On Our Selection

  Chapter X.

  Dad And The Donovans.

  A sweltering summer's afternoon. A heat that curled and withered thevery weeds. The corn-blades drooping, sulking still. Mother and Salironing, mopping their faces with a towel and telling each other howhot it was. The dog stretched across the doorway. A child's bonnet onthe floor--the child out in the sun. Two horsemen approaching theslip-rails.

  Dad had gone down the gully to Farmer, who had been sick for four days.The ploughing was at a standstill in consequence, for we had only twodraught-horses. Dad erected a shelter over him, made of boughs, tokeep the sun off. Two or three times a day he cut greenstuff forhim--which the cows ate. He humped water to him which he sullenlyrefused to drink; and did all in his power to persuade Farmer to get upand go on with the ploughing. I don't know if Dad knew anything ofmesmerism, but he used to stand for long intervals dumbly staring theold horse full in the eyes till in a commanding voice he would bid him,"Get up!" But Farmer lacked the patriotism of the back-block poets. Hewas obdurate, and not once did he "awake," not to mention "arise".

  This afternoon, as Dad approached his dumb patient, he suddenly putdown the bucket of water which he was carrying and ran, shoutingangrily. A flock of crows flew away from Farmer and "cawed" from atree close by. Dad was excited, and when he saw that one of theanimal's eyes was gone and a stream of blood trickled over its nose hesat down and hid his face in his big rough hands.

  "CAW, CAW!" came from the tree.

  Dad rose and looked up.

  "CURSE you!" he hissed--"you black wretches of hell!"

  "CAW, CAW, CAW"

  He ran towards the tree as though he would hurl it to the ground, andaway flew the crows.

  Joe arrived.

  "W-w-wuz they at him, Dad?"

  Dad turned on him, trembling with rage.

  "Oh, YOU son of the Devil!" he commenced. "YOU worthless pup, you!Look there! Do you see that?" (He pointed to the horse.) "Did n't Itell you to mind him? Did n'--"

  "Yes," snivelled Joe; "but Anderson's dog had a k-k-k-angaroo bailedup."

  "DAMN you, be off out of this!" And Dad aimed a block of wood at Joewhich struck him on the back as he made away. But nothing short of twobroken legs would stop Joe, who the next instant had dashed among thecorn like an emu into a scrub.

  Dad returned to the house, foaming and vowing to take the gun and shootJoe down like a wallaby. But when he saw two horses hanging up hehesitated and would have gone away again had Mother not called out thathe was wanted. He went in reluctantly.

  Red Donovan and his son, Mick, were there. Donovan was the publican,butcher, and horse-dealer at the Overhaul. He was reputed to bewell-in, though some said that if everybody had their own he would n'tbe worth much. He was a glib-tongued Irishman who knew everything--orfondly imagined he did--from the law to horse-surgery. There was moneyto be made out of selections, he reckoned, if selectors only knew howto make it--the majority, he proclaimed, did n't know enough to getunder a tree when it rained. As a dealer, he was a hard nut, nevergiving more than a "tenner" for a twenty pound beast, or selling a tenpound one for less than twenty pounds. And few knew Donovan betterthan did Dad, or had been taken in by him oftener; but on this occasionDad was in no easy or benevolent frame of mind.

  He sat down, and they talked of crops and the weather, and beat aboutthe bush until Donovan said:

  "Have you any fat steers to sell?"

  Dad had n't. "But," he added, "I can sell you a horse."

  "Which one?" asked Donovan, for he knew the horses as well as Daddid--perhaps better.

  "The bay--Farmer."

  "How much?"

  "Seven pounds." Now, Farmer was worth fourteen pounds, if worth ashilling--that is, before he took sick--and Donovan knew it well.

  "Seven," he repeated ponderingly. "Give you six."

  Never before did Dad show himself such an expert in dissimulation. Heshook his head knowingly, and enquired of Donovan if he would take thehorse for nothing.

  "Split the difference, then--make it six-ten?"

  Dad rose and looked out the window.

  "There he is now," he remarked sadly, "in the gully there."

  "Well, what's it to be--six-ten or nothing?" renewed Donovan.

  "All right, then," Dad replied, demurely, "take him!"

  The money was paid there and then and receipts drawn up. Then, sayingthat Mick would come for the horse on the day following, and afteroffering a little gratuitous advice on seed-wheat and pig-sticking, theDonovans left.

  Mick came the next day, and Dad showed him Farmer, under the bushes.He was n't dead, because when Joe sat on him he moved. "There he is,"said Dad, grinning.

  Mick remained seated on his horse, bewildered-looking, staring first atFarmer, then at Dad.

  "Well?" Dad remarked, still grinning. Then Mick spoke feelingly.

