horns—such ostentatious inquiry being accompanied by a furtive and vicious jabbing of evidence's horse, or evidence himself, with some suitable instrument. Yet batch after batch was withdrawn and paid for; while the red sun rose higher, and Mr. Smythe became impatient and crusty, by reason of the transparent dallying.
Helsmok, after protracted and patient sorting, brought out nineteen of his horses, and paid for twenty, besides his hack. He said he would have to borrow a whip from someone, to "dost der yacket" of the impracticable animal that remained in the mob. Relevantly, one of the Chows had a stockwhip, the handle of which represented about six months' untiring work on a well-selected piece of myall. Helsmok had all along been pained by the incongruity of such a gem in such keeping; and now having discharged his trespass-liability, the iron-wristed Hollander politely borrowed this jewel from its clinging owner, and so recovered his horse without difficulty. Then, when the bereaved boundary man followed him across the plain, intoning psalms of remonstrance, Helsmok, making a playful clip at a locust, awkwardly allowed the lash to curl once-and-a-half round the body of John's horse; close in front of the hind-legs. The cheap and reliable rider saved himself by the mane; but he let the stockwhip go at that.
Smythe—high-strung and delicate, in spite of his stockkeeper's rig-out—was taking little interest in anything except the shillings he collected. At last, with a heart-drawn sigh, he beckoned to his brother.
"You must meet me with the buggy, Bert, when this is over. I have a splitting headache. We can do without you now." Alas! what doth a station manager with splitting headaches? Answer, ye pastoralists!
Stevenson had just drafted and paid for his batch, when Barefooted Bob stalked up, bearing an unmistakable scowl on his frank face, and a saddle on his shoulder.
"Did you receive my message last night, Bob?" demanded Smythe.
"Well," drawled Bob, "I could n't say whether it was las' night or this mornin'—but I got your message right enough."
"And why did n't you turn-up?"
"Why did n't I turn-up," repeated Bob thoughtfully. "P'r'aps you'll be so good as to inform me if my work's cleanin' out reservoys or mindin' paddicks?"
"But you should be loyal to your employ," replied Smythe severely.
"Meanin' I should n't turn dog?" conjectured Bob. "No more I don't. I ain't turnin' dog on anybody when I stick to my own work, an' keep off of goin' partners with opium an' leprosy. Same time, mind you, I'd be turnin' dog on the station if I took advantage o' your message, to go round warnin' the chaps that was workin' on the paddick. Way I was situated, the clean thing was to stand out. An' that's what I done."
Meanwhile, Stevenson had lingered to feel his pockets, sort his papers, examine his horse's legs, and so forth, while his draft spread out over the grass.
"You were right, and I was wrong," he remarked, aside to me. "Bob is trustworthy—ruthlessly so."
