Back to Billabong Part 23

"Luckily, the old mare did all the work," he said. "But I knew less about it than I did the first time I went up alone at the flying school!"

His teaching went on all the time. Mr. Linton and Jim were tireless in pointing out the points of cattle, and the variations in the value of feed on the different parts of the run, with all the details of bush lore; and the airman's eyes, trained to observe, and backed by keen desire to learn, picked up and retained knowledge quickly. Billabong was, in the main, a cattle run, but Mr. Linton kept as well a flock of high cla.s.s sheep, with the usual small mob for killing for station use, and through these a certain amount of sheep knowledge was imparted to the new-chum. To their surprise, for all his instructors were heart and soul for cattle, Bob showed a distinct leaning towards mutton.

"They're easier to understand, I think," he said. "Possibly it's because they're not as intelligent as cattle, and I don't think I am, either!"

"Well, I know something about bullocks, but these woolly objects have always been beyond me," said Jim. "Necessary evils, but I can't stand them. I used to think there was nothing more hopeless than an old merino ewe, until I met a battery mule--he's a shade worse!"

"Wait till you've worked with a camel in a bad temper, Mr. Jim," said Dave Boone darkly; he had put in a weary time in Egypt. "For downright wickedness them snake-headed beggars is the fair limit!"

"Yes, I've heard so," said Jim. "Anyhow, we haven't added mules and camels to our worries in Victoria yet; sheep are bad enough for me.

Norah says turkey hens are worse, and she's certainly tried both; there isn't much about the run young Norah doesn't know. But you aren't going to make a living out of turkeys."

"No--Tommy can run them as a side line," said Bob. "I fancy sheep will give me all I want in the way of worry."

"And you really think you'll go in for sheep, old man?" asked Jim with pity.

Bob set his lips obstinately.

"I don't think anything yet," he said. "I don't know enough. Wait until I've learned a bit more--if you're not sick of teaching such an idiot."

"Yerra, ye're no ijit," said Murty under his breath.

Education developed as the weeks went on. Wally had gone to Queensland, to visit married brothers who were all the "people" he possessed; and Jim, bereft of his chum, threw himself energetically into the training of the subst.i.tute. Bob learned to slaughter a bullock and kill a sheep--being instructed that the job in winter was not a circ.u.mstance to what it would be in summer, when flies would abound. He never pretended to like this branch of learning, but stuck to it doggedly, since it was explained to him that the man who could not be his own butcher in the bush was apt to go hungry, and that not one hired hand in twenty could be trusted to kill.

More to Bob's taste were the boundary riding expeditions made with Jim to the furthest corners of the run; taking a pack horse with tucker and blankets, and camping in ancient huts, of which the sole furniture was rough sacking bunks, a big fireplace, and empty kerosene cases for seats and tables. It was unfortunate, from the point of view of Bob's instruction, that the frantic zeal of Murty and the men to have everything in order for "the Boss" had left no yard of the Billabong boundary unvisited not a month before. Still, winter gales were always apt to bring down a tree or two across the wires, laying a few panels flat; the creeks, too, were all in flood, and where a wire fence crossed one, floating brushwood often damaged the barrier, or a landslip in a water-worn bank might carry away a post. So Jim and his pupil found enough occupation to make their trips worth while; and Bob learned to sink post holes, to ram a post home beyond the possibility of moving, and to strain a wire fence scientifically. He was not a novice with an axe, though Jim's mighty chopping made him feel a child; still, when it was necessary to cut away a fallen tree, he could do his share manfully.

His hands blistered and grew h.o.r.n.y callouses, even as his muscles toughened and his shoulders widened; and all the time the appeal of the wide, free country called to his heart and drew him closer and closer to his new life.

"But he's too comfortable, you know," David Linton said to Jim one night. "He's shaping as well as anyone could expect; but he won't always have Billabong at his back."

Jim nodded wisely.

"I know," he said. "Been thinking of that. If you can spare me for a bit we'll go over and lend ourselves as handy men to old Joe Howard."

His father whistled.

"He'll make you toe the mark," he said, laughing. "He won't have you there as gentlemen boarders, you know."

"Don't want him to," said Jim.

So it came about that early on Monday morning Jim and Bob fixed swags more or less scientifically to their saddles--Jim made his disciple unstrap his three times before he consented to pa.s.s it--and rode away from Billabong, amidst derisive good wishes from Norah and Tommy, who kindly promised to feed them up on their return, prophesying that they would certainly need it. They took a westerly direction across country, and after two or three hours' riding came upon a small farm nestling at the foot of a low range of hills.

"That's old Howard's," Jim said. "And there's the old chap himself, fixing up his windmill. You wait a minute, Bob; I'll go over and see him."

He gave Bob his bridle, and went across a small paddock near the house.

Howard, a hard-looking old man with a long, grey beard, was wrestling with a home-made windmill--a queer erection, mainly composed of rough spars with sails made from old wheat-sacks. He clambered to the ground as Jim approached, and greeted him civilly.

"I thought you'd have forgotten me, Mr. Howard," said Jim.

"Too like your dad--an', anyhow, I know the horses," was the laconic answer. "So you're back. Like Australia better'n fightin'?"

"Rather!" said Jim. "Fighting's a poor game, I think, when you hardly ever see the other fellow. Want any hands, Mr. Howard?"

"No." The old man shook his head. "They want too much money nowadays, an' they're too darned partickler about their tucker. Meat three times a day, whether you've killed it or not. An' puddin'. c.o.c.k 'em up with puddin'--a fat lot of it I ever saw where I was raised. An' off to the township on Sat.u.r.day afternoon, an' lucky if they get back in time for milkin' nex' mornin'. No--the workin' man ain't what 'e was, an' the new kind'll make precious little of Australia!"

