seen him agen till to-day when we stopped for dinner; but the feller at the Bilby Well he told me about it when we was goin’ back to Bargoona, nex’ trip.”
“Seems, the other feller he goes out in the mornin’ on foot, thinkin’ to fine his carrion among that mulgar in the corner to yer left; an’ when he got to the corner, there was a hole in the fence, an’ the tracks through. Course, he runs the tracks; he runs ’em all day, an’ at night he lays down, an’ I s’pose he swears his self to sleep. Nex’ mornin’, off he scoots agen, an’ jist before sundown he hears the bells, an’ he pipes the tail end o’ the string ahead; an’ the front end was jist at the Bilby Well—sixty good mile, if it’s an inch, an’ scrub all the road. Pilot he hadn’t thought worth while to go roun’ by the Boundary Tank, to git on the wool track; he jist went ahead like a surveyor, an’ the fences was like spiders’ webs to him. It was blazing hot weather; and the other fellow he never seen tucker nor water all the trip, for he wouldn’t leave the track. Laugh? Lord! I thought I’d ’a’ busted when the bloke at the well told me. I noticed the other feller was a bit narked when he seen me on the horse to-day. He’s got red o’ Pilot.”
“Look here, Mosey,” said Thompson slowly: “I’d rather—so help me God—I’d rather cut my own throat than do a trick like that. Aren’t you frightened of bringing a curse on yourself?”
“I ain’t (adj.) fool enough to believe in curses,” replied Mosey—his altered tone nevertheless belying his bravado.
“Simply because you don’t keep your eyes open,” retorted Thompson. “Isn’t it well known that a grog-seller’s money never gets to his children? Isn’t it well known that if you mislead a woman, a curse’ll follow you like your shadow? Isn’t it well known that if you’re disobedient to your parents, something’ll happen to you? Isn’t it well known that Sabbath-breaking brings a curse on a man that he can’t shake off till he reforms? Now you stole that horse in the dirtiest way; and stealing—well, anything except grass or water—brings as heavy a curse as anything you can do. Mark my words.”
“The Jackdaw of Rheims is a case in point,” remarked Willoughby aside to me.
“Well,” said Price emphatically, and qualifying every word that would bear qualification, “so fur as workin’ on Sundays goes, I’m well sure I allus worked on Sundays, an’ I’m well sure I allus will; an’ I’m well sure ’ere ain’t no cuss on me. Why, I dunno what the (complicated expletive) a cuss is! I’ll get a blanket fer to lay on,” he added; “this ground’s sorter damp.” And he went across to his wagon.
“He’s got a curse on him as big as Mount Macedon, and he doesn’t know it,” muttered Thompson.
“Bearing out the prophecy,” said I aside to Willoughby, “that the sinner, being a hundred years old, shall be accursed.”
“You ought to show him a bit more respect, Mosey,” remarked Cooper gravely.
“Well, to tell you the truth,” replied Mosey frankly, “I got no patience with the ole bunyip. Can’t suffer fools, no road.”
