On Our Selection Part 19

"WENNY (hic) QUID," Dave said.

"At sev'n poun' she's GOING?"

"Twenny (hic) TWO quid," Dave said.

"You have n't twenty-two PENCE," snorted the auctioneer.

Then Dave caught the cow by the tail, and she pulled him about the yard until two men took him away.

The last cow put up was, so the auctioneer said, station-bred and in full milk. She was a wild-looking brute, with three enormous teats and a large, fleshy udder. The catalogue said her name was "Dummy."

"How much for 'Dummy,' the only bargain in the mob--how much for her, gentlemen?"

Dad rushed "Dummy." "Three poun' ten," he said, eagerly.

The auctioneer rushed Dad. "YOURS," he said, bringing his hammer down with a bang; "you deserve her, old man!" And the station-manager chuckled and took Dad's name--and Dad's money.

Dad was very pleased, and eager to start home. He went and found Dave, who was asleep in a hay-stack, and along with Steven Burton they drove the cow home, and yarded her in the dark.

Mother and Sal heard the noise, and came with a light to see Dad's purchase, but as they approached "Dummy" threatened to carry the yard away on her back, and Dad ordered them off.

Dad secured the rails by placing logs and the harrow against them, then went inside and told Mother what a bargain he'd made.

In the morning Dad took a bucket and went to milk "Dummy." All of us accompanied him. He crawled through the rails while "Dummy" tore the earth with her fore-feet and threw lumps of it over the yard. But she was n't so wild as she seemed, and when Dad went to work on her with a big stick she walked into the bail quietly enough. Then he sat to milk her, and when he took hold of her teats she broke the leg-rope and kicked him clean off the block and tangled her leg in the bucket and made a great noise with it. Then she bellowed and reared in the bail and fell down, her head screwed the wrong way, and lay with her tongue out moaning.

Dad rose and spat out dirt.

"Dear me!" Mother said, "it's a WILD cow y' bought."

"Not at all," Dad answered; "she's a bit touchy, that's all."

"She tut-tut--TUTCHED YOU orright, Dad," Joe said from the top of the yard.

Dad looked up. "Get down outer THAT!" he yelled. "No wonder the d.a.m.n cow's frightened."

Joe got down.

Dad brought "Dummy" to her senses with a few heavy kicks on her nose, and proceeded to milk her again. "Dummy" kicked and kicked. Dad tugged and tugged at her teats, but no milk came. Dad could n't understand it. "Must be frettin'," he said.

Joe owned a pet calf about a week old which lived on water and a long rope. Dad told him to fetch it to see if it would suck. Joe fetched it, and it sucked ravenously at "Dummy's" flank, and joyfully wagged its tail. "Dummy" resented it. She plunged until the leg-rope parted again, when the calf got mixed up in her legs, and she trampled it in the ground. Joe took it away. Dad turned "Dummy" out and bailed her up the next day--and every day for a week--with the same result. Then he sent for Larry O'Laughlin, who posed as a cow doctor.

"She never give a drop in her life," Larry said. "Them's BLIND t.i.ts she have."

Dad one day sold "Dummy" for ten shillings and bought a goat, which Johnson shot on his cultivation and made Dad drag away.

Chapter XXI.

The Parson and the Scone.

It was dinner-time. And were n't we hungry!--particularly Joe! He was kept from school that day to fork up hay-work hard enough for a man--too hard for some men--but in many things Joe was more than a man's equal. Eating was one of them. We were all silent. Joe ate ravenously. The meat and pumpkin disappeared, and the pile of hot scones grew rapidly less. Joe regarded it with anxiety. He stole sly glances at Dad and at Dave and made a mental calculation. Then he fixed his eyes longingly on the one remaining scone, and ate faster and faster....Still silence. Joe glanced again at Dad.

The dogs outside barked. Those inside, lying full-stretch beneath the table, instantly darted up and rushed out. One of them carried off little Bill--who was standing at the table with his legs spread out and a pint of tea in his hand--as far as the door on its back, and there sc.r.a.ped him off and spilled tea over him. Dad spoke. He said, "d.a.m.n the dogs!" Then he rose and looked out the window. We all rose--all except Joe. Joe reached for the last scone.

A horseman dismounted at the slip-rails.

"Some stranger," Dad muttered, turning to re-seat himself.

"Why, it's--it's the minister!" Sal cried--"the minister that married Kate!"

Dad nearly fell over. "Good G.o.d!" was all he said, and stared hopelessly at Mother. The minister--for sure enough it was the Rev.

Daniel Macpherson--was coming in. There was commotion. Dave finished his tea at a gulp, put on his hat, and left by the back-door. Dad would have followed, but hesitated, and so was lost. Mother was restless--"on pins and needles."

"And there ain't a bite to offer him," she cried, dancing hysterically about the table--"not a bite; nor a plate, nor a knife, nor a fork to eat it with!" There was humour in Mother at times. It came from the father's side. He was a dentist.

Only Joe was unconcerned. He was employed on the last scone. He commenced it slowly. He wished it to last till night. His mouth opened and received it fondly. He buried his teeth in it and lingered lovingly over it. Mother's eyes happened to rest on him. Her face brightened. She flew at Joe and cried:

"Give me that scone!--put it back on the table this minute!"

Joe became concerned. He was about to protest. Mother seized him by the hair (which had n't been cut since Dan went shearing) and hissed:

"Put--it--back--sir!" Joe put it back.

The minister came in. Dad said he was pleased to see him--poor Dad!--and enquired if he had had dinner. The parson had not, but said he did n't want any, and implored Mother not to put herself about on his account. He only required a cup of tea--nothing else whatever.

Mother was delighted, and got the tea gladly. Still she was not satisfied. She would be hospitable. She said:

"Won't you try a scone with it, Mr. Macpherson?" And the parson said he would--"just one."

Mother pa.s.sed the rescued scone along, and awkwardly apologised for the absence of plates. She explained that the Andersons were threshing their wheat, and had borrowed all our crockery and cutlery--everybody's, in fact, in the neighbourhood--for the use of the men. Such was the custom round our way. But the minister did n't mind. On the contrary, he commended everybody for fellowship and good-feeling, and felt sure that the district would be rewarded.

It took the Rev. Macpherson no time to polish off the scone. When the last of it was disappearing Mother became uneasy again. So did Dad.

He stared through the window at the parson's sleepy-looking horse, fastened to the fence. Dad wished to heaven it would break away, or drop dead, or do anything to provide him with an excuse to run out.

But it was a faithful steed. It stood there leaning on its forehead against a post. There was a brief silence.

Then the minister joked about his appet.i.te--at which only Joe could afford to smile--and asked, "May I trouble you for just another scone?"

Mother muttered something like "Yes, of course," and went out to the kitchen just as if there had been some there. Dad was very uncomfortable. He patted the floor with the flat of his foot and wondered what would happen next. Nothing happened for a good while.

The minister sipped and sipped his tea till none was left...

Dad said: "I'll see what's keeping her," and rose--glad if ever man was glad--to get away. He found Mother seated on the ironbark table in the kitchen. They did n't speak. They looked at each other sympathisingly.

"Well?" Dad whispered at last; "what are you going to do?" Mother shook her head. She did n't know.

"Tell him straight there ain't any, an' be done with it," was Dad's cheerful advice. Mother several times approached the door, but hesitated and returned again.