CHAPTER I
Bill Marlock had been shearing all the morning, with long slashing cuts before which the fleece fell, fold upon fold. He was the "ringer" of the shed, and his reputation was at stake, for Norman Campbell was running him close. To-day was Saturday, and it was known from the tally that Bill was only one sheep ahead, and that Norman was making every effort to finish the week "one better" than the record shearer of Yantala woolshed. The two men were working side by side, and eyeing each other from time to time with furtive glances. Norman suddenly straightened himself, and, quick as a frightened snake, thrust his long body across the "board," with the sheep he had shorn in his sinewy hands, and shot it into the tally pen among the white, shivering sheep. Then he dashed into the catching pen, and seized the smaller of two sheep that remained. At almost the same moment Bill had his hands upon the same sheep, but took them off when he saw the other man was before him, and was obliged to content himself, much to his chagrin, with the "cobbler," a grizzled, wiry-haired old patriarch that every one had shunned.
When Bill carried out this sheep there was a loud roar from all the shearers who caught from that pen, followed by derisive laughter.
"Who shaved the cobbler?" was shouted from one end of the shed to the other.
When almost every man had slashed and stabbed Bill with these cutting words, a whisper ran round the "board" that Norman had beaten Bill in his tally, and that the beaten man was groaning over his defeat and climbing down from the position of the fastest shearer in the shed.
Bill did not like this: that was clear. He had known all the morning that his pride of place was slipping from him, for his wrist ached and was giving way under the strain. He finished shearing the "cobbler" when the manager shouted "Smoko!" Then Bill slid down on the slippery floor without a word, and laid his head upon his outstretched arm.
The sun was hot. Everything was frizzling, frying, or baking. The stunted white-gums drooped and yawned; the grass hung limp; the tall thistles bowed their heads and shut their eyes; the lizards were as quiet as the granite boulders on which they lay; the crows sat motionless on the fences; and the clouds were too lazy to move.
"Ee takes es gruel without choking, an' doesn't find no bones in't," said Jack Jewell, with a jerk of his left thumb towards Bill.
"Ol' Bill's panned out. Ef ee isn't ringer 'is porridge 'as no salt in't," said Tom Wren.
"He! he!" giggled a weak little man; "it's like ridin' in a kerridge, an' comin' down to hobblin' on yer own trotters."
Peter Amos, a greybeard, shook his head solemnly as he buried his nose in a pannikin of tea, and said, "Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall—that's gospel wisdom; an' don't 'it a man wen's down—that's worldly wisdom, an' looks like as it 'ad jumped out o' the Bible stark naked."
"Mair like the man i' the parable, Peter," said Sandy McKerrow, "wha took the highest room wi' a swagger, an' had to climb down to the lowest room wi' his tail 'tween his legs."
"Aye, man, that's verra true, verra true," said another known as "Scottie."
Here a stalwart giant, with a shock of red hair, stood up, with doubled fists, and spat on the floor; then said, "If any of you mongrel mules says another word against Bill, I'll rattle your teeth down your throat like dice in a box."
Meanwhile the subject of this conversation had closed his eyes, and was fast asleep. All his senses were locked, bolted, and barred. Sheep, shears, tallies, and pride of place were forgotten. He was in the land of dreams, that ancient land of gold, precious stones, ivory castles, battle, murder, and sudden death.
Silence reigned in the shed. The men quietly ladled the tea out of the buckets into their pannikins, or struck a match on the seat of their trousers, lit their pipes, and smoked.
Bill slept on, but suddenly his brow was knitted and his hands were clenched. Then he opened his eyes, and looked round with a scared face.
"Boys," he said, "I've had a dream! I'll never shear another sheep!"
He slowly rose and stood up, then he took his oilstone, and with it smashed his shears into fragments.
"Good-bye all," he said; then slid into the count-out pen, vaulted two fences, got his saddle and swag. When he caught his horse, he saddled up, mounted, and rode away across the ranges.
"There's a roaring fire in that volcano," said Peter Amos, keeping the words well between his teeth, for fear of the giant with the shock of red hair.