The days, after all, passed not so funereally by. The weather was utterly lovely. The wide plain was fanned by delicious wandering breezes. Mr. Neuchamp had ample time for philosophical contemplation, as long as he ‘kept up his side’ of the flock. If he became temporarily abstracted while musing upon the fact that the ancients travelled their stock for change of feed, probably doing a little grass stealing, when the season was dry—

the dog, Watch, would be sent round by his alert comrade to sweep in the spreading outsiders and warn him of his laches. Just before sundown one day the flocks were converging towards a line of timber suspiciously like a creek. The overseer rode up. He looked with approval upon the well-filled flock, now quietly feeding, and thus addressed Ernest—

‘Well, youngster, and how do you like shepherding?’

‘Pretty well,’ he answered; ‘it’s better than I expected.’

‘You and your mate seem to get on very well; the sheep look first-rate.’

‘Glad you think so. My mate is a person of experience, so is the dog. It isn’t hard to drive a flock of sheep, I find, with two good assistants.’

‘Well, I don’t suppose you’d have made much hand of them by yourself. However, a man’s a man when you’re travelling with sheep on a road like this. Don’t you listen to those other vagabonds, and you’ll make a smart chap by and by.’

‘Thank you,’ said Ernest; ‘I’ll try and keep as innocent as I can under the circumstances.’

The overseer rode off, puzzled as to whether the new hand was laughing at him or was ‘a shingle short.’ Slightly damaged people, whether from drink, disappointment, a lonely life, or the heat of the climate, were, unfortunately, not particularly scarce in the locality.

‘Whatever he is, he and that rowdy-looking card can keep their sheep and feed them first-rate,’ he said to himself, ‘and that’s all I’ve got to look out for. Perhaps the young one’s going jackerooing at Jedwood; if so, he has more sense than he looks to have.’ The month wore on with dreaminess and peace, so that Mr. Neuchamp began to think he would not be so unreasonably delighted to get to Garrandilla. Each day, soon after sunrise, they moved from camp at a pace extremely suitable to the thick coming fancies which filled the mind of Ernest Neuchamp during the first hours of the untarnished day. There was the glorious undisturbed sun, with autumnal tempered beams. On such endless plains Chaldean and Israelitish shepherds, in the world’s youth, had travelled or held vigil. No vast awe-striking ruins lay on these great solitudes. No temple eloquent of the elder races of the earth. But the stars burned by night in the all-cloudless dark blue dome as they sat in nominal watch, and Ernest mused of the silent kings of this mysterious human life, changeless destiny, till the morning star seemed to approach his solitary couch, as did that lonely orb which held converse with Morven, the son of Ossian.

In the daily round of guiding and pasturing he learned much of the complex nature of the under-rated intelligence of the sheep. His companion, Mr. Jack Windsor, had cultivated a habit of observation, and knew, as gradually appeared, something, not always a little, of everything rural.

‘Rum things sheep, sir,’ he would remark, as he commanded Watch to abstain from troubling and signalled Mr. Neuchamp to come on to his side; ‘I always see a deal of likeness to the women about ’em. If they don’t want to do a thing you can’t drive ’em to it. No, not all the men and dogs in the country. If you want ’em to do anything particular, pretend you don’t wish ’em to do nothin’ of the sort. Give ‘em lots of fair play, that’s another good rule, same as women. When it comes to anything out-and-out serious, act determined, and let them have it, right down heeling, and all the fight you’re master of.’

As it was from time to time pointed out, when principles and admonitions came into play, Ernest was enabled to comprehend the many ways in which stock can be benefited when travelling by discreet and careful feeding, halting, watering, and humouring. So that he actually possessed himself of an amount of practical knowledge with which a year’s ordinary station life might not have provided him. As for the rest of the men, his easy, unassuming equality of manner had rendered him personally a favourite with them. They held that a fair fight settled everything, without appeal, and having come to the conclusion that Mr. Neuchamp was a swell, presumably with money, travelling with sheep for his amusement—incomprehensible as was that idea to them—they felt that he was in a kind of way Jack Windsor’s property, who was likely to be pecuniarily benefited during the stage of Mr. Neuchamp’s softness and inexperience. Hence he was in his right to do battle for him. They would have done the same had they similar golden hopes. And now the matter being over, and ‘Bouncing Bob’ relegated to a ‘back seat’ as wit and occasional bully of the camp, they held, after the English fashion, that the discussion could not be reopened. So all was peace and harmony.

One day, as they were sleepily voyaging over the grass ocean, Jack Windsor, who had gone out of his way to look at a man leading a horse, returned with exciting news. The horse aforesaid was young, and in his opinion a great beauty—‘a regular out-and-outer,’ was the expression—and, by great chance, for sale. ‘Would Mr. Neuchamp like to buy him? If he wanted a horse at Garrandilla, he could not do a better thing.’

