The Măluka spent one day with Dan beyond the “frontgate”—his tail wagging along behind as a matter of course—another day passed boundary-riding, inspecting water-holes, and doubling back to the Dandy’s camp to see his plans; then, picking up the Quiet Stockman, we struck out across country, riding four abreast through the open forest-lands, and were camped at sundown, in the thick of the cattle, miles from the Dandy’s camp, and thirty miles due north from the homestead. “Whatever do you do with your time?” asked the South folk.
Dan was in high spirits: cattle were coming in everywhere, and another beautiful permanent “water” had been discovered in unsuspected ambush. To know all the waters of a run is important; for they take the part of fences, keeping the cattle in certain localities; and as cattle must stay within a day’s journey or so of water, an unknown water is apt to upset a man’s calculations.
As the honour of finding the hole was all Dan’s, it was named DS. in his honour, and we had waited beside it while he cut his initials deep into the trunk of a tree, deploring the rustiness of his education as he carved. The upright stroke of the D was simplicity itself, but after that complications arose.
“It’s always got me dodged which way to turn the darned thing,” Dan said, scratching faint lines both ways, and standing off to decide the question. We advised turning to the right, and the D was satisfactorily completed, but S proved the “dead finish,” and had to be wrestled with separately.
“Can’t see why they don’t name a chap with something that’s easily wrote,” Dan said, as we rode forward, with our united team of horses and boys swinging along behind us, and M and T and O were quoted as examples. “Reading’s always had me dodged,” he explained. “Left school before I had time to get it down and wrestle with it.”
“There’s nothing like reading and writing,” the Quiet Stockman broke in, with an earnestness that was almost startling; and as he sat that evening in the firelight poring over the “Cardinal’s Snuff-box,” I watched him with a new interest.
Jack’s reading was very puzzling. He always had the same book—that “Cardinal’s Snuff-box”—and pored over it with a strange persistence, that could not have been inspired by the book. There was no expression on his face of lively interest or pleasure, just an intent, dogged persistence; the strong, firm chin set as though he were colt-breaking. Gradually, as I watched him that night, the truth dawned on me: the man was trying to teach himself to read. The “Cardinal’s Snuff-box”! and the only clue to the mystery, a fair knowledge of the alphabet learned away in a childish past. In truth, it takes a deal to “beat the Scots,” or, what is even better, to make them feel that they are beaten.
As I watched, full of admiration, for the proud, strong character of the man, he looked up suddenly, and, in a flash, knew that I knew. Flushing hotly, he rose, and “thought he would turn in”; and Dan, who had been discussing education most of the evening, decided to “bottle off a bit of sleep too for next day’s use,” and opened up his swag.
“There’s one thing about not being too good at the reading trick,” he said, surveying his permanent property: “a chap doesn’t need to carry books round with him to put in the spare time.”
“Exactly,” the Măluka laughed. He was lying on his back, with an open book face downwards on his chest, looking up at the stars. He always had a book with him, but, book-lover as he was, it rarely got farther than his chest when we were in camp. Life out-bush is more absorbing than books.