“Don’t bless me,” Jim said. “Jean had him nearly caught.” At which Jean flushed with embarrassment and pride, and said something entirely incoherent.
“Come along, you lazy rubbish! I say!” said Jim, in sudden alarm, “you’re not hurt, really, are you, old man?”
“Not a bit,” grinned his chum, jumping up. “Merely lazy, as you truthfully remark, and besides, you were so busy that there didn’t seem any need for me to be more than ornamental.” He dodged a flick from Jim’s stock-whip, and swung himself into the saddle.
Far across the paddock they could see Norah in hot pursuit of a bullock. Bosun was hardly trained after stock yet; so far he lacked the amazing instinct that comes to horses, making them understand precisely what a bullock will do next—often some time before the bullock himself knows. The brown pony was only too willing to gallop; that was simple; but he was weak in the delicate science of checking and heading a beast, of propping and swinging so as to anticipate every froward impulse in his bovine brain. It made Norah’s task no easy one, for the bullock was a big, determined Queenslander, with a set desire for peace and freedom. There was no chance of using a stock-whip, since Bosun was far too excited to permit such a liberty. She could only gallop and try to head him, and shout—her clear voice came ringing across the grass. Finally determination in the pursuer proved stronger than the same quality in the pursued, and the bullock gave in. He turned and trotted sulkily back, with Bosun dancing behind him.
So they galloped and shouted and raced through the long hot morning until they were all hoarse and tired, with tempers just a little frayed at the edges. Even Jean and Norah were of opinion that there may be less fun in mustering than they had dreamed. Bosun was a distinctly tiring proposition in such work as this, his lack of training, coupled with his excitability, making him anything but easy to ride. Many times a bullock got away from Norah because she had been unable to turn her pony—since Bosun saw no reason why he should not sail on to the end of the paddock when once he got going. On one occasion he did actually get out of hand, and bolted a long way, scattering the cattle in his mad career. Altogether it was a strenuous morning, and they were all very thankful when persistent effort succeeded in getting all the bullocks together and through the gate, and so across the next paddock to a set of yards built for just such emergencies, to save driving stock the long distance back to the homestead.
“Eh, but I’m thirsty,” said Wally, slipping Warder’s bridle over a post and turning to take Bosun. “Norah, you look jolly tired.”
“I’m all right,” Norah answered. “I only want tea, and buckets of it. But this fellow makes your arms ache; he’s been trying to bolt all the time. I’d have been more use riding an old cow, I believe.”
“Don’t you talk rubbish,” said Jim, leading Nan and Garryowen up to the fence. “But I tell you what, old girl, you’re going to ride my neddy after lunch. He’s quite a stock horse now, and won’t be nearly so hard on your arms.”
“Well, I don’t like shirking,” Norah said, looking doubtfully at Bosun. “He’s such a beauty, too, Jimmy—only he doesn’t understand yet.”
“Of course he doesn’t—you can’t expect it,” said her brother. “You wouldn’t care for it if he went like an old sheep, naturally. He’ll be all right after a little regular work with the cattle. Anyhow, you want a rest.”