"Speaking of style reminds me that Dan's a bit of an author," remarked
Williamson. "One day I was in his place, and he casually showed me a page
of some treatise he's on of evenings. And, my word, the style was grand.
Knocks Ouida into a cocked hat."
"Well, I am glad to hear that," I observed. "Useful sort of man on the station, too, I should imagine?"
"Average, or better," replied Andrews. "Nothing brilliant, but careful and trustworthy. Revolves in his orbit without a what-you-may-call-'im."
"Perturbation," I suggested. "How far is his hut from here?"
"Twelve mile. Let's see—six or eight mile north-west of where you dropped the first lot of wire that time."
"Can't I take him on the way to Mulppa?"
"Yes; but don't trust him for directions beyond his own place. We'll give you the geography. Better put up at his place to-night, and you'll reach Mulppa in good time to-morrow evening. And look out for that dog of yours when you get in range of Dan's place. He's great on strychnine; and the station gets the benefit of it in two ways—he keeps his paddock clear of dingoes, and he never has a scalp to sell."
By this time, breakfast was concluded; and in two minutes the combined topographical knowledge of the young fellows had laid down the best route to Mulppa, via Dan's hut.
Then a short official interview with Mr. Spanker, followed by a long, desultory gossip, brought me another couple of hours nearer the final reward of my orthodox upbringing. In another hour, my horses were saddled, and I was having a drink of tea and a bit of brownie in the men's hut.
A few minutes afterward, Cleopatra was shaking this refreshment well down by means of the exercise with which he habitually opened the day's work. But this was to be accepted in the same spirit as the abusive language of a faithful pastor. It was all in the contract. I had made a rule of backing him only on loose sand-hills, or in soft swamps, for the first fortnight. By that time, an amicable understanding had been established between us, at an expense of only three spills—once through an unexpected change of tactics; once through my own negligence; and once in spite of my best endeavours, for the faithless swamp was dry. I dare say I might have gradually weaned him from his besetting sin, but I did n't want to be pestered with people borrowing him.