I stopped my horses and waited.He looked at me and I looked at him --hard.
Then he wheeled off,scowling,and swearing at his horses.
I'd given him a hiding,six or seven years before,and he hadn't forgotten it.
And I felt then as if I wouldn't mind trying to give some one a hiding.
The goods clerk must have thought that Joe Wilson was pretty grumpy that day.
I was thinking of Mary,out there in the lonely hut on a barren creek in the Bush --for it was little better --with no one to speak to except a haggard,worn-out Bushwoman or two,that came to see her on Sunday.
I thought of the hardships she went through in the first year --that I haven't told you about yet;of the time she was ill,and I away,and no one to understand;of the time she was alone with James and Jim sick;and of the loneliness she fought through out there.I thought of Mary,outside in the blazing heat,with an old print dress and a felt hat,and a pair of 'lastic-siders of mine on,doing the work of a station manager as well as that of a housewife and mother.And her cheeks were getting thin,and her colour was going:I thought of the gaunt,brick-brown,saw-file voiced,hopeless and spiritless Bushwomen I knew --and some of them not much older than Mary.
When I went back down into the town,I had a drink with Bill Galletly at the Royal,and that settled the buggy;then Bob shouted,and I took the harness.Then I shouted,to wet the bargain.
When I was going,Bob said,`Send in that young scamp of a brother of Mary's with the horses:if the collars don't fit I'll fix up a pair of makeshifts,and alter the others.'I thought they both gripped my hand harder than usual,but that might have been the beer.
IV.The Buggy Comes Home.
I `whipped the cat'a bit,the first twenty miles or so,but then,I thought,what did it matter?What was the use of grinding to save money until we were too old to enjoy it.If we had to go down in the world again,we might as well fall out of a buggy as out of a dray --there'd be some talk about it,anyway,and perhaps a little sympathy.
When Mary had the buggy she wouldn't be tied down so much to that wretched hole in the Bush;and the Sydney trips needn't be off either.
I could drive down to Wallerawang on the main line,where Mary had some people,and leave the buggy and horses there,and take the train to Sydney;or go right on,by the old coach-road,over the Blue Mountains:it would be a grand drive.
I thought best to tell Mary's sister at Gulgong about the buggy;I told her I'd keep it dark from Mary till the buggy came home.
She entered into the spirit of the thing,and said she'd give the world to be able to go out with the buggy,if only to see Mary open her eyes when she saw it;but she couldn't go,on account of a new baby she had.
I was rather glad she couldn't,for it would spoil the surprise a little,I thought.I wanted that all to myself.
I got home about sunset next day,and,after tea,when I'd finished telling Mary all the news,and a few lies as to why I didn't bring the cart back,and one or two other things,I sat with James,out on a log of the wood-heap,where we generally had our smokes and interviews,and told him all about the buggy.
He whistled,then he said --
`But what do you want to make it such a Bushranging business for?
Why can't you tell Mary now?It will cheer her up.She's been pretty miserable since you've been away this trip.'
`I want it to be a surprise,'I said.
`Well,I've got nothing to say against a surprise,out in a hole like this;but it 'ud take a lot to surprise me.What am I to say to Mary about taking the two horses in?I'll only want one to bring the cart out,and she's sure to ask.'
`Tell her you're going to get yours shod.'
`But he had a set of slippers only the other day.She knows as much about horses as we do.I don't mind telling a lie so long as a chap has only got to tell a straight lie and be done with it.
But Mary asks so many questions.'
`Well,drive the other horse up the creek early,and pick him up as you go.'
`Yes.And she'll want to know what I want with two bridles.
But I'll fix her --YOU needn't worry.'
`And,James,'I said,`get a chamois leather and sponge --we'll want 'em anyway --and you might give the buggy a wash down in the creek,coming home.It's sure to be covered with dust.'
`Oh!--orlright.'
`And if you can,time yourself to get here in the cool of the evening,or just about sunset.'
`What for?'
I'd thought it would be better to have the buggy there in the cool of the evening,when Mary would have time to get excited and get over it --better than in the blazing hot morning,when the sun rose as hot as at noon,and we'd have the long broiling day before us.
`What do you want me to come at sunset for?'asked James.`Do you want me to camp out in the scrub and turn up like a blooming sundowner?'
`Oh well,'I said,`get here at midnight if you like.'
We didn't say anything for a while --just sat and puffed at our pipes.
Then I said,--
`Well,what are you thinking about?'
I'm thinking it's time you got a new hat,the sun seems to get in through your old one too much,'and he got out of my reach and went to see about penning the calves.Before we turned in he said,--`Well,what am I to get out of the job,Joe?'
He had his eye on a double-barrel gun that Franca the gunsmith in Cudgeegong had --one barrel shot,and the other rifle;so I said,--`How much does Franca want for that gun?'
`Five-ten;but I think he'd take my single barrel off it.
Anyway,I can squeeze a couple of quid out of Phil Lambert for the single barrel.'(Phil was his bosom chum.)`All right,'I said.`Make the best bargain you can.'
He got his own breakfast and made an early start next morning,to get clear of any instructions or messages that Mary might have forgotten to give him overnight.He took his gun with him.
I'd always thought that a man was a fool who couldn't keep a secret from his wife --that there was something womanish about him.I found out.