"That's about right, I'm afraid," said Jim, listening sympathetically to this oration. "Well, will you take me and my friend as hands for a few weeks, Mr. Howard?"

"You!" The old man stared at him. "Ain't 'ad a quarrel with yer dad, 'ave yer? You take my tip, if yer 'ave--go back and make it up. Not many men in this districk like yer dad."

"I know that, jolly well," said Jim, laughing. "No--but my friend's a new-chum, and I want to show him something of work on a place like yours. We've been breaking him in on Billabong, but he'll have to take a small place for himself, if he settles, and he'd better see what it's like."

The old man shook his head doubtfully.

"English officer, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"I dunno," said Howard. "Too much of the fine gent about that sort, Mr.

Jim. I dunno 'ow I'd get down to orderin' the pair of yous about. An' I ain't got no 'comodation for yous; an' the tucker's not what yous 'ave bin used ter."

"You needn't let any of that worry you," said Jim cheerfully. "He isn't a bit of a fine gent, really, and we'll tackle any job that's going.

As for accommodation, we've brought our blankets, and, in case you were short of tucker, we've a big piece of corned beef and some bread. I wish you'd try it, Mr. Howard; we don't want pay, and we'll do no end of work. Murty reckons you won't be sorry if you take on Captain Rainham."

"Oh, Murty says that, does 'e?" asked the old man, visibly cheered.

"Well, Murty ain't the man to barrack for a useless new-chum."

"Great Scott, do you think I am?" demanded Jim, laughing. "Or my father?"

"Yous cert'nly didn't ought to be," agreed Howard. "All the same"--he pushed his hat back from his worried brow--"I dunno as I quite like it.

If I take on a chap I like 'im to step quick an' lively when I tell him anything I want done; an' I don't make no guests of 'em either. They got to do their own cookin', an' keep things clean an' tidy, too."

"We'll take our share," said Jim. "As for stepping quick and lively, we've both been trained to that pretty thoroughly during the last few years. If you're worse than some of the Sergeant-majors I met when I was training, I'll eat my hat."

"I'm told they're 'ard," said Howard. "Well, I s'pose I'd better take yous on, though it's a queer day when the son of Linton of Billabong comes askin' old Joe Howard for a job. But, I say"--and anguish again settled on his brow--"wot am I to call yous? I can't order you about as Mr. Jim. It wouldn't seem to come natural."

"Oh, call us any old thing," said Jim, laughing.

The old man pondered.

"Well, I'll call yous Major an' Captin," he declared, at length.

"That'll sound like a pair of workin' bullocks, an' I'll feel more at 'ome."

"Right-o," said Jim, choking slightly. "Where shall we put our horses?"

"Put 'em in the little paddock over there, an' stick yer saddles in the shed," said his employer. "An' then bring in yer beef, an' we'll 'ave a bit o' dinner. I ain't killed for a fortnight."

Then began for Bob Rainham one of the most strenuous fortnights of his existence. Once having agreed to employ them, old Joe speedily became reconciled to the prospect of cheap labour, and worked his willing guests with a devouring energy. Before dawn had reddened the eastern sky a shout of "Hi, Captin! Time the cow was in!" drove him from his blankets, to search in the darkness of a scrub-covered paddock for a cow, who apparently loved a game of hide-and-seek, and to drive her in and milk her by the fitful light of a hurricane lantern. Then came the usual round of morning duties; chopping wood, feeding pigs, cleaning out sheds and outhouses, before the one-time airman had time to think of breakfast. By the time he came in Howard and Jim had generally finished and gone out--the old man took a sly delight in keeping "Major" away from "Captin"--and after cooking his meal, it was his job to wash up and to clean out the kitchen, over which old Joe proved unexpectedly critical. Then came a varied choice of tasks to tackle to while away the day. Sometimes he would be sent to scrub cutting, which he liked best, particularly as Jim was kept at it always; sometimes he slashed mightily at a blackberry-infested paddock, where the brambles would have daunted anyone less stout of heart--or less ignorant. Then came lessons in ploughing on a dry hillside; he managed badly at first, and came in for a good deal of the rough side of old Joe's tongue before he learned to keep to anything approaching a straight line. Ploughing, Bob reflected, was clearly an art which needed long apprenticeship before you learned to appreciate it, and he developed a new comprehension and sympathy for the ploughman described by Gray as "homeward plodding his weary way." He also wondered if Gray's ploughman had to milk and get his own tea after he got home.

Other relaxations of the bush were open to him. Old Joe had a paddock, once a swamp, which he had drained; it was free of water, but abounded in tussocks and sword gra.s.s which "Captin" was detailed to grub out whenever no duty more pressing awaited him. And sword gra.s.s is a fearsome vegetable, clinging of root and so tough of stem that, if handled unwarily, it can cut a finger almost to the bone; wherefore the unfortunate "Captin" hated it with a mighty hatred, and preferred any other branch of his education. There were stones to pick up and pile in cairns; red stones, half buried in gra.s.s and tussocks, and weighing anything from a pound to half a hundredweight. He scarred his hands and broke his fingernails to pieces over them, but, on the whole, considered it not a bad employment, except when old Joe took it into his head to perch on the fence and spur him on to greater efforts by disparaging remarks about England. Whatever his work, there was never any certainty that old Joe would not appear, to sit down, light his short, black pipe, and make caustic remarks about his methods or his country--or both. Bob took it all with a grin. He was a cheerful soul.