Moriarty—who should we fine there but this Alf, waitin’ for wool, an’ due for the fust load. No fear o’ him goin’ up emp’y nyther. He’d manage to collar six ton”
“Don’t mention that name if you can help it, Mosey,” interrupted Cooper, as he returned to the group, carrying a blanket and the little bag of dead grass which he used as a pillow. “I’m a good-tempered man,” he continued, in sullen apology; “but it gives me the wilds and the melancholies, does that name.”
“Which?—Bargoona?”
“No; the other name. You’ve got Nosey Alf, an’ Warrigal Alf, an’ (sheol) knows how many other Alfs. I got reason to hate that name.”
“Well,” resumed Mosey, after a pause, “as I was tellin’ you, this cove he was there; an’ it so happened his near side leader had got bit with a snake, an’ died; an’ as luck would have it, he’d sold the pick of his bullicks to a tank-sinker, an’ bought steers in theyre place; an’ he hadn’t another bullick fit to shove in the near side lead to tackle sich a road as he’d got in front of him. Well, this cove he makes fistfuls o’ money, but he’s always dog-poor, so he”
“Which cove makes fistfuls o’ money?” demanded Price, roused from a reverie by the magic dissyllable.
“Fine out, you (adj.) ole fool. So he was flyblowed as usual in regard o’ cash; an’ he was badly in want of a near side leader; an’ I kep’ showin’ off this Pilot, shifting wagons from the door o’ the shed, an’ tinkerin’ about; an’ he offered us two good bullicks for the counterfit; an’ me an’ the ole man we hum’d and ha’d, an’ let on we didn’t want to part with him; an’ me as thin as a whippin’-post with watchin’ the yaller-hided dodger every night, to keep him from goin’ overland to the bounds o’ creation. Well, at long an’ at last we swapped level for Valiparaiser. I seen the workin’ o’ Providence in it from fust to last. The horse he’s worth twenty notes, all out; an’ Pilot he was dear at a gift. I say, Tom; that’s a grand horse you got off o’ the Far-downer. Goes like a greyhound. Gosh, you had that bloke to rights. He’s whippin’ the cat now like fury. I was chiackin’ him about the deal, when he told me you swapped level; an’ he wanted to change the subject. ‘I’m frightened you’ll be short o’ grass to-night,’ says he. ‘Where you goin’ to camp?’ says he. The (adj.) fool!”
“What did you tell him?” asked Thompson.
“Ram-paddick, of course. You don’t ketch me tellin’ the truth about where I’m goin’ to camp. But you got a rakin’ horse, Tom; an’ I give you credit for gittin’ at the blind side o’ the turf-cutter.”
“He’ll do me well enough for poking about,” I replied modestly. “But how did the other fellow get on with Pilot?”
“It was the fun o’ the world,” resumed Mosey. “The other feller he left the shed three days ahead of us; an’ when we drawed out, an’ camped at the Four-mile Tank, this feller’s wagon was standin’ there yet; an’ no sign o’ him nor his carrion. I was thinkin’ he’d have some fun with Pilot, ’specially on account of havin’ to do his bullick-huntin’ on foot; for he couldn’t afford to git another horse till he delivered. Well, I never
