‘Cannot the blacks be taught to shear?’ inquired Mr. Neuchamp. ‘They are the natural labourers of the land—and ads ripti glebæ too, as from what I learn they dare not leave their own district from fear of other tribes.’
‘It is weary work shearing with them. They are neat but painfully slow, and constitutionally lazy. The Anglo-Saxon is made up of faults, not to say vices, but there is no worker on the earth’s surface like him.’
‘Can’t be licked,’ murmured Sparks contemplatively, removing his pipe and mixing himself another whisky. ‘Tell me when you’ve finished shearing and want help to load up.’
‘On the 19th,’ continued Brandon calmly, all unheeding Mr. Parklands’ practical arrangement of the narrative, ‘all was ready. Will Lorton was to commence washing early next morning. They did not begin with the usual flock. But in that land “the most unaccustomed thing is custom.”
‘At the dawn-bird’s cry from the aged trees, I sang out “All aboard!” and waking Will, we both rushed, robed in our blankets, to the lagoon, for a plunge into its sad-coloured waters, to emerge smoking in reactionary glow, and feeling fit to fight for a king’s ransom.
‘Then, habited in the primitive garb of the far north land, Will made for the blacks’ camp, to see his Myalls off to the wash-pool.
‘On Tthoondula dwelt a grizzled, savage-looking old warrior, called by the whites “Hutkeeper.” His duty was to tend the home flock. He was a chief in his tribe, and did not render himself conspicuous by wearing clothes. The English language had proved too difficult for his limited intelligence. He received food and tobacco for his slight services.
‘I had noticed one or two marked traits of savagery about Hutkeeper, and had warned Will not to trust the old ruffian. His mortal enemy at the home station was the cook, Nerangi Dick, whose prototype was Corney Delaney. Like him, he carried cynicism to its extreme limit. The likeness was so exact that it was currently reported that the devil, on one occasion, being short of a cook, had at sudden notice packed the original Corney back to earth from his comfortable corner near the furnace. The only billet he could retain was at the head station. He respected the master, and reserved his growls for the kitchen.
‘The “boogil-colli” gins, water-carriers, had a rough time of it when Nerangi Dick reigned. He might be seen driving them to their duties, with many crisp oaths and a large stick. Of the male aboriginal he was even more intolerant. Ordered to feed the station blacks, he gave them their meat and damper as if throwing a bait to a dog. Hutkeeper rarely received his ration without being subsequently chased by Dick, armed with his broomstick. It reminded a Waverley student of Peter Peebles pursued by Nanty Ewart, or, more familiarly, of a sour-tempered Skye terrier pursuing a collie. Hutkeeper, on these occasions, keeping well out of reach, but looking back over his shoulder from time to time, with a scowl which had in it a deeper meaning than the acerbity of the other. Should these two meet on the war-path, the devil would full surely recover his own.
‘I told Lorten, after witnessing one of these periodical coursing matches, that Hutkeeper would make a bad enemy.’