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12 in denunciation of war—“we ain’t goin’ to travel these carrion a mile to the gate, an’ most likely fine it locked when we git there. Hold on till I git my internal machine to work on the fence. Dad! Where’s that ole morepoke? O, you’re there, are you? Fetch the jack off o’ your wagon—come! fly roun’! you’re (very) slow for a young fellow. Bum,” (abbreviation of “bummer,” and applied to the red-headed fellow) “you surround them carrion, or we’ll be losin’ the run o’ them two steers.”

A low groan from Bum’s mare followed the heavy stroke of the ruffian’s spurs. “Some o’ you other (fellows) keep roun’ that side,” said he; “I’ll go this road. Up! you Red Roverite!”—No use ... The mare had had enough for one day; she stumbled, and fell, rolling heavily over her rider. “What the (quadruple expletive)’s the matter with her?” he continued, extricating himself, and kicking the beast till she staggered to her feet. “Come on agen, an’ don’t gimme no more o’ your religiousness.” He remounted, and the mare, under the strong stimulus of his spurs, cantered laboriously out into the dark.

Meanwhile, Mosey had taken a hand-saw from its receptacle on his wagon, and had cut the pine spar to a length of about eighteen inches less than a panel of the fence. “Lash this ’ere saplin’ hard down on the top rail,” he now commanded. Price and Dixon obeyed, and Mosey laid his powerful bottle-jack on the rail, filling up the space, and began to turn it with a long bolt, by way of lever. “You see, Tom,” he remarked to me; “this fixter’ll put the crooked maginnis on any fence from ere to ’ell. It’s got to come. No matter how tight rails is shouldered, they’ll spring ; an’ if every post’ll give on’y half a inch, why then, ten posts makes five or six inches; an’ that’s about all you want. Then in the mornin’, you can fix the fence so’s the ole-man divil his self could n’t ball you out. Ah!— — —! That’s what comes o’ blowin’.” For the post, being wild and free in the grain, had burst along the two mortices; one half running completely off, just above the ground. “Serve people right for puttin’ in rails when wire would do,” he continued, removing the screw-jack. “Accidents will happen—best reg’lated famblies. ’Tain’t our business, anyhow. Now, chaps, round up yer carrion, an’ shove ’em in.”

The four wires in the lower part of the fence rung like harp strings as the cattle stepped into or over them, and in a few minutes the whole live stock of the caravan—eighty-four bullocks and seven horses—were in the selection, but too thirsty to feed. Then whilst Thompson, Mosey, Willoughby and I tailed them toward the tank, Dixon hurried on ahead with his five-gallon oil-drum, in order to replenish it before the water was disturbed; and Price, by Mosey’s orders, accompanied him on the same business. We steadied the bullocks at the tank till all were satisfied, then headed them back to within fifty yards of the wagons, where we hobbled all the horses, except Bum’s mare.

“Steve,” said I to my old schoolmate: “of course, you and I are seized of the true inwardness of duffing; but to those who live cleanly, as noblemen should, this would appear a dirty transaction.”

“The world’s full of dirty transactions, Tom,” replied the bullock driver wearily. “It’s a dirty transaction to round up a man’s team in a