The Squatter's Dream. Rolf Boldrewood
the whole of the herd, after Rooney had done drafting, and was ready to take delivery without delay.
In due time all this hard and anxious work was accomplished. Mr. Joe Best returned and possessed himself of every fat bullock and every decent cow “without incumbrance” on the place. And then the long-resident Gondaree herd – much lowing, and fully of opinion, judged by its demeanour, that the end of the world was come – was violently evicted and driven off from its birthplace in three great droves by a small army of stockmen and all the dogs within a hundred miles.
So the cattle were “cleared off,” at low prices too, as in after days Jack had occasion to remember. But nobody bought store cattle in that year except as a sort of personal favour. Nothing better could be expected.
“Well – so they’re mustered and gone at last,” said Hawkesbury, the day after the last engagement. “Blest if I didn’t think some of us would lose the number of our mess. Those old cows would eat a man – let alone skiver him. The herd came up well to their number in the books, didn’t they? There was more of those Bimbalong cattle than I took ’em to be. Well, there’s been a deal of money took off this run since I came – next to nothing spent either; that’s what I look at. I hope the sheep-racket will do as well, sir.”
“I hope so, too, Hawkesbury,” answered Jack. “One good season with sheep is generally said to be worth three with cattle. I had a letter to-day from M‘Nab to say that he was on the road with the ewes, and would be here early next month.”
“Well, then, I’ll cut my stick; you won’t want the pair of us, and I’m not much to do with sheep, except putting the dogs on old Boxall’s whenever I’ve caught ’em over their boundary. You’ll have to watch him, if you get mixed, or you’ll come short.”
“Every sheep of mine will be legibly fire-branded,” said Jack, with a certain pride; “there’s no getting over that, you know.”
“He’ll fire-brand too,” said Hawkesbury, “in the same place, quick. And as his ear-mark’s a close crop, and he’s not particular what ear, his shepherds might easy make any stray lots uncommon like their own.”
“By Jove!” said Jack, rather startled at the new light thrown on sheep management on the Warroo. “However M‘Nab will see to that; he’s not an easy man to get round, they say. Then, would you really prefer to leave? If so, I’ll make out your account.”
“If you please, Mr. Redgrave. I’ve been up here five years now; so I think I’ll go down the country, and see my people for a bit of change. It don’t do to stay in these parts too long at a time, unless a man wants to turn into a black fellow or a lushington.”
On the very day mentioned in his latest despatch, Mr. M‘Nab arrived with his ten thousand ewes; and a very good lot they were – in excellent condition too. He had nosed out an unfrequented back track, where the feed was unspoiled by those marauding bands of “condottieri,” travelling sheep. Water had been plentiful, so that the bold stroke was successful. Pitching his tent in a sheltered spot, he sat up half the night busy with pen and pencil, and by breakfast time had every account made out, and all his supernumeraries ready to be paid off. The expenses of the journey, with a tabulated statement showing the exact cost per sheep of the expedition, were also upon a separate sheet of paper handed up to his employer.
From this time forth all went on with unslackening and successful progress. M‘Nab was in his glory, and went forth rejoicing each day, planning, calculating, ordering, and arranging to his heart’s content. The out-stations were chosen, the flocks drafted and apportioned, a ration-carrier selected, bush-yards made, while, simultaneously, the cottage walls began to arise on Steamboat Point, and the site of the wool-shed, on a plain bordering an ana-branch sufficient for water, but too inconsiderable for flood, was, after careful consideration, finally decided upon. The season was very favourable; rain fell seasonably and plentifully; grass was abundant, and the sheep fattened up “hand over hand” without a suspicion of foot-rot, or any of the long train of ailments which the fascinating, profitable, but too susceptible merino so often affects.
The more Jack saw of his new manager the more he liked and respected him. He felt almost humiliated as he noted his perfect mastery of every detail connected with station (i. e. sheep) management, his energy, his forecast, his rapid and easy arrangement of a hundred jarring details, and reflected that he had purchased the invaluable services of this gifted personage for so moderate a consideration.
“We shall not have time to get up a decent wool-shed this year, Mr. Redgrave,” he said, at one of their first councils. “We must have a good, substantial store, as it won’t do to have things of value lying about. A small room alongside will do for me till we get near shearing. We must knock up a temporary shed with hurdles and calico, and wash the best way we can in the creek. Next year we can go in for spouts, and all the rest of it, and I hope we’ll be able to shear in such a shed as the Warroo has never seen yet.”
“It’s a good while to Christmas,” said Jack. “How about the shed if we put more men on? I don’t like make-shifts.”
“Couldn’t possibly be done in the time,” answered Mr. M‘Nab, with prompt decision. “Lambing will keep us pretty busy for two months. We must have shearing over by October, or all this clover-burr that I see about will be in the wool, and out of your pocket to the tune of about threepence a pound. Besides, these sawyers and bush-carpenters can’t be depended upon. They might leave us in the lurch, and then we should neither have one thing nor the other.”
“Very well,” said Jack, “I leave that part of it to you.”
All Mr. M‘Nab’s plans and prophecies had a fashion of succeeding, and verifying themselves to the letter. Apparently he forgot nothing, superintended everything, trusted nobody, and coerced, persuaded, and placed everybody like pawns on a chess-board. His temper was wonderfully under command; he never bullied his underlings, but had a way of assuring them that he was afraid they wouldn’t get on together, supplemented on continued disapproval by a calm order to come in and get their cheque. This system was found to be efficacious. He always kept a spare hand or two, and was thereby enabled to fill up the place of a deserter at a moment’s notice.
Thus, with the aid of M‘Nab and of a good season, John Redgrave, during the first year, prospered exceedingly. His sheep had a capital increase, and nearly eight thousand gamesome, vigorous lambs followed their mothers to the wash-pool. The wool was got off clean, and wonderfully clear of dirt and seed; and just before shearing Mr. M‘Nab exhibited a specimen of his peculiar talents which also brought grist to the mill.
It happened in this wise: – Looking over the papers one evening he descried mention of a lot of store sheep then on their way to town, and on a line of road which would bring them near to Gondaree.
“This lot would suit us very well, Mr. Redgrave,” said he, looking up from his paper, and then taking a careful transcript in his pocket-book of their ages, numbers, and sexes. “Seven thousand altogether – five thousand four and six tooth wethers, with a couple of thousand ewes; if they are good-framed sheep, with decent fleeces, and the ewes not too old, they would pay well to buy on a six months’ bill. We could take the wool off and have them fat on these Bimbalong plains by the time the bill comes due.”
“How about seeing them?” quoth Jack; “they may be Queensland sheep, with wool about half an inch long. They often shear them late on purpose when they are going to start them on the road. ‘They’re a simple people,’ as Sam Slick says, those Queenslanders.”
“Of course I must see them,” answered M‘Nab. “I never buy a pig in a poke; but they will be within a hundred miles of us in a week, and I can ride across and see them, and find out their idea of price. Shearing is always an expensive business, and the same plant and hands will do for double our number of sheep, if we can get them at a price.”
M‘Nab carried out his intention, and, falling across the caravan in an accidental kind of way, extracted full particulars from the owner, a somewhat irascible old fellow, who was convoying in person. He returned with a favourable report. The sheep were good sheep; they had well-grown fleeces, rather coarse; but that did not matter with fattening sheep;