"Ain't got puddin' enough, Thompson," said Mosey, as my companions stopped their teams and went on to survey the place. "The (adv.) thunderin' ole morepoke he goes crawlin' into the rottenest place he could fine. You shove your team in nex' the polers, an' I'll hook our lot on in front. Your chains'll stan' to fetch (sheol) out by the (adj.) roots. Please the pigs, we'll git out o' sight afore that ole (overseer) comes."
Thompson did as desired; and the first pull brought the wagon on to solid ground. Meanwhile Dixon and Willoughby had taken their team through, and were hurrying along. Cooper, growling maledictions on everything connected with Port Phillip—roads in particular— had selected his route, and started his team. Thompson hooked on to his own wagon, and crossed safely, but with very little to spare.
"Touch-and-go," he remarked to me; "another bale would have anchored her.
Ah! Cooper's in it, with all his cleverness."
Cooper was in it. The two-ton Hawkesbury, with seven-and-a-half tons of load, was down to the axle-beds; and the Cornstalk was endeavouring, by means of extracts from the sermons of Knox's soundest followers, to do something like justice to the contingency. Thompson sighed, glanced toward the ram-paddock, and hooked his team in front of Cooper's. Mosey, who had been mending his broken chain with wire, now came over with Price.
"We'll give you a lend of our whips," said he with cheap complaisance. "Take the leaders yerself, Thompson. Stiddy now, till I give the word, or we'll be fetching the (adj.) handle out of her. Now—pop it on—to 'em!"
Then thirty-six picked bullocks planted their feet and prised, and a hundred and seventy feet of bar chain stretched tense and rigid from the leaders' yoke to the pole-cap. The wagon crept forward. A low grumble, more a growl than a bellow, passed from beast to beast along the team—sure indication that the wagon would n't stop again if it could be taken through. The off front wheel rose slowly on harder ground; the off hind wheel rose in its turn; both near wheels ploughed deeper beneath the top-heavy weight of thirty-eight bales——
"She's over!" thundered Cooper. "Keep her goin'—it's her on'y chance!"
Then the heavy pine whipsticks bent like bulrushes in the drivers' skilful hands, while a spray of dissevered hair, and sometimes a line of springing blood, followed each detonation—the libretto being in keeping. A few yards forward still, while both off wheels rose to the surface, and both near wheels sank till the naves burrowed in the ground; then the wagon swung heavily over on its near side.
"Good-bye, John," said Cooper, with fine immobility. "Three-man job, by rights. Will you give us a hand, Collins?" For Price and Mosey were silently returning to their teams.
"Certainly, I will."