"Hullo, I say, covey, lend us your 'billy' to chop some wood to boil the 'tommy,'" Tom called to a neighbour next morning.
Novice-like, Tom was intent upon parading technical terms applying to the paraphernalia of the camp.
"What on earth do you mean?" retorted the Gumford bank-clerk, who had occupied the adjoining tent, and was also making preparations for the early morning meal.
"I was inclined to forget which was which—'billy' or 'tommy,'" explained the Englishman; "but I remember that 'billy' is short for 'bill-hook'—the affair the fellows top the shrubs with at home. So 'tommy' must be t'other thing—the can or pot you boil your tea in. This billy's mighty blunt," he added critically, rubbing the rough edge of the weapon.
"Not the only city-tool that's taken that way," replied the rude bank-clerk.
All who could secure steed or vehicle rollicked off to witness the coursing-match. Abbott-buggies laden with ladies, dashing through timber, over fallen logs a foot high, across trackless creeks, galloping over open plains, threading in and out thick trees of the ranges, astonished the city men who had never before seen a "throw off" in the bush.
The "horse races" constituted the great event of the afternoon. Every "Cockie" for miles round had brought the pony that was "sure to win." The squatter sent his son with "the half-brother to 'Calyx,'" who won the Cup five years before.
"Races are right," decided the doctor, "bar three things—'betting,' 'beer,' and 'cruelty to beasts.' We shall wind up with a scamper or two for the fun of the thing—to prove our horse-flesh and our men. But he who bets, whoever he be, walks off the course."
