Such is Life | Page 8

box on the selection, four miles ahead; and this
comprised the landscape.
Soon we became aware of two teams coming to meet us; then three
horsemen behind, emerging from the pine-ridge we had left. As the
horsemen gradually decreased their distance, the teams met and passed
us without salutation; sullenly drawing off the track, in the deference
always conceded to wool. Victorian poverty spoke in every detail of the
working plant; Victorian energy and greed in the unmerciful loads of
salt and wire, for the scrub country out back. The Victorian carrier,
formidable by his lack of professional etiquette and his extreme thrift,
is neither admired nor caressed by the somewhat select practitioners of
Riverina.
Then the three horsemen overtook Cooper, pausing a little, after the
custom of the country, to gossip with him as they passed. According to
another custom of the country, Thompson, Willoughby and I began to
criticise them.
"I know the bloke with the linen coat," remarked Thompson. "His
name's M'Nab; he's a contractor. That half-caste has been with him for
years, tailing horses and so forth, for his tucker and rags. Mac's no great
chop."
"He lets his man Friday have the best horse, at all events," said I.
"Grand-looking beast, that black one the half-caste is riding."
"By Jove, yes," replied Willoughby. "Now, Thompson--referring to the
discussion we had this morning--that is the class of horse we mount in
our light cavalry."
"And that strapping red-headed galoot, riding the bag of bones beside
him, is what you would call excellent war-material?" I suggested.
"Precisely, Mr. Collins," replied the whaler. "Nature produces such
men expressly for rank and file; and I should imagine that their
existence furnishes sufficient rejoinder to the levelling theory."
"Quite possible the chap's as good as either of you," remarked
Thompson, seizing the opportunity for reproof. "Do you know anything
against him?"
"Well, to quote Madame de Staël," replied Willoughby; "he abuses a
man's privilege of being ugly."
"Moreover, he has left undone a thing that he ought to have done," I

rejoined. "He ought to be taking a spell of carrying that mare. And pat
he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy"...
"'Day, chaps," said Rufus, as he joined us. "Keep on your pins, you
beggar"-- and he drove both spurs into his mare's shrinking flanks.
"Grey mare belongs to you, boss--don't she?--an' the black moke with
the Roman nose follerin'? I was thinkin' we might manage to knock up
some sort o' swap. Now this mare's a Patriarch, she is; and you might
n't think it. I won this here saddle with her at a bit of a meetin' las' week,
an' rode her my own self--an' that's oc'lar demonster. I tell you, if this
here mare had a week spell, you could n't hold her; an' she'd go a
hundred mile between sunrise an' sunset, at the same bat. Yes, boss; it's
the breed does it. I seen some good horses about the King, but swelp
me Gawd I never seen a patch on this mare; an' you might n't think it to
look at her jist now. Fact is, boss, she wants a week or a fortnit spell.
Could n't we work up some sort o' swap for that ole black moke o'
yours, with the big head? If I got a trifle o' cash to boot, I would n't
mind slingin' in this saddle, an' takin' yours. Now, boss, don't be a (adj.)
fool."
"To tell you the truth," I replied, "that black horse has carried a pack so
long that he's about cooked for saddle. But he does me right enough."
"Then I'll tell you what I'll do!" exclaimed Rufus impulsively. "Look
here! At a word! I'll go you an even swap for that little weed of a grey
mare! At a word, mind! I'm a reckless sort o' (person) when I take the
notion! but without a word of exaggeration, I would n't do it on'y for
being fixed the way I am. This here mare's got a fortune in her for a
man like you."
"Now howl' yer tongue!" interposed M'Nab, who, with the half-caste--a
lithe, active lad of eighteen--had joined us. "Is it swappin' ye want wi'
decent men? Sure thon poor craytur iv a baste hes n't got the sthrenth
fur till kerry it own hide, let alone a great gommeril on it back. An'
thon's furnent ye! Hello, Tamson! begog A did n't know ye at wanst."
"Good day, Mr. M'Nab. Alterations since I delivered you that wire at
Poondoo. Been in the wars?" For M'Nab was leaning forward and
sideways in his saddle, evidently in pain.
"Yis," replied the contractor frankly. "There was some Irish rascals at
the pub. thonder, where we stapped las' night; an' wan word