“What became of him?” Jim asked.
“What I believe becomes of every crank who goes in for snake-catching—he got bitten at last. He lost his snakes one by one; you see, quite often one or two would get killed when he let them loose in a bar, if they happened to wriggle up against a man who was sober and had his stockwhip handy. Then he tried the trick once too often; he came to a place where there was a drover who had seen him play his game in another township, and this fellow warned everyone else, and told them he was sure the snakes were really harmless. So when Moriarty let them go, everyone was ready, and nobody fled—but in about two minutes there wasn’t a live wriggler left of all his stock-in-trade.”
“That was awkward for Moriarty,” Jim remarked “What did he do? Was he wild?”
“I guess he was pretty wild. But from all we could hear, he hadn’t a chance to do anything, because things became so actively unpleasant for him. The drover was one from whom he’d borrowed money previously; and he knew there was no chance of getting it back, so he was annoyed. He told the story of Moriarty’s misdeeds until everyone else felt annoyed too, and they ducked the old sinner in a horse-trough outside, and then escorted him gently but firmly from the township, riding him on a fence-rail. It was summer, so it really didn’t hurt him, but it discouraged him.”
“Still, he went catching snakes again?” Norah asked.
“Oh, yes. I suppose he felt they were his only friends; they must have twin-souls to a certain extent. If a snake wasn’t your natural affinity you couldn’t go about with it in your pocket, could you?”
“I don’t expect you could,” said Jim, laughing. “I can’t imagine doing it under any circumstances whatever; but there’s no accounting for tastes, and your Moriarty seems to have been an unusual gentleman. I suppose he felt lonely without his pets. One would.”
“One certainly would,” Wally assented. “Fancy a dozen of ’em wriggling about you! Anyhow, Moriarty went off into the bush after more, and had pretty good hunting; he turned up on our station with five or six. Of course, he behaved all right there, and didn’t attempt to show them unless he was asked—and, of course, we youngsters were as keen as mustard to see them. We always enjoyed a visit from Moriarty, and he used to be very careful with the snakes, not to run any risks for us. He was really quite a decent old chap, except for whisky; when he couldn’t get any you might have easily mistaken him for a respectable citizen.”
“Is that the kind you keep in Queensland?” enquired Jim, grinning.
“Don’t know,” returned Wally, evenly—“they wouldn’t let me mix in respectable circles since I took to associating with you. However, Moriarty stayed with us a few days, and then went off into the bush again, saying he wanted more snakes. We never saw him again, poor old chap; but one of the boundary-riders came upon his body a few days later.”