“’Course you can, my lad. Why not? You’ll shoot and ride and do everything soon, and I’ll teach you all I know ’bout shoeing and forging and gardening. But as I was a-saying, you get Bungarolo or Rigar or Damper. No, I can’t spare Damper ’cause of the cows, and Rigar’s handy with the bullocks. You have Bung; he’ll take you to places where the birds are. These blacks know all that sort o’ thing; and as to getting bushed, you’ll never get bushed so long as he’s with you.”
“What’s bushed?”
“What’s bushed, sir? My word, they did take your poor father in over your education. Don’t know what being bushed is? Why, being lost, my lad. There, you’re a-romancing me, Master Nic. You’re a-making me a reg’lar old ruck-a-tongue. I’ve got to do my work, and my work to-day’s cowcumbers.”
Samson lifted the handles of his rough barrow, and went off without looking back, while Nic made off with his gun on his shoulder, bearing a little to his left, so as to pass round a shed, beyond which Brookes’s voice could be heard.
As Nic reached the fence he saw that about fifty sheep were shut behind hurdles, and Leather was catching them by the wool, turning them on their sides, and then carrying them to where Brookes knelt, with a brush and a tub and a sheep before him, dividing the wool and applying some tarry mixture to sore places caused by the attacks of virulent flies—a cruel-looking process, but one which saved the poor animals’ lives.
Brookes’s back was towards Nic, and Leather’s eyes on his work, over which he bent frowning, and using his great strength to master the struggling animals, and carry them to his companion, who went on loudly, as Leather slaved away, dripping with perspiration, in the hot sun.
“Government’s mad, that’s what government is, to let loose such a set o’ scum to mix with honest men. I dunno what things is coming to. If I had my way, I’d soon have yer again in the chain gang, and scratch yer back every day with the warder’s cat—that’s what I’d do with you. There,”—to the sheep—“off you go. Now, then, how much longer am I to wait for that next sheep? Of all the lazy, idle, skulking hands that ever came about a place you’re the worst. Now, then, don’t kill the poor beast, and don’t keep me waiting all day for the next.”
The sheep had made a sudden bound and nearly escaped; but Leather, bending low the while, flung his arm round it, hugged it to his breast, and bore it to Brookes.
“Yah! you clumsy, lazy brute; you’re not fit to handle a sheep. Don’t kill it, thick-head. Hang yer, you’re not worth your salt.”
This was too much for Nic.