Page:Such Is Life.djvu/196

182 "'I've got possession of some bullocks close handy here,' says he 'Do you own them?'

"'Yes,' says I; 'and, by the same token, I have possession.'

"'Right you are,' says he. 'Court job, if you like. Your name's Stephen Thompson. Good-night.'

"'Hold-on!' says I. 'On second thoughts, I  n't possession. But I think I know your voice. Are n't you Barefooted Bob? Where's Bat?'

"'Laying for Potter's horse-teams to-night,' says Bob. 'He'll get them, right enough.'

"'Come over to the wagon, and have a drink of tea,' says I.

"'No, no,' says he; 'none of your toe-rag business. I'll just stop with these bullocks till it's light enough to count them out of the paddock.'

"So we stayed there yarning all night, and in the morning we settled-up, and he saw me out of the paddock. Nicest, civilest fellow you'd meet; but no more conscience than that kangaroo-dog of Tom's. He and Bat had been four or five years away north toward the Gulf, and had just come down. M'Gregor used to keep them up to their work. Sent them away somewhere about the Diamantina, shortly after this affair; and now Bob"

"Speak o' the divil," growled Baxter. "You done it, you blatherin' fool! Look behine you! Now there's a bob a-head, or a summons, for every (individual) of us. Might 'a' had more sense!"

Thompson (as you will remember) had heard of Bob's decease, but had since learned the fallacy of the report. I was therefore, probably, the only person present who took for granted that M'Gregor's obnoxious familiar was so removed from further opportunity of mischief as to leave him a safe subject of conversation among people situated as we were. Hence the well-concealed disquietude of the company was nothing in comparison with my own perplexity—which, I trust, was no less successfully disguised. For it was Bob himself who had just ridden round a contiguous cape of lignum, and now, dismounting and throwing his reins on the ground, joined our unappreciative group. After folding his interminable legs in two places, and clasping his hands round his shins, this excrescence on society remarked, in basso profundo:

"Evenin', chaps."

"Evenin'," came in sullen, but general, response. Then Baxter queried indifferently:

"Same ole lay?"

"Not me," replied the deep, low voice. "Every man to his work. My work's mullockin' in a reservoy, with a new-chum weaver from Leeds for a mate, an' a scoop that's nyther make nor form, an' the ten worst bullocks ever was yoked."

"Well, Bob," said I; "though you gave me a fright, I must congratulate you. I heard you were dead."

"Would n't mind if I was dead, Collins."

"Where's Bat?" I asked.

"Gone to a better billet"—and the leonine voice deepened to