Jack had had many talks with the old man, whose experience was worth something, although he had not been able to avail himself of it, and the conclusion he arrived at was that he would accompany Harlaw to Jimburah.
“I’m weel kenned there; why suld ye no get a flock o’ sheep too? The doggie will do work fine for ye, and maybe we’ll get a hut together, and I’ll cook for ye; then when ye get strong ye can look aboot and see what ye can do.”
“Anything you like, Jock,” said he, wearily; “one thing is much the same as another to me now.”
“Weel a weel,” said the old man, gratified at his acquiescence, “there’s better lives than a herd’s in Australia, and there’s waur. I wadna say but that after sax months or so, with the labour and the calm, peaceful life where ye see God’s handiwork and nae ither thing spread out before ye, after sax months ye might find your courage and your health come back to ye, and gang on your way to seek your fortune.”
“Didn’t you find it dreadfully lonely at first?” inquired Jack.
“Weel, I canna in conscience deny that at first I thocht it just being sold into slavery, but as time passed I found it wasna sae devoid of rational satisfaction as might ha’ been supposed. Many a peacefu’ day hae I walked ahint my flock, sound in mind and body too. There’s poseetions in life, I’ll no deny, that’s mair dignified and pridefu’, but on a fine spring morning, when the grass is green, the birds a’ whistling and ca’ing to ither puir things, the face o’ Nature seems kindly and gracious; the vara sheep, puir dumb beasties, seem to acknowledge the influence of the scene, and there’s a calm sense o’ joy and peace unknown to the dwellers in towns.”
The old man warmed with his subject, and spoke with such earnestness that Jack could not help smiling, far as his thoughts were from anything like mirth.
“Well, Harlaw, man is a curious animal, not to be accounted for on any reasonable plan or system. As you and I have not managed to dispossess ourselves of the complex functions chiefly exercised in the endurance of various degrees of pain which we know as life, we may as well wear them out for a time in what men call shepherding as in any other direction. They don’t fence hereabout, then?”
“Not within years of it, sir; and I’m thinkin’ it’s just as well for puir bodies like you and me, if you’ll excuse the leeberty.”
“Don’t make any excuse, and get out of the way of saying ‘sir,’ if we are to be mates. Call me Jack—Jack Smith. Mr. Redgrave is dead and buried—fathoms deep. Would to God he were, and past waking!” he added, with sudden earnestness.