on, "there's somethin' sticking out of his pocket--Dave thinks it'll be 'ancuffs." Dad shuddered. On the way to the house Joe wished to speak about the policeman, but Dad seemed to have lock-jaw. When he found the officer of the law only wanted to know the number of stock he owned, he talked freely--he was delighted. He said, "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," and "Jusso, sir," to everything the policeman said.
Dad wished to learn some law. He said: "Now, tell me this: supposing a horse gets into my paddock--or into your paddock--and I advertise that horse and nobody claims him, can't I put my brand on him?" The policeman jerked back his head and stared at the shingles long enough to recall all the robberies he had committed, and said: "Ye can--that's so--ye can."
"I knew it," answered Dad; "but a lawyer in town told Maloney, over there, y' could n't."
"COULD N'T?" And the policeman laughed till he nearly had the house down, only stopping to ask, while the tears ran over his well-fed cheeks, "Did he charge him forrit?" and laughed again. He went away laughing, and for all I know the wooden-head may be laughing yet.
Everything was favourable to a good harvest. The rain fell just when it was wanted, and one could almost see the corn growing. How it encouraged Dad, and what new life it seemed to give him! In the cool of the evenings he would walk along the headlands and admire the forming cobs, and listen to the rustling of the rows of drooping blades as they swayed and beat against each other in the breeze. Then he would go home filled with fresh hopes and talk of nothing but the good prospect of that crop.
And how we worked! Joe was the only one who played. I remember him finding something on a chain one day. He had never seen anything like it before.