With the bread set, and rising pleasantly before the fire, under a bit of old blanket, and the kitchen tidy, a period of rest ensued, when “Major” and “Captin” were free to draw up chairs—seated with greenhide with the hair left on, and very comfortable—and smoke their pipes. This was the only time of the day when old Joe unbent. At first silent, he would presently shift his pipe to the corner of his mouth and spin them yarns of the early days, told with a queer, dry humour that kept his hearers in a simmer of laughter. It was always a matter of regret to poor “Captin” that he used to be the one to end the telling, since no story on earth could keep him, after a while, from nodding off to sleep. He would drag himself away to his blankets in the next room, hearing, as sleep fully descended upon him, the droning voice still entertaining Jim—whose powers of keeping awake seemed more than human!
Saturday brought no slackening of work. Whatever his previous hired men had done, old Joe was evidently determined that his present “parlour-boarders” should not abate their efforts, and even kept them a little later than usual in the paddocks, remarking that “ter-morrer bein' Sunday, yous might as well cut a bit more scrub.” The next morning broke fine and clear, and he looked at them a little doubtfully after breakfast.
“Well, there ain't no work doin' on Sunday, I reckon. I can manage the ol' keow to-night, if yous want to go home.”
The guests looked at each other doubtfully.
“What do you say, Bob? Shall we ride over?”
Bob pondered.
“All one to me, o' course,” said Joe, getting up and stumping out. He paused at the door. “On'y if yous mean ter stick on 'ere a bit you'll find comin' back a bit 'ard, onced yous see Billabong.”
“Just what I was thinking,” said Bob, as the old man disappeared. “I'm not going, Jim; I know jolly well I'd hate to come back after—er—fleshpotting at your place. But look here, old chap—why don't you go home and stay there? You've done quite enough of this, especially as you've no earthly need to do it at all. You go home, and I'll stay out my fortnight.”
“What, leave you here alone?” queried Jim. “Not much, Bobby.”
“But why not? I've Joseph, and we'd become bosom friends. And your father must think it ridiculous for you to be kept over here, slaving—”