So I gave Jim his share; and after tea, when we sat down again, there weren't more than a dozen of us that were in the card racket.
I flung down my note, and Jim did his, and told them that we owed to take the change out of that and hand us over their paper for the balance.
They all stared, for such a thing hadn't been seen since the shearing began.
Shearers, as a rule, come from their homes in the settled districts very bare.They are not very well supplied with clothes;their horses are poor and done up; and they very seldom have a note in their pockets, unless they have managed to sell a spare horse on the journey.
So we were great men for the time, looked at by the others with wonder and respect.We were fools enough to be pleased with it.
Strangely, too, our luck turned from that minute, and it ended in our winning not only our own back, but more than as much more from the other men.
I don't think Mr.Falkland liked these goings on.He wouldn't have allowed cards at all if he could have helped it.He was a man that hated what was wrong, and didn't value his own interest a pin when it came in the way.However, the shearing hut was our own, in a manner of speaking, and as long as we shore clean and kept the shed going the overseer, Mr.M`Intyre, didn't trouble his head much about our doings in the hut.He was anxious to get done with the shearing, to get the wool into the bales before the dust came in, and the grass seed ripened, and the clover burrs began to fall.
`Why should ye fash yoursel',' I heard him say once to Mr.Falkland, `aboot these young deevils like the Marstons? They're as good's ready money in auld Nick's purse.It's bred and born and welded in them.
Ye'll just have the burrs and seeds amang the wool if ye keep losing a smart shearer for the sake o' a wheen cards and dice;and ye'll mak' nae heed of convairtin' thae young caterans ony mair than ye'll change a Norroway falcon into a barn-door chuckie.'
I wonder if what he said was true -- if we couldn't help it;if it was in our blood? It seems like it; and yet it's hard lines to think a fellow must grow up and get on the cross in spite of himself, and come to the gallows-foot at last, whether he likes it or not.
The parson here isn't bad at all.He's a man and a gentleman, too;and he's talked and read to me by the hour.I suppose some of us chaps are like the poor stupid tribes that the Israelites found in Canaan, only meant to live for a bit and then to be rubbed out to make room for better people.
When the shearing was nearly over we had a Saturday afternoon to ourselves.
We had finished all the sheep that were in the shed, and old M`Intyre didn't like to begin a fresh flock.So we got on our horses and took a ride into the township just for the fun of the thing, and for a little change.
The horses had got quite fresh with the rest and the spring grass.
Their coats were shining, and they all looked very different from what they did when we first came.Our two were not so poor when they came, so they looked the best of the lot, and jumped about in style when we mounted.Ah! only to think of a good horse.
All the men washed themselves and put on clean clothes.
Then we had our dinner and about a dozen of us started off for the town.
Poor old Jim, how well he looked that day! I don't think you could pick a young fellow anywhere in the countryside that was a patch on him for good looks and manliness, somewhere about six foot or a little over, as straight as a rush, with a bright blue eye that was always laughing and twinkling, and curly dark brown hair.No wonder all the girls used to think so much of him.He could do anything and everything that a man could do.He was as strong as a young bull, and as active as a rock wallaby -- and ride! Well, he sat on his horse as if he was born on one.With his broad shoulders and upright easy seat he was a regular picture on a good horse.
And he had a good one under him to-day; a big, brown, resolute, well-bred horse he had got in a swap because the man that had him was afraid of him.Now that he had got a little flesh on his bones he looked something quite out of the common.`A deal too good for a poor man, and him honest,' as old M`Intyre said.
But Jim turned on him pretty sharp, and said he had got the horse in a fair deal, and had as much right to a good mount as any one else --super or squatter, he didn't care who he was.
And Mr.Falkland took Jim's part, and rather made Mr.M`Intyre out in the wrong for saying what he did.The old man didn't say much more, only shook his head, saying --`Ah, ye're a grand laddie, and buirdly, and no that thrawn, either --like ye, ****, ye born deevil,' looking at me.`But I misdoot sair ye'll die wi' your boots on.There's a smack o' Johnnie Armstrong in the glint o' yer e'e.Ye'll be to dree yer weird, there's nae help for't.'
`What's all that lingo, Mr.M`Intyre?' called out Jim, all good-natured again.`Is it French or Queensland blacks' yabber?
Blest if I understand a word of it.But I didn't want to be nasty, only I am regular shook on this old moke, I believe, and he's as square as Mr.Falkland's dogcart horse.'
`Maybe ye bocht him fair eneugh.I'll no deny you.I saw the receipt mysel'.
But where did yon lang-leggit, long-lockit, Fish River moss-trooping callant win haud o' him? Answer me that, Jeems.'
`That says nothing,' answered Jim.`I'm not supposed to trace back every horse in the country and find out all the people that owned him since he was a foal.He's mine now, and mine he'll be till I get a better one.'
`A contuma-acious and stiff-necked generation,' said the old man, walking off and shaking his head.`And yet he's a fine laddie;a gra-and laddie wad he be with good guidance.It's the Lord's doing, nae doot, and we daurna fault it; it's wondrous in our een.'
That was the way old Mac always talked.Droll lingo, wasn't it?
