Gondaree had been sold. The stock and station had been “delivered,” in squatting parlance; the meaning of which is, that the purchaser had satisfied himself that the actual living, wool-bearing sheep coincided in number, sex, age, and quality with the statement of Messrs. Drawe and Backwell. Also that the run comprised about the specified number of square miles; that the fences were tangible, and not paper delineations; that the wool-shed and wash-pen were not ideal creations of the poet, or that synonymous son of romance, the auctioneer; lastly, that the great Warroo itself was a perennial summer-defying stream, and not a dusty ditch—a river by courtesy, full-tided only in winter, when everybody has more water than he knows what to do with. In the great pastoral chronicles it is written that serious mistakes as to each and all of these important matters have been made ere now.
None of these encounters between the real and the probable had occurred with respect to Gondaree. Mr. Bagemall had expressed himself in terms of unbusinesslike approval of the whole property both to Mr. Redgrave and M‘Nab. The run was, in his opinion, first class; the improvements judicious and complete; the stock superior in quality, and in condition really wonderful, considering the season.
“Nothing the matter, my dear sir,” said he to Redgrave, “but want of rain and want of credit. Both of these complaints have become chronic, worse luck. I remember, some years since, when we were nearly cleaned out from the same causes. However, if I had not bought the place, some one else would. I feel ashamed, though, of getting it such a bargain. Fortune of war, you know, and all that, I suppose. Horses? Certainly—not mentioned in terms of sale. But any two of the station-hacks you choose. I suppose you will go in for back blocks. Take my advice, don’t be down-hearted. This is the best country that ever was discovered for making fresh starts in life. As long as a man is young and hearty, there are chances under his feet all day long. Think so? Know it. Why, look at old Captain Woodenwall, turned sixty when he was stumped up ten years ago, and look at him now. Warm man, member of the Upper House, drives his carriage again. Got every one’s good word too. Never give in. Nil whatsy-name, as the book says. Good-bye, sir, you have my best wishes. I have made my arrangements with your super-smart fellow, quite my sort, rising man. Sha’n’t be here for years, I hope. Good-bye, sir.”
After this somewhat lengthened address, protracted beyond his custom, Mr. Bagemall departed by the mail. He had previously entered into an arrangement with M‘Nab, continuing to that energetic personage, whose talent for organization he fully appreciated, the sole management of Gondaree. He had furthermore admitted him to a partnership, the estimated value thereof to be “worked out” of future profits. Mr. Bagemall had not now to learn that this was the cheapest and surest way of securing the permanent services and uttermost efforts of a man of exceptional brain and energy, as he very correctly took Alexander M‘Nab to be.
“Well, all is over now,” said Jack to his late manager; “everything seems to be much as it was before—except that Hamlet will be played without the unlucky beggar of a prince. I’m glad Bagemall took you in—he showed his sense; he’s not a bad fellow by any means.”
“I’m glad, and I’m sorry, Mr. Redgrave. It was too good an offer for me to refuse; but I’ve saved a couple of thousand pounds, and I had a notion that if you could have raised as much more—which would have been easy enough—I should say we might have gone in together for some back country with a little stock on it. There are lots of places in the market, and it’s a grand time for investing. There will never be a better, in my opinion.”
“Thank you very much, old fellow,” said Jack, moved by the generosity of his ex-lieutenant, the more so as M‘Nab was very careful of his money, all of which he had hardly earned; “but I intend to make tracks, and go on my path alone. I have hardly settled what I shall do yet. I think I shall travel and look about me for a few months. I am heartily tired of this part of Australia.”
“Better by far nip in now, while the chance is good,” argued the shrewd, clear-sighted M‘Nab. “Depend upon it, there will be no such opportunities this time next year. The first forty-eight hours’ rain will make a difference. All kinds of good medium runs are hawked about now, and if Mr. Bagemall hadn’t been so quick I should have been in Collins Street this week with half-a-dozen offers in my pocket. But what I want to say is this—there’s two thousand lying to my credit in the London Bartered. Take my advice, run down to Melbourne and get two or three more to put to it, and Drawe and Backwell will give you a dozen runs to pick from. It’s heartily at your service. If you don’t like the saltbush, there’s Gippsland, a splendid country, with good store cattle-stations going at three pounds a head.”
John Redgrave grasped the hand of the speaker and wrung it warmly.
“You’re a good fellow, M‘Nab,” said he, “and you have justified the opinion which I formed of you at the beginning of our acquaintance. I shall always remember you as a true friend, and a much cleverer fellow than myself. I should almost have felt inclined to have gone in with you as managing partner, but I cannot take your or any other friend’s money, to run the risk of losing it and self-respect together. It cannot be; but I thank you heartily all the same.”