“Of course reading’s handy enough for them as don’t lay much stock on education,” Dan owned, stringing his net between his mosquito-pegs, then, struck with a new idea, he “wondered why the missus never carries books round. Any one ’ud think she wasn’t much at the reading trick herself,” he said. “Never see you at it, missus, when I’m round.”
“Lay too much stock on education,” I answered, and, chuckling, Dan retired into his net, little guessing that when he was “round,” his own self, his quaint outlook on life, and the underlying truth of his inexhaustible, whimsical philosophy, were infinitely more interesting than the best book ever written.
But the Quiet Stockman seemed perplexed at the answer. “I thought reading ’ud learn you most things,” he said, hesitating beside his own net; and before we could speak, the corner of Dan’s net was lifted and his head reappeared. “I’ve learned a deal of things in my time,” he chuckled, “but reading never taught me none of ’em.” Then his head once more disappeared, and we tried to explain matters to the Quiet Stockman. The time was not yet ready for the offer of a helping hand.
At four in the morning we were roused by a new camp reveille of Star-light. “Nothing like getting off early when mustering’s the game,” Dan announced. By sun-up the musterers were away, and by sundown we were coming in to Bitter Springs, driving a splendid mob of cattle before us.
The Măluka and I had had nothing to do with the actual gathering in of the mob, for the missus had not “shaped” too well at her first muster and preferred travelling with the pack teams when active mustering was in hand. Ignominious perhaps, but safe, and safety counts for something in this world; anyway, for the poor craven souls. Riding is one thing; but crashing through timber and undergrowth, dodging overhanging branches, leaping fallen logs, and stumbling and plunging over crab-holed and rat-burrowed areas, to say nothing of charging bulls turning up at unexpected corners, is quite another story.
“Not cut out for the job,” was Dan’s verdict, and the Măluka covered my retreat by saying that he had more than enough to do without taking part in the rounding up of cattle. Had mustering been one of a manager’s duties, I’m afraid the house would have “come in handy” to pack the dog away in with its chain.
As the yard of the Springs came into view, we were making plans for the morrow, and admiring the fine mattress swinging before us on the tails of the cattle; but there were cattle buyers at the Springs who upset all our plans, and left no time for the bang-tailing of the mob in hand.
The buyers were Chinese drovers, authorised by their Chinese masters to buy a mob of bullocks. “Want big mob,” they said. “Cash! Got money here,” producing a signed cheque ready for filling in.
A Chinese buyer always pays “cash” for a mob—by cheque—generally taking care to withdraw all cash from the bank before the cheque can be presented, and, as a result, a dishonoured cheque is returned to the station, reaching the seller some six or eight weeks after the sale. Six or eight weeks more then pass in demanding explanations, and six or eight more obtaining them, and after that just as many more as Chinese slimness can arrange for before a settlement is finally made. “Cash,” the drover repeated insinuatingly at the Măluka’s unfathomable “Yes?” Then, certain that he was inspired, added, “Spot Cash!”
But already the Măluka had decided on a plan of campaign and, echoing the drover’s “Spot Cash,” began negotiations for a sale; and within ten minutes the drovers retired to their camp, bound to take the mob when delivered, and inwardly marvelling at the Măluka’s simple trust.