Robbery Under Arms, Rolf Boldrewood [pdf e book reader txt] 📗

burrs and seeds amang the wool if ye keep losing a smart shearer for the sake o’ a wheen cards and dice; and ye’ll mak’ nae heed of convairtin’ thae young caterans ony mair than ye’ll change a Norroway falcon into a barn-door chuckie.”

I wonder if what he said was true⁠—if we couldn’t help it; if it was in our blood? It seems like it; and yet it’s hard lines to think a fellow must grow up and get on the cross in spite of himself, and come to the gallows-foot at last, whether he likes it or not. The parson here isn’t bad at all. He’s a man and a gentleman, too; and he’s talked and read to me by the hour. I suppose some of us chaps are like the poor stupid tribes that the Israelites found in Canaan, only meant to live for a bit and then to be rubbed out to make room for better people.

When the shearing was nearly over we had a Saturday afternoon to ourselves. We had finished all the sheep that were in the shed, and old M’Intyre didn’t like to begin a fresh flock. So we got on our horses and took a ride into the township just for the fun of the thing, and for a little change. The horses had got quite fresh with the rest and the spring grass. Their coats were shining, and they all looked very different from what they did when we first came. Our two were not so poor when they came, so they looked the best of the lot, and jumped about in style when we mounted. Ah! only to think of a good horse.

All the men washed themselves and put on clean clothes. Then we had our dinner and about a dozen of us started off for the town.

Poor old Jim, how well he looked that day! I don’t think you could pick a young fellow anywhere in the countryside that was a patch on him for good looks and manliness, somewhere about six foot or a little over, as straight as a rush, with a bright blue eye that was always laughing and twinkling, and curly dark brown hair. No wonder all the girls used to think so much of him. He could do anything and everything that a man could do. He was as strong as a young bull, and as active as a rock wallaby⁠—and ride! Well, he sat on his horse as if he was born on one. With his broad shoulders and upright easy seat he was a regular picture on a good horse.

And he had a good one under him today; a big, brown, resolute, well-bred horse he had got in a swap because the man that had him was afraid of him. Now that he had got a little flesh on his bones he looked something quite out of the common. “A deal too good for a poor man, and him honest,” as old M’Intyre said.

But Jim turned on him pretty sharp, and said he had got the horse in a fair deal, and had as much right to a good mount as anyone else⁠—super or squatter, he didn’t care who he was.

And Mr. Falkland took Jim’s part, and rather made Mr. M’Intyre out in the wrong for saying what he did. The old man didn’t say much more, only shook his head, saying⁠—

“Ah, ye’re a grand laddie, and buirdly, and no that thrawn, either⁠—like ye, Dick, ye born deevil,” looking at me. “But I misdoot sair ye’ll die wi’ your boots on. There’s a smack o’ Johnnie Armstrong in the glint o’ yer e’e. Ye’ll be to dree yer weird, there’s nae help for’t.”

“What’s all that lingo, Mr. M’Intyre?” called out Jim, all good-natured again. “Is it French or Queensland blacks’ yabber? Blest if I understand a word of it. But I didn’t want to be nasty, only I am regular shook on this old moke, I believe, and he’s as square as Mr. Falkland’s dogcart horse.”

“Maybe ye bocht him fair eneugh. I’ll no deny you. I saw the receipt mysel’. But where did yon lang-leggit, long-lockit, Fish River moss-trooping callant win haud o’ him? Answer me that, Jeems.”

“That says nothing,” answered Jim. “I’m not supposed to trace back every horse in the country and find out all the people that owned him since he was a foal. He’s mine now, and mine he’ll be till I get a better one.”

“A contuma-acious and stiff-necked generation,” said the old man, walking off and shaking his head. “And yet he’s a fine laddie; a gra-and laddie wad he be with good guidance. It’s the Lord’s doing, nae doot, and we daurna fault it; it’s wondrous in our een.”

That was the way old Mac always talked. Droll lingo, wasn’t it?

IX

Well, away we went to this township. Bundah was the name of it; not that there was anything to do or see when we got there. It was the regular upcountry village, with a public-house, a store, a pound, and a blacksmith’s shop. However, a public-house is not such a bad place⁠—at any rate it’s better than nothing when a fellow’s young and red-hot for anything like a bit of fun, or even a change. Some people can work away day after day, and year after year, like a bullock in a team or a horse in a chaff-cutting machine. It’s all the better for them if they can, though I suppose they never enjoy themselves except in a cold-blooded sort of way. But there’s other men that can’t do that sort of thing, and it’s no use talking. They must have life and liberty and a free range. There’s some birds, and animals too, that either pine in a cage or kill themselves, and I suppose it’s the same way with some men. They can’t stand the cage of what’s called honest labour, which means working for someone else for twenty or thirty years,