“I’m terrible short-handed, Steve,” said Scottie, “an’ the beasties will be as wild as deer, I’m thinkin’. So if ye think ye’re fit enough tae tackle them an’ the Whistlin’ Hills, I’ll be real glad o’ yer help.”
“I’m your man, Scottie,” said Steve, briskly. “If my old bones won’t stand another day in the saddle after all this rest, it’s time I knew it, and started looking for a job as a picker-up in the wool sheds or something else I can’t break my tender carcase over. I’m on, Scottie.”
Apparently most of the men were for the job in the Whistling Hills, for the full force turned out next morning.
All the Thunder Ridge men were delighted over the chance of a turn amongst the cattle. They were all stockmen, and sheep work was not at all to their liking, although of course they had to do that when it was wanted.
When Steve rode up from the horse paddock, he found Ess standing in the yard talking to Scottie. Whip Thompson cantered up whooping joyously, and cracking his long stockwhip in a series of Maxim-like reports, his horse prancing, and sidling, and snatching, and reefing at the bit as he came.
“Hi, hi! Walk up, canter up, gallop up!” shouted Whip, “If any o’ you chaps has any little childer ye want whippin’, send ’em along to me, an’ I’ll do the job wi’ promptness an’ despatch. Send ’em along to Whip Thompson at the old address,” and “Crack—crack—crack” went the long whip.
“Whip,” called Ess, “you once promised to let me see some proper whip-play. Come along now.”
“Whip-play!” cried Whip. “Stand still then, Miss. Don’t flinch.” Ess stood still, and a rapid running fire of reports thundered about her ears. The action was so quick that she could hardly follow the flying thong with her eyes, and the loudness of the reports half deafened her. “Stop, please stop,” she called, “my ears are cracking.”
Whip never ceased the play of his arm and wrist, but walked his horse clear of the others and spun a ring of cracks in a wide circle above his head, sitting straight and motionless in his saddle with his arm straight up, and only the wrist moving. Then he flung the thong high in the air, twisted his body round and swung the whip down again in a sharp crack that bit at the ground immediately behind him, and sent a puff of dust jumping in the air. Crack, crack, crack, he went round the circle again, this time just flicking the ground at each crack, the ring of the leaping spurts of dust showing where the lash was falling. Ess clapped and bravoed as the last snap finished the circle and lifted the last puff of dust before the first one had completely floated away.
“That—that’s nothing,” jeered Never-Never Jack. “A school kid c’d do that with a tuppenny toy whip.”