‘My dear Wilfred—I thought you were likely to be at Donnelly’s sale, so I send you a line by a parishioner of mine. I have made inquiries about the stock, and consider that you could not do better than buy as many of the cattle as you have grass for. They are known to be quiet, having been used to dairy tending, and are certain to increase in value and number, as you have so much grass at Warbrok. Price about two pounds. A few horses would not be superfluous, and there are some good ones in Donnelly’s lot, or they would hardly have stood his work. Mention my name to Mick, and say he is to let you down easy. I have had a touch of rheumatism lately—et ego in Arcadia—there’s no escape from old age and its infirmities in any climate, however good, or I’d have looked you up before now. Tell your father I’m coming over soon.—Always yours sincerely,
Harley Sternworth.’
The hour of sale having arrived, and indeed passed, the auctioneer, who had driven out from Yass for the purpose, commenced his task, which he did by climbing on to the ‘cap’ of the stock-yard and rapping violently with a hammer-handled hunting-crop. A broad-chested, stout-lunged, florid personage was Mr. Crackemup, and if selling by auction deserved to be ranked as one of the fine arts, he was no mean professor.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he shouted. ‘I say ladies, for I notice quite a number of the fair sex have honoured me with their presence. Let me mention, in the first place, that the owner of this valuable stock we see before us has resolved to leave this part of the country. Yes, my friends, to leave Gumbaragongara for good and all! Why do I mention this fact—why do I dwell upon it? Because, ladies and gentlemen, it makes all the difference as to the bona fide nature of the sale which we are met together to-day to celebrate—that is—a—to carry out—according to these written conditions. My principal, Mr. Donnelly, with the shrewdness which has characterised him through life, seized upon this view of the case. “If I leave the country bodily,” he said to me, “and sell the stock for what they’ll fetch, no one can say that I went away and took the best with me.” No, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Donnelly departs to-morrow for Monaro, taking only a dray and team, with a few riding-horses, so that all his well-bred, quiet, beautiful herd of dairy cattle, selected with great care from some of the best herds in the colony [here divers of the audience grinned irreverently], I shall have the honour of submitting to public competition this day.
‘The first lot, ladies and gentlemen, is No. 1. Generally so, isn’t it? Ha! ha! One hundred and fifty-four cows and heifers, all broken to bail; most of them with calves at foot, or about to—to—become mothers.’
Mr. Crackemup was a man of delicate ideas, so he euphemised the maternal probabilities.
‘Any one buying this choice lot, with butter at a shilling, and cheese not to be bought, buys a fortune. I will sell a “run out” of twenty head, with the option of taking the lot. “Fifteen shillings a head”—nonsense; one pound, twenty-two and six, twenty-five-thank you, miss; thirty shillings, thirty-five, thirty-seven and six-thank you, sir. One pound seventeen and sixpence, once; one pound seventeen and sixpence, twice; for the third and last time, one pound seventeen shillings and sixpence. Gone! What name shall I say, sir? “Howard Effingham, Warbrok Chase.” Twenty head. Thank you, sir.’
At this critical moment the voice of Dick Evans was heard by Wilfred, in close proximity to his ear: ‘Collar the lot, sir; they’re dirt cheap; soon be in full milk. Don’t let ’em go.’
‘I believe,’ said Wilfred, raising his voice, ‘that I have the option of taking the whole.’
‘Quite correct, sir; but if I might advise——’