“Should ’a’ thought about that before,” observed Cooper gravely. “Too late now. You ain’t good enough.”
A few minutes silence ensued, while each member of the company thought the matter over in his own way. Then Mosey returned.
“Grass up over yer boots, an’ the carrion goin’ into it lemons,” he remarked. “I do like to give this Runnymede the benefit o’ the act. ’On’t ole Martin be ropeable when he sees that fence! Magomery’s as hard as nails, his own self; but he ain’t the class o’ feller that watches from behine a tree—keeps curs like Martin to do his dirty work. But he’d like to nip every divil of us if he got half a slant. I notice, the more swellisher a man is, the more miserabler he is about a bite o’ grass for a team, or a feed for a traveller. Magomery’s got an edge on you, Thompson—you an’ Cunningham—for workin’ on Nosey Alf’s horse-paddick, an’ for leavin’ some gates open. Moriarty, the storekeeper, he told me about it.”
“Well, we didn’t work on Alf’s horse-paddock, and we didn’t leave any gates open,” replied Thompson. “We lost the steers from the ram-paddock, here, and we found them away in the Sedan paddock. Certainly, we camped them all night in the Connelly paddock, but we never touched Alf’s grass, and we left no gates open.”
“Chorus, boys!” said Mosey flippantly.
“O, what a (adj.) lie!” echoed Dixon, Bum, and the precentor himself. Thompson sighed; Cooper growled; and Willoughby coughed deprecatingly.
“I don’t blame ole Martin to have a bit of a nose on me,” continued Mosey laughingly. “Lord! didn’t I git the loan of him cheap las’ summer! Me an’ the ole man was comin’ down from Karowra with the last o’ the clip; an’ these paddicks was as bare as the palm o’ your hand; so we goes on past here, an’ camps half-ways between the fur corner o’ the ram-paddick an’ the station gate; an’ looses out about an hour after sundown. It was sort o’ cloudy moonlight that night; an’ I takes the carrion straight on, an’ shoves ’em in the horse-paddick, an’ shuts the gate. Then I fetches ’em into a sort of a holler, where the best grass was, an’ I takes the saddle an’ bridle off o’ the horse, an’ lays down, an’ watches the carrion wirin’ in. Well, you know, ole Martin, the head boundary man, he’s about as nice a varmin as Warrigal Alf; an’ the young fellers at the barracks they ’on’t corroborate with him, no road; an’ he thinks his self a cut above the hut, so he lives with Daddy Montague, in Latham’s ole place, down at the fur corner o’ the horse-paddick. Well, this ole beggar he’s buckin’ up to Miss King, the governess, an’ Moriarty, the storekeeper, he’s buckin’ up to her too”
“Clever feller, that Moriarty,” interposed Price, in pathetic sycophancy. “Rummest young (fellow) goin’, when he likes to come out. Ain’t he, Mosey?” He paused and laughed heartily. “Las’ time I unloaded at Runnymede—an’ it was on’y one ton lebm; for we was goin’ out emp’y for wool, on account o’ them two Vic. chaps snappin’ our loads. I disremember if I tole you the yarn when I pulled you at the Willandra. Anyhow it was raining like (incongruous comparison) when I drawed up at the store; an’ Moriarty he fetches me inter the office, an’ gives me a
