The parlour of the ‘Woolpack’ was full of men in from their stations for ‘Land Court Day.’ A babel of talk was toward—mostly ‘shop.’ ‘Footrot!’ shouted a small energetic looking man, ‘I’ll tell you how I cure my sheep! You boil vinegar, and arsenic1, and blue-stone up—No, Polly, I ordered lager. And then—’ ‘Worms,’ my dear fellow, another was saying, ‘You can’t cure ’em! Don’t tell me! You go and make an infernal chemist’s shop of your sheep’s stomach, ruin the wool and constitution; and, after all your trouble, up bobs the little worm serenely2 as ever.’ ‘Strike,’ came from another corner of the big room. ‘No fear! No strike this year if we hang together like we mean to do. I think we’re pretty right in this district, anyhow. Everybody’s joined, bar M‘Pherson, and he’ll come-to presently. By jingo, here he is! Touch the bell, Bob, and let’s have ’em again.’ As the speaker finished, a burly, grey-whiskered man entered with, in his wake, another person who had evidently been closely pressing his 106companion with argument and persuasion4, for the latter was saying irritably,—
‘Once for a’, I tell ye, no. I’ll nae join. I’ll just stan’ on my ain bottom, an’ employ wha I like. When I want my wool aff, aff it comes; an’ wha takes it aff I dinna care a damn, so it’s taken off to my satisfaction! Will that do ye?’
‘The gospel of selfishness according to M‘Pherson,’ said a voice from out the smoke-clouds. ‘The assessment6 ’d drive him mad.’ ‘Bang went saxpence!’ sang out someone else, as the Scotch7 squatter8 turned angrily round with a dim idea that he was being baited.
But the older men quietened the youngsters who threatened to break bounds.
They still hoped—stubborn and untouchable, except by way of his pocket, though he was—to gain M‘Pherson to the cause.
He was the largest sheepowner in the district, and that was saying a good deal when the smallest shore 40,000. Palkara shed was one of the shearing9 prizes of the colony, and the A.S.7 union officials viewed the defection of its owner with joy.
‘So I hear you bought the “Duke” down at the sales, Mac?’ said one presently, as the old man, his wrath10 subsiding11, sipped12 his whisky and water.
‘Ay,’ responded he, ‘it was a stiff price to gie, but I’m no regrettin’ it. He’s a wonnerfu’ fine beast.’
They were sitting with their backs to the open 107windows, which gave on to a many-seated crowded verandah, and from this came,—
‘That you may lose him before you’ve had him a week, unless you join the Association!’
‘If I do, I’ll join, and ask it to help me find him,’ retorted M‘Pherson angrily into the hot outside night, and would fain have risen and gone in search of the speaker, but that his friend, whose name was Park, a neighbouring squatter, pulled him back, saying,—
‘Never mind these youngsters, Mac. They’re getting a bit sprung, I fancy. It’s no use making a row. When’ll the “Duke” be up?’
‘He’s due here on Tuesday,’ replied the other, ‘an’, if ye’ll be in, ye can see him. He’s weel worth the lookin’ at. He’ll come by rail to Burrtown, an’ then by coach on.
Two bachelor brothers, the Blakes, who owned a run not far from Palkara, were close to the window at which the pair sat.
The younger brother it was who had fired the remark inside about losing the great ram13 for which M‘Pherson had just paid 700 guineas.
. . . . . . . . . .
‘Well, Jack14, what passengers to-night?’ asked the overseer of Blake’s Tara Station, as Cobb & Co.’s coach drew slowly up in the pouring rain close to the homestead door.
‘Nary one, bar a cussed ole brute15 of a ram,’ replied the driver, as he stiffly dismounted, and handed out the mail. ‘I got him at the railway, and I’ve bin16 more cautious with him than if he’d bin a Lord Bishop17 108He’s for M‘Pherson up at Palkara. Hold the light please, Mr Brown, till I see if the beggar’s all serene3.’
‘He’s right enough,’ said the overseer, after a glance at the aristocrat18, resting luxuriously19 on pillows, half buried in hay, and with his legs tied by silk handkerchiefs. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘slip inside and have a snack and a drop of hot grog. I’ll stand by the horses.’
‘You’re a Christian20, Mr Brown,’ remarked the driver gratefully, as he pulled off his gloves and blew on his numbed22 fingers. ‘It’s the coldest rain for this time o’ the year as ever I felt.’
Scarcely had his dripping figure entered the open kitchen door, when, from behind a clump24 of bushes, came two figures bearing something between them. Lifting the ‘Duke’ with scant25 ceremony out of his couch, they deposited their burden in his place, and after a few whispered words to Brown, still at the horses’ heads, disappeared. Presently the driver returned, and, with a cheery ‘Good-night,’ started the coach rolling once more through the forty miles of mud and water between Tara and Combington.
. . . . . . . . . .
‘Coach in, Edwards?’ asked M‘Pherson the next afternoon as he drove up to the ‘Woolpack,’ accompanied by his friend Park.
‘Yes, sir. It’s a bit late, though,’ replied the landlord. ‘Roads terrible heavy after the rain. I had the ram untied26 an’ put in the stable, an’ gave him some green stuff.’
