“And how I wasn't killed in the scrub, goodness only knows; for a man couldn't ride in the daylight where I did in the dark. The cattle were all knocked about—horns smashed, legs broken, ribs torn; but they were all there, every solitary head of 'em; and as soon as the daylight broke I took 'em back to the camp—that is, all that could travel, because I had to leave a few broken-legged ones.”
Billy paused in his narrative. He knew that some suggestions would be made, by way of compromise, to tone down the awful strength of the yarn, and he prepared himself accordingly. His motto was “No surrender”; he never abated one jot of his statements; if anyone chose to remark on them, he made them warmer and stronger, and absolutely flattened out the intruder.
“That was a wonderful bit of ridin' you done, Billy,” said one of the men at last, admiringly. “It's a wonder you wasn't killed. I suppose your clothes was pretty well tore off your back with the scrub?”
“Never touched a twig,” said Billy.
“Ah!” faltered the inquirer, “then no doubt you had a real ringin' good stock-horse that could take you through a scrub like that full-split in the dark, and not hit you against anything.”
“No, he wasn't a good un,” said Billy decisively, “he was the worst horse in the camp. Terrible awkward in the scrub he was, always fallin' down on his knees; and his neck was so short you could sit far back on him and pull his ears.”
Here that interrogator retired hurt; he gave Billy best. After a pause another took up the running.
“How did your mate get on, Billy? I s'pose he was trampled to a mummy!”
“No,” said Billy, “he wasn't hurt a bit. I told you he was sleeping under the shelter of a log. Well, when those cattle rushed they swept over that log a thousand strong; and every beast of that herd took the log in his stride and just missed landing on Barcoo Jimmy by about four inches.”
The men waited a while and smoked, to let this statement soak well into their systems; at last one rallied and had a final try.