On Our Selection [30]
bring terror to the hearts of bush children. A glimmer of lightning appeared through the cracks in the slabs. Old Bob said he would go before it came on, and started into the inky darkness.
"It's coming!" Dad said, as he shut the door and put the peg in after seeing old Bob out. And it came--in no time. A fierce wind struck the house. Then a vivid flash of lightning lit up every crack and hole, and a clap of thunder followed that nearly shook the place down.
Dad ran to the back door and put his shoulder against it; Dave stood to the front one; and Sarah sat on the sofa with her arms around Mother, telling her not to be afraid. The wind blew furiously--its one aim seemed the shifting of the house. Gust after gust struck the walls and left them quivering. The children screamed. Dad called and shouted, but no one could catch a word he said. Then there was one tremendous crack--we understood it--the iron-bark tree had gone over. At last, the shingled roof commenced to give. Several times the ends rose (and our hair too) and fell back into place again with a clap. Then it went clean away in one piece, with a rip like splitting a ribbon, and there we stood, affrighted and shelterless, inside the walls. Then the wind went down and it rained--rained on us all night.
Next morning Joe had been to the new fence for the axe for Dad, and was off again as fast as he could run, when he remembered something and called out, "Dad, old B-B-Bob's just over there, lyin' down in the gully."
Dad started up. "It's 'im all right--I w-w-would n'ter noticed, only Prince s-s-smelt him."
"Quick and show me where!" Dad said.
Joe showed him.
"My God!" and Dad stood and stared. Old Bob it was--dead. Dead as Moses.
"Poor old Bob!" Dad said. "Poor-old-fellow!" Joe asked what could have killed him? "Poor-old-Bob!"
Dave brought the dray, and we took him to the house--or what remained of it.
Dad could n't make out the cause of death--perhaps it was lightning. He held a POST-MORTEM, and, after thinking hard for a long while, told Mother he was certain, anyway, that old Bob would never get up again. It was a change to have a dead man about the place, and we were very pleased to be first to tell anyone who did n't know the news about old Bob.
We planted him on his own selection beneath a gum-tree, where for years and years a family of jackasses nightly roosted, Dad remarking: "As there MIGHT be a chance of his hearin', it'll be company for the poor old cove."
Chapter XIV.
When Dan Came Home.
One night after the threshing. Dad lying on the sofa, thinking; the rest of us sitting at the table. Dad spoke to Joe.
"How much," he said, "is seven hundred bushels of wheat at six shillings?"
Joe, who was looked upon as the brainy one of our family, took down his slate with a hint of scholarly ostentation.
"What did y' say, Dad--seven 'undred BAGS?"
"Bushels! BUSHELS!"
"Seven 'un-dered bush-els-of wheat--WHEAT was it, Dad?"
"Yes, WHEAT!"
"Wheat at...At WHAT, Dad?"
"Six shillings a bushel."
"Six shil-lings-a.... A, Dad? We've not done any at A; she's on'y showed us PER!"
"PER bushel, then!"
"Per bush-el. That's seven 'undered bushels of wheat at six shillin's per bushel. An' y' wants ter know, Dad--?"
"How much it'll be, of course."
"In money, Dad, or--er----?"
"Dammit, yes; MONEY!" Dad raised his voice.
For a while, Joe thought hard, then set to work figuring and rubbing out, figuring and rubbing out. The rest of us eyed him, envious of his learning.
Joe finished the sum.
"Well?" from Dad.
Joe cleared his throat. We listened.
"Nine thousan' poun'."
Dave laughed loud. Dad said, "Pshaw!" and turned his face to the wall. Joe looked at the slate again.
"Oh! I see," he said, "I did n't divide by twelve t' bring t' pounds," and laughed himself.
More figuring and rubbing out.
Finally Joe, in loud, decisive tones, announced, "FOUR thousand, NO 'undered an' twenty poun', fourteen shillin's an'--"
"Bah! YOU blockhead!" Dad
"It's coming!" Dad said, as he shut the door and put the peg in after seeing old Bob out. And it came--in no time. A fierce wind struck the house. Then a vivid flash of lightning lit up every crack and hole, and a clap of thunder followed that nearly shook the place down.
Dad ran to the back door and put his shoulder against it; Dave stood to the front one; and Sarah sat on the sofa with her arms around Mother, telling her not to be afraid. The wind blew furiously--its one aim seemed the shifting of the house. Gust after gust struck the walls and left them quivering. The children screamed. Dad called and shouted, but no one could catch a word he said. Then there was one tremendous crack--we understood it--the iron-bark tree had gone over. At last, the shingled roof commenced to give. Several times the ends rose (and our hair too) and fell back into place again with a clap. Then it went clean away in one piece, with a rip like splitting a ribbon, and there we stood, affrighted and shelterless, inside the walls. Then the wind went down and it rained--rained on us all night.
Next morning Joe had been to the new fence for the axe for Dad, and was off again as fast as he could run, when he remembered something and called out, "Dad, old B-B-Bob's just over there, lyin' down in the gully."
Dad started up. "It's 'im all right--I w-w-would n'ter noticed, only Prince s-s-smelt him."
"Quick and show me where!" Dad said.
Joe showed him.
"My God!" and Dad stood and stared. Old Bob it was--dead. Dead as Moses.
"Poor old Bob!" Dad said. "Poor-old-fellow!" Joe asked what could have killed him? "Poor-old-Bob!"
Dave brought the dray, and we took him to the house--or what remained of it.
Dad could n't make out the cause of death--perhaps it was lightning. He held a POST-MORTEM, and, after thinking hard for a long while, told Mother he was certain, anyway, that old Bob would never get up again. It was a change to have a dead man about the place, and we were very pleased to be first to tell anyone who did n't know the news about old Bob.
We planted him on his own selection beneath a gum-tree, where for years and years a family of jackasses nightly roosted, Dad remarking: "As there MIGHT be a chance of his hearin', it'll be company for the poor old cove."
Chapter XIV.
When Dan Came Home.
One night after the threshing. Dad lying on the sofa, thinking; the rest of us sitting at the table. Dad spoke to Joe.
"How much," he said, "is seven hundred bushels of wheat at six shillings?"
Joe, who was looked upon as the brainy one of our family, took down his slate with a hint of scholarly ostentation.
"What did y' say, Dad--seven 'undred BAGS?"
"Bushels! BUSHELS!"
"Seven 'un-dered bush-els-of wheat--WHEAT was it, Dad?"
"Yes, WHEAT!"
"Wheat at...At WHAT, Dad?"
"Six shillings a bushel."
"Six shil-lings-a.... A, Dad? We've not done any at A; she's on'y showed us PER!"
"PER bushel, then!"
"Per bush-el. That's seven 'undered bushels of wheat at six shillin's per bushel. An' y' wants ter know, Dad--?"
"How much it'll be, of course."
"In money, Dad, or--er----?"
"Dammit, yes; MONEY!" Dad raised his voice.
For a while, Joe thought hard, then set to work figuring and rubbing out, figuring and rubbing out. The rest of us eyed him, envious of his learning.
Joe finished the sum.
"Well?" from Dad.
Joe cleared his throat. We listened.
"Nine thousan' poun'."
Dave laughed loud. Dad said, "Pshaw!" and turned his face to the wall. Joe looked at the slate again.
"Oh! I see," he said, "I did n't divide by twelve t' bring t' pounds," and laughed himself.
More figuring and rubbing out.
Finally Joe, in loud, decisive tones, announced, "FOUR thousand, NO 'undered an' twenty poun', fourteen shillin's an'--"
"Bah! YOU blockhead!" Dad