* * * *
There are abundant proofs as we steer out of Carrieton towards Cradock that we are already on the outskirts of the kingdom of the bicycle. The horses—bony apparitions mostly—have for the machine none of that contempt which tells of its familiarity to the city horse. So the bell is handy. Not so much to warn the equestrian as to soothe the bicyclist's conscience. You ring your bell and by that simple act throw on to other shoulders the full responsibility for all the frightened horse may do.
* * * *
To Cradock from Carrieton next forenoon. Thirty miles. Strong head winds. Near Yangarrie, cross a gum-lined creek of shallow running water. Travelling stock and mail route all the way.
* * * *
And on this stage a slight mishap, and an incident. Before creeping into a dam for a drink, I hung my satchel upon the fence. Having drunk, a horse took my notice: it stood listlessly against the fence, on the outside, in a paddock entirely destitute of feed—a sun-baked waste. But for the support of the fence it must have fallen.
I remembered having somewhere seen such another animal described as a barrel-hooped skeleton, held together by raw-hide.
In vain I tried to shift it. It quite frivolously whisked its tail—its only token of animation. No persuasions, no beguilements could move it. I was interested—in the cause of science, and of sport. I had inflated my tyres a little, and now desired to ascertain whether a strong blast from the air-pump would throw it hors de combat. Visions rose before me. I should, if I could but succeed, tell a breathless people, ever intent upon the amiable pursuit of killing one another and other more harmless things, that when in the desert I had slaughtered every one of a mob of horses with the help of a new and deadly air-gun.
To discover something so deadly—here was a Companionship of the Bath at the least!