"A southerly wind and a cloudy sky,
Proclaim a hunting morn;
Before the sun rises away we go,—
The sleep of the sluggard we scorn."
OLD SONG.
"Now then, sleepies,—up you get!" cried Sandy in the early morning, as he performed his usual preliminary of whipping off the bed-clothes from the sleepy-headed Joe and Tom.
"Sun's laughing at you through the windows. Come, Master Hawkins!" cried he with a grin as he tumbled that grunting individual on to the floor, piling the bed-clothes on top of him, and then seating himself on the wriggling pile. "If soft measures won't avail I am prepared to adopt severe ones."
Tom, now thoroughly aroused, and as peppery as you like, shouted and yelled and writhed, getting his arm at last round his persecutor, the laughing Sandy, and by a violent effort pulling him on to the broad of his back, thus reversing their positions.
"You red-headed Scotchman, I'll teach you meddle with—" pommel—"me again"—pommel, pommel.
Here a cold douche arrested the uplifted arm of the irate Tom, and took his breath for a moment, as it descended upon the prone bodies, accompanied by sundry "ouchs" and shrill yells. As the boys scrambled to their feet they joined forces and rushed the dodging Joe, who, after a few ineffectual dives, was caught and jolly well punched.
The usual early morning diversion ended, the lads, rosy with health and brimming over with animal spirits—the essence of good nature for all their rough play—dressed with haste and made for the stockyard, to pick their steeds.
This occupied their time till the seven o'clock breakfast, after which they secured from the storeman the rations for the trapper.
"Now Sandy, my boy, ye'll no forget to tell George what I named at breakfast."
"M-yes, about the dingoes, father?"