He certainly showed no aptitude for bush-life or work, and said as much. The solitude of the station did not suit him, and, though he accompanied the others on horseback once or twice on the run, and proved a good rider, yet he never could be induced to take any active part in station matters. As Tom said,—
“He shot a kangaroo one day, and that’s all he’s done, and all he wants to.”
So it was with a feeling of relief to Fulrake that Tom asked him one day whether he would like to go to Sydney with him. He gladly accepted the proposal, adding,—
“Yes, and I have heard of a good kangaroo hound there I would like to buy.”
An event occurred during this visit to the town which greatly raised him in Tom’s estimation.
After Tom had transacted his business in Sydney, and Fulrake had purchased his hound, the two young men were crossing a ferry in the harbour, when the man who was rowing them made a rough remark to Fulrake, and asked him what he was going to pay for the cur he had with him, for that he interfered with the balance of his boat.
Fulrake, who was dressed with his usual care, and was lying back in the stern-sheets, smoking, blew a cloud of smoke out of his mouth, and languidly raising himself half up, shifted his big hound, and then resumed his former position, without troubling himself even to look at the abusive rower. The calm disdain with which he was treated seemed to put the man into a fury, as with many oaths he recommenced his abuse, saying,—
“Just like you blank loafing new-chum swells, don’t want to pay for him, I suppose? I’ve half a mind to pitch yer cur overboard.”
“If you do,” replied Fulrake, with a quiet wink at Tom, “I should most certainly pitch you after him my man!”
This answer considerably astonished the ferryman as well as Tom, as they glanced at the small, spare figure of the new chum. And yet the man did not seem to have any intention of putting his threat into execution. He seemed to forget the dog; but, staring rudely at Fulrake, and rowing with all his might, he thundered,—