“D—n these gates,” he said; “they’re enough to ruin a chap’s temper. They put up a new cross fence here—wire, too—since I was here last. This is a bother, but when a man is driving by himself at night it’s worse. And they can summons you, and fine you two pounds and costs for leaving a gate open, worse luck!”
“How do you manage then?” asked the passenger, all unused to seeing a coach and four without groom or guard.
“Well, it’s rather a ticklish bit of work, even with a pair, if they’re at all touchy, as I’ve had ’em, many a time. You drive round before you come to the gate and tie your leaders to the fence as close as you can get ’em. I carry halters, and that’s the best and safest way; but if you haven’t ’em with you, you must do the best you can with the lead reins. You’re close enough to jump to their heads and muzzle ’em if they’re making a move. No chance to stop four horses after they’re off. When you’ve opened the gate and driven through, you have to turn your team back and let ’em stand with the leaders’ heads over the fence till you’ve shut the gate. If it’s a gate that’ll swing back to the post, and you’ve only a pair, you may manage to give it a shove just as it clears the hind wheels, but it’s a chance. It’s a nuisance, especially at night time and in rainy weather, but there’s nothing else for it, and it’s best always to keep sweet with the owners of the property the road runs through. Now we’ve five miles without a gate,” said Josh Cable as he led his horses out and proceeded to make up time, with three horses at a hand gallop, and the off-wheeler, a very fast horse, trotting about fourteen miles an hour; “the road’s level, too. We’ll pull up in another hour at the Horse and Jockey for dinner.” It may be explained that in Australian road-travel, whatever may be the difference of climate, which ranges indeed from sunshine to snow, the “dinner” so called, is the meal taken at or about mid-day—an hour or two, one way or another, not being regarded of importance. The evening meal at sundown, allowing for circumstances, is invariably “tea,” though by no means differing in essentials from the one at mid-day. It is at the option of the traveller to order and pay extra for the orthodox “dinner,” with wine, if procurable, as an adjunct.
The Horse and Jockey Hotel was duly reached, the half-hour dinner despatched, and, at sunrise, the railway station at Warongah reached, into which, after a hurried meal, Mr. Blount was enabled to hurl himself and luggage, the train not being crowded. Long before this hour he had ample time to admire the skill used in driving on a road never free from stumps and sidelings, creeks, and other pitfalls. Certainly the seven lamps, which he had never seen before on a coach, assisted the pilot’s course, with the light afforded by the great burners, three on high above the roof of the composite vehicle, a sort of roofed “cariole” defended as to the sides by waterproof curtains; while four other lamps gave the driver confidence, as they enabled him to see around and for some distance ahead as clearly as in the day.
In sixteen hours from the terminus Mr. Blount was safely landed per cab at the Imperial Club, Melbourne, in which institution he enjoyed the privileges of an honorary member, and was enabled to learn that the Pateena would leave the Queen’s Wharf at four o’clock p.m. next day for Launceston. Here he half expected to have one or more letters in answer to his appeal to the mercy of the Court as represented by Mrs. Bruce and Miss Imogen, or its justice, in the shape of Edward Hamilton Bruce of Marondah, a magistrate of the Territory. But none came. Other epistles of no importance, comparatively; also a fiery telegram from Hobart, “Don’t lose time. Your presence urgently needed.” So making arrangements for his correspondence to follow him to the Tasmanian Club, Hobart, he betook himself to the inter-colonial steamship, and at bed-time was sensible that a “capful” of wind was vexing the oft-turbulent Straits of Bass.
Hobart—the peaceful, the picturesque, the peerless among Australian summer climates, whether late or early. Hither come no scorching blasts, no tropical rains. Nestling beneath the shadow of Mount Wellington, semi-circled by the broad and winding Derwent, proving by old-fashioned—in many instances picturesquely ruinous—edifices, it claims to be one of Britain’s earliest outposts. Mr. Blount, from the moment of his landing, found himself in an atmosphere about as peacefully secluded as at Bunjil.
From this Elysian state of repose, he was routed immediately after breakfast by the tempestuous entrance of Mr. Frampton Tregonwell, Mining Expert and Consulting Engineer, as was fully set forth on his card, sent in by the waiter.
“Bless my soul!” called out this volcanic personage, as soon as he entered the door which he shut carefully behind him. “You are a most extraordinary chap! One would think you had been born in Tasmania, instead of the Duchy of Cornwall, whence all the Captains of the great mining industry have come from since the days of the Phœnicians and even earlier. Lucky you picked up a partner who is as sharp, excuse me, as you are—ahem—Blount!”
“When I’m told what all this tirade is about, ending with an atrocious pun, perhaps I may be able to reply,” answered the object of the attack, complacently finishing his second cup of tea.