‘There’s some steers of Job’s out there somewhere,’ muttered Mac. Then suddenly, ‘It ain’t drought—it’s the ploorer at last! or I’m blanked!’
Mac. feared the advent of that cattle-plague, pleuro-pneumonia, which was raging on some other stations, but had been hitherto kept clear of Job’s run.
‘We’ll go and see, if you like,’ suggested Doc. Wild.
They turned out across the flat, the horses picking their way amongst the dried tufts and fallen branches.
‘Theer ain’t no sign o’ cattle theer,’ said the doctor; ‘more likely a ewe in trouble about her lamb.’
‘Oh, the blanky dingoes at the sheep,’ said Mac. ‘I wish we had a gun—might get a shot at them.’
Doc. Wild hitched the skirt of a long China silk coat he wore, free of a hip-pocket. He always carried a revolver. ‘In case I feel obliged to shoot a first person singular one of these hot days,’ he explained once, whereat Bushmen scratched the backs of their heads and thought feebly, without result.
‘We’d never git near enough for a shot,’ said the doctor; then he commenced to hum fragments from a Bush song about the finding of a lost Bushman in the last stages of death by thirst,—
‘“The crows kept flyin’ up, boys!
The crows kept flyin’ up!
The dog, he seen and whimpered, boys,
Though he was but a pup.”’
‘It must be something or other,’ muttered Mac. ‘Look at them blanky crows!’