  "YOU SWINDLING OLD CRAWLER!" he said, and galloped away. It was wellfor him he got a good start.

  For long after that we turned the horses and cows into the littlepaddock at night, and if ever the dog barked Dad would jump up and goout in his shirt.

  We put them back into the paddock again, and the first night they werethere two cows got out and went away, taking with them the chain thatfastened the slip-rails. We never saw or heard of them again; but Dadtreasured them in his heart. Often, when he was thoughtful, he wouldponder out plans for getting even with the Donovans--we knew it wasthe Donovans. And Fate seemed to be of Dad's mind; for the Donovansgot into "trouble,", and were reported to be "doing time." That pleasedDad; but the vengeance was a little vague. He would have liked afinger in the pie himself.

  Four years passed. It was after supper, and we were all husking cornin the barn. Old Anderson and young Tom Anderson and Mrs. Maloney werehelping us. We were to assist them the following week. The barn wasilluminated by fat-lamps, which made the spiders in the rafters uneasyand disturbed the slumbers of a few fowls that for months had insistedon roosting on the cross-beam.

  Mrs. Maloney was arguing with Anderson. She was claiming to havehusked two cobs to his one, when the dogs started barking savagely.Dad crawled from beneath a heap of husks and went out. The night wasdark. He bade the dogs "Lie down." They barked louder. "Damnyou--lie down!" he roared. They shut up. Then a voice from thedarkness said:

  "Is that you, Mr. Rudd?"

  Dad failed to recognise it, and went to the fence where the visitorwas. He remained there talking for fully half-an-hour. Then hereturned, and said it was young Donovan.

  "DONOVAN! MICK Donovan?" exclaimed Anderson. And Mother and Mrs.Maloney and Joe echoed "MICK Donovan?" They WERE surprised.

  "He's none too welcome," said Anderson, thinking of his horses andcows. Mother agreed with him, while Mrs. Maloney repeated over and overagain that she was always under the impression that Mick Donovan was ingaol along with his bad old father. Dad was uncommunicative. Therewas something on his mind. He waited till the company had gone, thenconsulted with Dave.

  They were outside, in the dark, and leant on the dray. Dad said in alow voice: "He's come a hundred mile to-day, 'n' his horse isdead-beat, 'n' he wants one t' take him t' Back Creek t'morrer 'n'leave this one in his place...Wot d'y' think?" Dave seemed to think agreat deal, for he said nothing.

  "Now," continued Dad, "it's me opinion the horse is n't his; it's onehe's shook--an' I've an idea." Then he proceeded to instruct Dave inthe idea. A while later he called Joe and drilled him in the idea.

  That night, young Donovan stayed at Shingle Hut. In the morning Dadwas very affable. He asked Donovan to come and show him his horse, ashe must see it before thinking of exchanging. They proceeded to thepaddock together. The horse was standing under a tree, tired-looking.Dad stood and looked at Donovan for fully half-a-minute withoutspeaking.

  "Why, damn it!" he exclaimed, at last, "that's MY OWN horse...You don'tmean...S'help me! Old Bess's foal!" Donovan told him he was making amistake.

  "Mistake be h
anged!" replied Dad, walking round the animal. "Not muchof a mistake about HIM!"

  Just here Dave appeared, as was proper.

  "Do you know this horse?" Dad asked him. "Yes, of course," heanswered, surprisedly, with his eyes open wide, "Bess's foal!--ofcourse it is."

  "There you are!" said Dad, grinning triumphantly.

  Donovan seemed uneasy.

  Joe in his turn appeared. Dad put the same question to him. Of courseJoe knew Bess's foal--"the one that got stole."

  There was a silence.

  "Now," said Dad, looking very grave, "what have y' got t' say? Who'dy' get him off? Show's y'r receipt."

  Donovan had nothing to say; he preferred to be silent.

  "Then," Dad went on, "clear out of this as fast as you can go, an'think y'rself lucky."

  He cleared, but on foot.

  Dad gazed after him, and, as he left the paddock, said:

  "One too many f' y' that time, Mick Donovan!" Then to Dave, who wasstill looking at the horse: "He's a stolen one right enough, but he'sa beauty, and we'll keep him; and if the owner ever comes for him,well--if he is the owner--he can have him, that's all."

  We had the horse for eighteen months and more. One day Dad rode him totown. He was no sooner there than a man came up and claimed him. Dadobjected. The man went off and brought a policeman. "Orright"--Dadsaid--"TAKE him." The policeman took him. He took Dad too. Thelawyer got Dad off, but it cost us five bags of potatoes. Dad did n'tgrudge them, for he reckoned we'd had value. Besides, he was even withthe Donovans for the two cows.