“Rum names gals gets nowadays,” said Joe, pondering. “Not on'y gels, neither. 'S a chap on top of the 'ill 'as a new baby, an' 'e's called it 'Aig Wipers Jellicoe. 'Course, 'e did go to the war, but 'e ain't got no need ter rub it into the poor kid like that.” He paused to ram the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with a horny thumb. “One thing—I'd like to pay you chaps somethin'. Never 'ad blokes workin' fer me fer nothin', an' I don't much care about it.”
“No, thanks, Mr. Howard,” said Jim. “We came for colonial experience.”
“You!” said old Joe, and permitted himself the ghost of a grin. “Well, I ain't goin' ter fight yous about it, an' I'm not worryin' a mighty lot about you, Major, 'cause your little bit o' country's ready made for you. But Captin's different. We won't 'ave no fight about cash, Captin; but that last year's calf of the ol' keow's goin' ter be a pretty decent steer, an' when you gets yer farm 'e's goin' on it as yer first bit o' stock. An' 'e'll get the best o' my grass till 'e goes.”
“Rubbish!” said Bob, much embarrassed. “Awfully good of you, Mr. Howard, but that wasn't the agreement. I know I'm not worth wages yet.”
“Oh, ain't you?” Joe asked. “Well, there's two opinions about that. Any'ow, 'e's yours, an' I've christened 'im Captin, so there ain't no way out of it.” He rose, cutting short further protests. “Too much bloomin' argument about this camp; I'm off ter bed.”
CHAPTER XII
ON INFLUENZA AND FURNITURE
“So you think he'll do, Jim?”
“Yes, I certainly do,” Jim answered. He was sitting with his father in the smoking-room at Billabong, his long legs outstretched before the fire, and his great form half-concealed in the depths of an enormous leather armchair. “Of course he'll want guidance; you couldn't expect him to know much about stock yet, though he's certainly picked up a good bit.”