“Don't want him to,” said Jim.
So it came about that early on Monday morning Jim and Bob fixed swags more or less scientifically to their saddles—Jim made his disciple unstrap his three times before he consented to pass it—and rode away from Billabong, amidst derisive good wishes from Norah and Tommy, who kindly promised to feed them up on their return, prophesying that they would certainly need it. They took a westerly direction across country, and after two or three hours' riding came upon a small farm nestling at the foot of a low range of hills.
“That's old Howard's,” Jim said. “And there's the old chap himself, fixing up his windmill. You wait a minute, Bob; I'll go over and see him.”
He gave Bob his bridle, and went across a small paddock near the house. Howard, a hard-looking old man with a long, grey beard, was wrestling with a home-made windmill—a queer erection, mainly composed of rough spars with sails made from old wheat-sacks. He clambered to the ground as Jim approached, and greeted him civilly.
“I thought you'd have forgotten me, Mr. Howard,” said Jim.
“Too like your dad—an', anyhow, I know the horses,” was the laconic answer. “So you're back. Like Australia better'n fightin'?”
“Rather!” said Jim. “Fighting's a poor game, I think, when you hardly ever see the other fellow. Want any hands, Mr. Howard?”
“No.” The old man shook his head. “They want too much money nowadays, an' they're too darned partickler about their tucker. Meat three times a day, whether you've killed it or not. An' puddin'. Cock 'em up with puddin'—a fat lot of it I ever saw where I was raised. An' off to the township on Saturday afternoon, an' lucky if they get back in time for milkin' nex' mornin'. No—the workin' man ain't what 'e was, an' the new kind'll make precious little of Australia!”
“That's about right, I'm afraid,” said Jim, listening sympathetically to this oration. “Well, will you take me and my friend as hands for a few weeks, Mr. Howard?”
“You!” The old man stared at him. “Ain't 'ad a quarrel with yer dad, 'ave yer? You take my tip, if yer 'ave—go back and make it up. Not many men in this districk like yer dad.”