109‘That’s right, Edwards,’ said the squatter. ‘How does he look after the trip—pretty well?’
The other hesitated before answering,—
‘No, sir,’ replied the landlord with emphasis, ‘I’m damned if I would.’
‘Ha, ha!’ laughed the other, as he drove into the yard, ‘and yet, mon, I wouldna swap29 him for the auld30 “Woolpack.” Come,’ he added impatiently, ‘unlock the door an’ let us hae a look at His Grace.’
By this time there was quite a crowd on the scene. A couple of stock and station agents, a bank manager, the P.M., some drovers, everybody, in fact, who thought they knew a sheep from a goat, had assembled to have a look at ‘the big ram.’
‘Keep awa’ frae the door,’ quoth M‘Pherson. ‘Ye’ll all be able to hae a good sight o’ him presently. Let him come right out into the yaird, Edwards.’
As he finished, up the lane of spectators stalked a nondescript kind of animal, at which M‘Pherson just glanced, and then sang out to Edwards, appearing in the doorway,—
‘Ye never tauld me there was twa. Whaur’s the ither?’
‘There’s only the one, sir,’ answered the landlord. ‘That’s he.’
‘What!’ and M‘Pherson fairly gasped31 as he stared at 110the brute, which—from the muleish head, down the sparsely32 ‘broken woolled’ back, and slab-sided flanks, to the bare, kangaroo-like legs—bore the impress all over of ‘rank cull33.’
Then turning to the grinning landlord, and with accent intensified34 by excitement, he shouted, ‘What’s yon thing? Whaur’s my ram? D’ye think I ped my money for sic a brute as that? What ha’ ye done wi’ the “Duke”? If this is a wee bit joke o’ yer ain, Mister Edwards, time’s up, I do assure ye, sir.’ And he advanced threateningly towards the publican, who nimbly retreated into the crowd, whilst protesting,—
‘I can swear to you, sir, that’s the very same sheep Jack Burns brought in the coach this mornin’. I helped to take him out, an’ I sez to Jack, “Well, he ain’t much to look at, Jack;” and Jack, he sez, “No, that he ain’t. I think the trip must have haffected him; he seems to have felled away sence we put him in at the railway.”’
Followed by quite a procession, they passed to a little room, where the driver lay sleeping off the fatigues37 of the previous night.
Jack, sitting up, half awake, replied sulkily,—
‘Damn your ram! He’s in the stable. What d’ye want, rousin’ people like this for?’
‘I’ll rouse ye, ye scamp!’ roared the other. ‘Whaur’s 111my ram—my “Duke,” I say? D’ye think that I dinna ken5 a coo frae a cuddy; an’ that I’m to be imposed on wi’ a blasted auld cull in place o’ the “Duke o’ Silversheen” that I ped 700 guineas guid cash for? D’ye imagine I’m daft, ye coach-drivin’ fule, ye? If ye dinna confess wha’s led ye astray, I’ll give ye in chairge this vera meenit. I’ll let ye ken that I’m Jock M‘Pherson o’ Palkara; an’ I’m goin’ to mak’ it het for ye for this wee jobbie!’
This tirade39 effectually awakened40 the driver, and said he, with an earnestness there was no mistaking,—
‘By G—d, Mr M‘Pherson, I’m on the square. I never took much notice o’ the ram at the railway. It was dusk, too, when the agent put him in. I seen him two or three times along the road, an’ thought he looked fust class. Nobody could ha’ touched him without me knowin’ of it. But, at the best o’ times, I can’t tell one sheep from t’other, never havin’ had any truck with ’em. Anyhow, if there’s cross work ’bout this un, all I can say is, as I ain’t in it: An’ now you can send for the traps if you likes.’
The man’s manner carried conviction with it, and for a few minutes M‘Pherson was silent.
At last he said,—
‘Come awa’, some o’ ye, an’ catch the creature till I have a look at him.’
But when caught, nothing was ascertainable41 beyond the one patent fact that he was a broken-mouthed, miserable42 old cull, who ought to have gone to market as a wether years ago. Earmarks, out of their own district, 112are of precious little use as a means of identification now-a-days.
It will be noticed that Jack forgot all about his twenty minutes’ stay and chat with the cook in Tara kitchen. The coach had been very much overdue43.
‘Surely you’re not going to take the thing home, Mac?’ said his friend, as the former lugged44 the ‘Duke’s’ locum tenens towards the buggy. ‘He’s only fit to have his throat cut.’
Not that the old Scotchman was at all inclined to sit down quietly and suffer his loss. Very far from it. But he was no favourite, and public sympathy was absent. Unfeeling people averred46 that, at the time of the sale, he had been under the influence of hypnotism, etc., etc.; in fact, laughed at, and enjoyed the thing as a good joke. Therefore he was disinclined to blazon47 his misadventure throughout the Colonies. Also, he thought it would be bad policy to make too much noise.
Nevertheless, he quietly strained every nerve, and spent money freely in endeavours to discover the missing animal. Private detectives and the local police took the matter in hand, and with exactly the same amount of success.
