“Went up the country in a bullock wagon.”
Three days before Christmas, I, Arthur Rowan, having leave of absence, went up the country in a bullock wagon, pretty well laden with Christmas cheer for a present, though the best present of all I was carrying in my breast.
How I did laugh as I went up, for I felt real happy, and it did seem so comic.
Here it was just upon Christmas, and me with the plums and peel and things for a pudding, while the sun shone down so hot, I was nearly cooked meat myself, when on Christmas Eve I walked up to the shingle and bark squatter’s house, all amongst the gum and ti-trees.
There was a laughing jackass on the ridge, a tame ’un, and a great lame kangaroo, and a big long-legged emu stalked about along with the chickens, as I removed the rail fence, where the man, who drove me, stopped to hitch on his bullocks.
But I could see no more for staring at a tall, manly-looking brown fellow in shirt and trousers, though wearing his shirt so open, that I could see a great red scar at the side of his neck.
“Well, Nick, my lad,” I said in my husky voice.
“Mr. Rowan,” he cried, and he quite reeled. “Don’t say I’m to go back to the prison.”
“But I do say it, my lad,” I cried, “and at once. Leastwise, we’ll keep Christmas first. I’ve brought some tackle in the dray.”
He didn’t answer me, but I heard him groan,