'By George! this is a hard life,' soliloquised the weary pioneer, for such he had been in more than one colony, as he sat, stiff, sore, and aching in every limb, upon his game but over-tired horse. 'Hold up, old man, you haven't had the saddle off your back nor I my clothes for the last six-and-thirty hours; but another half-hour will see you in a good paddock and me in Barallan parlour, with the cattle safe inside of post and rails, if we haven't taken a wrong track. Only for Bandah we should have followed the old Bundoorah road, a mile back, and found ourselves in the middle of a howling scrub, with a strong chance of losing these confounded B.R. cattle, the worst herd to drive in the district, and no more likelihood of bed or supper than if we were afloat on a raft.'
And here the travel-worn bushman, sodden and soaked, splashed and sleepy as he was, laughed aloud at the absurdity of the conceit.
Managing to light his pipe again by sheltering the match with his shut hand against the night-wind, in a manner peculiar to backwoods Australians, he was silent for a while. Then recommenced: 'Yes, a hard life, this of mine; work and anxiety by day and by night, wet and dry, hot or cold, burnt up and scorched in the summer, half drowned and starved with cold in the winter, and all for what? Just for a decent living, with little enough chance of putting by anything for a rainy day—I mean for a dry season,' he added, with another laugh. 'Well, though it is a hard life, I wouldn't exchange it for everyday work in a merchant's office, in a bank, or a Government department. These may be very well for some people, but they wouldn't suit Hugh Tressider at all. Give me the open air for it! And then, hard as the occasional rubs are, you have the benefit of contrast, and enjoy it all the more, as I shall a good supper and a good bed, which I'm morally certain to drop in for to-night. What a trump that Arnold Bayard is! If all squatters were like him, travelling would be a luxury and a privilege. Besides, I have the comfort of thinking—and it does keep me from being a peg too low at times—that all my hard work has not been for my own advantage, and that I have benefited others. Bless all their hearts! How I wish I could do more for them. Was that a dog's bark? Yes, by Jove! and there's the Barallan paddock fence on the left; it makes a wing to the stock-yard. Right you are, old man' (to his horse); 'we can't go wrong now; we'll go back, and help a bit with the tail.'
Making back to the next horseman, Tressider shook up the leg-weary but still game and willing hackney, and finding his way to the rear, informed all hands of the change in their immediate prospects, with the certainty of a speedy entrance into a haven of rest and refection. The intelligence had a distinctly stimulating effect. The pace of the drove was perceptibly quickened. Men, dogs, and horses seemed to have acquired new life and spirit. In less than half an hour the cattle were safely bestowed in a capacious stock-yard, the gates carefully secured, and the whole party dismounted before the outbuildings of Barallan Station.
Though it had been dark for four hours by the watches of the night, it was not more than half-past ten by the clock. Lights were still visible in the principal building, and a glowing fire in the men's kitchen showed that the cook was all alive, or had very lately retired.
A tall man with an abundant beard now advanced, and looked earnestly in the face of Tressider as he advanced to meet him. 'Oh, it's you, old man!' he said, in a voice every intonation of which bespoke kindly, unequivocal welcome. 'I expected you yesterday. What a drenching you must have had this miserable day. Mrs. Bayard has gone to bed, but there's nothing to prevent you and me from being comfortable for another hour. Of course the cattle are in the yard?'
'Yes.'
'Well, look here, you fellows, put your horses through that wicket-gate. Capital feed inside, and not too big a paddock. Joe hasn't turned in yet. He'll soon have supper ready for you. And, hold on, when you've turned out your horses, come up to the back door of the house. A glass of grog all round won't hurt any of you this cold night.'
'Thank you, Mr. Bayard,' was the reply from the oldest stock-rider.
In fifteen minutes at the outside Hugh Tressider was enabled to realise the justice of his proposition, that from the great contrasts of existence the essence of pleasure is extracted. His waterproof valise had furnished a complete change of dry garments, arrayed in which he was seated before a blazing fire, subsequent to the absorption of a glass of hot grog. A substantial meal was imminent, and as he watched the neat-handed Phyllis deftly covering that hospitable board, he was confirmed in the opinion that life had but few avenues of higher enjoyment open to him.