wonderful how much she knew. She knew when she was wanted; and she would go away the night before and get lost. And she knew when she was n't wanted; then she'd hang about the back-door licking a hole in the ground where the dish-water was thrown, or fossicking at the barn for the corn Dad had hidden, or scratching her neck or her rump against the cultivation paddock slip-rails. She always scratched herself against those slip-rails—sometimes for hours—always until they fell down. Then she'd walk in and eat. And how she could eat!
As a hack, Nell was unreliable. You could n't reckon with certainty on getting her to start. All depended on the humour she was in and the direction you wished to take—mostly the direction. If towards the grass-paddock or the dam, she was off helter-skelter. If it was n't, she 'd go on strike—put her head down and chew the bit. Then, when you'd get to work on her with a waddy—which we always did—she 'd walk backwards into the house and frighten Mother, or into the waterhole and dirty the water. Dad said it was the fault of the cove who broke her in. Dad was a just man. The "cove" was a union shearer—did it for 4s. 6d. Wanted five bob, but Dad beat him down. Anybody else would have asked a pound.
When Nell did make up her mind to go, it was with a rush, and, if the slip-rails were on the ground, she 'd refuse to take them. She 'd stand and look out into the lane.
