“I say, young ’un, how you’ve growed too; not uppards but beam ways. Why, hang me if I don’t think you’ll make a fine man yet!”
And so he did; a great strong six-foot fellow, with a voice like a trombone. Jack Penny is a sheep-farmer on his own account now, and after a visit to England with my staunch friend the doctor, where I gained some education, and used to do a good deal of business for my father, who is one of the greatest collectors in the south, I returned home, and went to stay a week with Jack Penny.
“I say,” he said laughing, “my back’s as strong as a lion’s now. How it used to ache!”
We were standing at the door of his house, looking north, for we had been talking of our travels, when all at once I caught sight of what looked like a little white tombstone under a eucalyptus tree.
“Why, what’s that?” I said.
Jack Penny’s countenance changed, and there were a couple of tears in the eyes of the great strong fellow as he said slowly:
“That’s to the memory of Gyp, the best dog as ever lived!”
I must not end without a word about Jimmy, my father’s faithful companion in his botanical trips.
Jimmy nearly went mad for joy when I got back from England, dancing about like a child. He was always at the door, black and shining as ever, and there was constantly something to be done. One day he had seen the biggest ole man kangaroo as ever was; and this time there was a wallaby to be found; another the announcement that the black cockatoos were in the woods; or else it would be:
“Mass Joe, Mass Joe! Jimmy want go kedge fis very bad; do come a day.”