“Yairs,” said Mick. He was riding an unbroken three-year-old, and had no time for conversation.
After a few days of “gentle exercise,” Bob found himself put on to work. He learned something of cutting out and mustering, both in cleared country and in scrub; helped bring home young cattle to brand, and studied at first hand the peculiar evilness of a scrub cow when separated from her calf. They gave him jobs for himself, which he accomplished fairly well, aided by a stock horse of superhuman intelligence, which naturally knew far more of the work than its rider could hope to do. Bob confided to Tommy that never had he felt so complete a fool as when he rode forth for the first time to cut out a bullock alone under the eyes of the experts.
“Luckily, the old mare did all the work,” he said. “But I knew less about it than I did the first time I went up alone at the flying school!”
His teaching went on all the time. Mr. Linton and Jim were tireless in pointing out the points of cattle, and the variations in the value of feed on the different parts of the run, with all the details of bush lore; and the airman's eyes, trained to observe, and backed by keen desire to learn, picked up and retained knowledge quickly. Billabong was, in the main, a cattle run, but Mr. Linton kept as well a flock of high class sheep, with the usual small mob for killing for station use, and through these a certain amount of sheep knowledge was imparted to the new-chum. To their surprise, for all his instructors were heart and soul for cattle, Bob showed a distinct leaning towards mutton.
“They're easier to understand, I think,” he said. “Possibly it's because they're not as intelligent as cattle, and I don't think I am, either!”
“Well, I know something about bullocks, but these woolly objects have always been beyond me,” said Jim. “Necessary evils, but I can't stand them. I used to think there was nothing more hopeless than an old merino ewe, until I met a battery mule—he's a shade worse!”
“Wait till you've worked with a camel in a bad temper, Mr. Jim,” said Dave Boone darkly; he had put in a weary time in Egypt. “For downright wickedness them snake-headed beggars is the fair limit!”
“Yes, I've heard so,” said Jim. “Anyhow, we haven't added mules and camels to our worries in Victoria yet; sheep are bad enough for me. Norah says turkey hens are worse, and she's certainly tried both; there isn't much about the run young Norah doesn't know. But you aren't going to make a living out of turkeys.”
“No—Tommy can run them as a side line,” said Bob. “I fancy sheep will give me all I want in the way of worry.”
“And you really think you'll go in for sheep, old man?” asked Jim with pity.