Of course they would be sorry to lose the Commissioner; they wouldn’t get another in a hurry who was as smart, straight, and decided. He was fair, between man and man, and didn’t care a hang what creed, country, or caste a man belonged to when he was trying a case. All he wanted was to do justice, and he didn’t mind making the law himself sometimes, so as he could give the claim to the right man. Didn’t he fight the great No. 4 Black Creek Block case for Pat Farrell and party against the Dawson crowd, and them having a lot of money behind them—after it was adjourned, and remanded and sent to the Full Court in Sydney—fresh magistrates being got to sit on the bench; and, after all, old Pat Farrell got it, with heavy costs against the jumpers? And Mrs. Banneret—wasn’t she the kind woman to the diggers’ wives and kids?—though she had a young family of her own, and little enough time or money to spare from them. Well, good luck go with them, and the poor man’s blessing, wherever they went, far or near! They’d be remembered in Barrawong for many a year to come, anyhow—as long as there was a shaft or a windlass left on the field.
What thoughts and emotions struggled for precedence in Arnold Banneret’s breast when he reached the country town near his home, and saw the familiar faces of the provincial inhabitants, mildly interested in the arrival of the daily coach, bringing as usual novelties, human and otherwise—last [77] ]from the sea-port, and by that medium from the world at large. Casting his eyes around, after a few hurried but warm greetings, they fell on the well-worn buggy and the favourite pair of horses. His eldest son, a boy of fourteen, held the reins, which he transferred to his father, after replying in the affirmative to the important inquiry, ‘All well at home?’
As he gave the accustomed touch, the horses, needing no other hint, started along the metalled high road at a ten-mile-an-hour trot, which they showed no disposition to relax until they came to the turn-off track leading to the home paddock.
‘Well, father,’ said the youngster, ‘you’ve had a fine time of it, I suppose? I’d have given all the world to have gone with you. I suppose you couldn’t take me when you go back?’
‘No, my man! You’ve got your education to attend to, and to see mother and the children settled in Sydney first. I can’t afford to stay long. So you’ll have to be mother’s right-hand man while I’m away.’
‘I suppose I’m to go to school when we get to Sydney?’—in a slightly aggrieved tone.
‘Of course you are—and to the University afterwards, unless you are not able to pass the Matric.—which I should be sorry to think for a moment you couldn’t manage.’
‘Oh dear! I suppose it will be years and years of Latin and Greek, and history and geometry, before I can make a start in life for myself. If I’m to be a squatter—and I’m not going to be [78] ]anything else—what is the use of losing all this time?’
‘My dear boy, you are to have the education of a gentleman. Whether you decide for a bush life or a profession, a mining investor’s or a soldier’s, it will be equally useful—I may say, indispensable—to you. But there is ever so much time before us in which to settle such a very important question. How well the country is looking! I haven’t seen so much grass and water since I left home.’
‘It ought to look well—we nearly had a flood in the river last week. The flats were covered, feet deep, but it soon went off again. It won’t do any harm, they say; but we thought it would come into the house one evening, and mother sat up half the night. It began to fall next day.’