. . . . . . . . . .
Meanwhile the ‘Duke’ was thriving. At Tara a big underground cellar, lit by skylights, had recently been excavated48. This was his home. There, waited upon by the only three in the secret, the great merino lived on 113the fat of the land. Some nights the Blakes would let him out into the garden for a pick, themselves or Brown securing him in his quarters again before they turned in.
It was a lot of bother, doubtless. But what of that, if they could only ‘bring old Mac to his bearings,’ and secure Palkara for their Association!
As for the risk of discovery, they laughed at it. From the minute the agent (who was ready to swear to the ‘Duke’s’ identity) put him in the coach at the Burrtown terminus, everything seemed vague and exceedingly doubtful respecting the spot at which the transfer could possibly have been effected.
The coach stopped at some half-dozen stations along the road, besides mail stages, and at none of these places could the slightest clue be obtained. In common with the rest, Tara was subjected to official visits.
‘Certainly, Sergeant49, happy to show you through all the paddocks. Like to see the rams50? Yes, of course. We’ve got some very fine Havilahs you’ll be pleased with, I’m sure. Yes; terrible affair about poor M‘Pherson’s “Duke”! Have another nip before we start?’
So, sheep galore did the unhappy police inspect, and carefully did they compare, stags, wethers, and ancient ‘horny’ ewes with photos of the ‘Duke’ until, at length, quite dazed with the apparently51 endless quest, to say nothing of the whisky, they audibly cursed the whole ovine race back to the days of the first breeders.
Only once did the brothers feel a doubt. Driving into town, they met M‘Pherson and a black-fellow following 114the old cull, who was steadily52 tramping along the road Tara-ward.
‘What’s all this about, M‘Pherson?’ asked one, as they pulled up. ‘Have you taken a droving contract?’
‘Ay,’ replied the old fellow, glaring suspiciously at the pair. ‘Just thet. I’m wantin’ to see whaur Beelzebub, here, gangs. If he’s gotten a hame, which I muckle doot, mebbe he’ll mek back.’
But a couple of miles on, Beelzebub struck a patch of clover, and stuck to it.
The darkey watched him for three days, and, after he had finished every vestige53, the old ram paused irresolutely54, scratched his ear with his hind23 foot, and meandered55 calmly back to the township.
So M‘Pherson returned with him to Palkara. A bit of the garden was fenced off, and here he used to sit and smoke and stare for hours at Beelzebub, until his friends began to think his loss had affected35 his brain.
Like many of his countrymen, M‘Pherson was superstitious56, and, deep down in his heart, was a lurking57 suspicion of diablerie that would not be exorcised.
‘It’s no earthly use watching that beast, Mac,’ said Park, riding up one day, and finding his neighbour at his usual occupation. ‘Look as hard as you like, and that won’t turn him into the Duke. Now, take my advice, and I think you stand a show of getting him back again. You remember you said that night at the Woolpack, that, if you lost him, you’d join the Association and trust it to recover him for you, or something to that effect. 115Well, my notion is that some of the boys have had a finger in the pie. And I solemnly believe that, if you don’t soon make your mind up, you’ll never see the Duke any more. Come, now’s the time! Shearing will start presently. Besides, I know you want him badly for those Coonong stud ewes.’
Park, himself a prominent member, used all his powers of persuasion, and to such good purpose, that in the next issue of the local paper appeared the announcement,—
‘Palkara will start shearing on —— under Conference rules.’
. . . . . . . . . .
A morning or so afterwards, M‘Pherson going out for his before-breakfast smoke and usual look at Beelzebub, to his astonishment58 saw him not. He had gone. But in his stead stood a stately, almost perfect animal, the beau ideal of what a ‘Champion’ should be. Around his neck he bore a card, on which the old squatter presently read,—
‘(Signed) Silversheen.’
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1
arsenic
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| n.砒霜，砷；adj.砷的 | |
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2
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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3
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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4
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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5
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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6
assessment
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| n.评价；评估；对财产的估价，被估定的金额 | |
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7
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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8
squatter
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| n.擅自占地者 | |
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shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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10
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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11
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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12
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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14
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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15
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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17
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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18
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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19
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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21
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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25
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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26
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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27
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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28
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
swap
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| n.交换；vt.交换，用...作交易 | |
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30
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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31
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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32
sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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33
cull
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| v.拣选；剔除；n.拣出的东西；剔除 | |
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34
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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36
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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37
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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38
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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39
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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40
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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41
ascertainable
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| adj.可确定（探知），可发现的 | |
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42
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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43
overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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44
lugged
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| vt.用力拖拉（lug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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45
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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46
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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47
blazon
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| n.纹章，装饰；精确描绘；v.广布；宣布 | |
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48
excavated
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| v.挖掘( excavate的过去式和过去分词 )；开凿；挖出；发掘 | |
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49
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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50
rams
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| n.公羊( ram的名词复数 )；(R-)白羊（星）座；夯；攻城槌v.夯实（土等）( ram的第三人称单数 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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51
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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52
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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53
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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54
irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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55
meandered
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| （指溪流、河流等）蜿蜒而流( meander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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57
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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58
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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