‘When you get there, sir, of course you’ll want a hack. There’ll be no more walking, I’ll be bound. You’ll have messages to carry, boundary riding to do, cattle-driving, getting in the horses—all sorts of fast work. Well, either they’ll give you a stiff-legged old screw, that’ll fall down and break your neck some day, or a green half-broken young one that’ll half kill you another road. I know the sort of horses the young gentlemen get at a station where a man like Mr. Jedwood’s the boss.’

‘Very well, what does he want for the colt? Is he a very good one?’

‘I haven’t seen his equal for years; don’t know as I ever saw a better. Why he’s fool enough to sell him I can’t tell. But it’s all square. I know the man, and where his run is; you’d better go over and see him.’

‘So I will; but how can he be kept or broken in?’

‘I’ll break him; I can rough-ride a bit, and will put him among the other horses and short-hobble him.’

Accordingly Ernest went over and saw a noble, good-tempered-looking dark gray colt. He had a large full eye, black mane, legs, and tail, with a shoulder noticeable even amid the rounded proportions of colthood.

‘So this young horse is for sale?’ he said inquiringly of a middle-aged stout man, like enough to be a brother to their own overseer.

‘Yes!’ said the man, pulling at the halter, which had galled the colt’s under jaw. ‘I started to take him down to the lower station, and he’s such a brute to lead that he has nearly pulled me off more than once. I won’t lead him a step farther if we can deal.’

‘What will you take for him?’ asked Ernest.

‘Well,’ said the stranger, ‘I believe he’s a real good ‘un, though he’s never been backed yet. I don’t know or care much about horses myself; they’re useless brutes, and eat more grass than they are worth. I’ll take ten pounds for him.’

‘Very well,’ said Ernest, ‘he’s mine at that price, and I will send a man over with the money, if you will deliver the horse to him.’

Jack Windsor was overjoyed to hear that the colt was actually bought.

‘I can break him easy enough,’ he said, with all the eagerness of a schoolboy. ‘He is half handled now, and it will be easy for me to back him.’

‘But how shall we keep him till we get to Garrandilla?’

‘Oh! I’ll square it with the chap that looks after the spare horses; there’s a mare with them as he’ll likely take to. He can’t get away far in hobbles anyhow.’

So Jack being sent off with the whole of Mr. Neuchamp’s remaining capital, in half an hour returned with the colt at the end of a long halter, and a properly witnessed receipt from John Williams of Boro, which he handed to Ernest.

‘I made him draw out a receipt, all regular, and get the nearest man I could cooey to, to sign it. There’s no knowing but somebody might claim the colt without this—say you’d worked him on the cross. There’s nothing like being safe with a good horse like this.’

Mr. Neuchamp was pleased with his purchase, which he immediately christened ‘Osmund,’ after an old hunter with a favourite family name at Neuchampstead.

‘I’ll do nothing but handle him to-day,’ said Windsor; ‘to-morrow I’ll get a spare saddle and bridle, and will tackle him.’

‘Good gracious!’ said Ernest, ‘is that the way you break horses in this country? Have you no cavesson, or breaking-bit, or web surcingle?’

‘All them’s very well when you’ve got ’em,’ said Mr. Windsor; ‘but they don’t have saddlers’ shops on the plains, and if a man can ride he can do without ‘em, and do justice to his horse too.’

So next day Jack procured an old bridle and saddle, the bit belonging to which he carefully wrapped round with rag, thinly increasing its bulk and rendering it fit for ‘mouthing’ or slightly bruising, without cutting, the corners of the lips of a young horse. This and the saddle, by means of patience and persuasion, he managed to get fairly placed and buckled upon Osmund, who objected a little, but finally marched along not very much alarmed by his novel accoutrements. All this time the sheep-driving was efficiently conducted by Mr. Neuchamp and the dog Watch, who amply justified the anticipations indulged in by Mr. Windsor at the time of his purchase.

In about another week they expected to arrive at Garrandilla, when the curtain would rise on the first act of the drama of Colonial Experience, with Mr. E. Neuchamp in the rÔle of first gentleman.

Two or three days only had passed when Jack Windsor announced to Mr. Neuchamp that the colt was quite quiet enough to back, and that he would perform the ceremony that very morning, as soon as the sheep were steadied to their first feed.

‘Back him, now!’ exclaimed Ernest in tones of horror, ‘why, he cannot be nearly mouthed.’

‘Oh yes, he is,’ assented Mr. Windsor, playfully pressing against the bit and causing Osmund to retrograde; ‘he’s got mouth enough for anything, and between leading and hobbling he’s steady enough to make a wheeler in a coach. When I have finished you won’t find fault with him for not being steady, I’ll be bound. Just you stand close to his shoulder, and hold him while I get up.’

Ernest, though much mistrusting the preliminary instruction of a week’s leading, and the simple addition of a bridle and saddle as being sufficient to take the place of all the two months’ lunging, belting, cavessoning, driving, dressing, which had been the invariable curriculum of the colts at Neuchampstead, deferred to his follower’s opinion.

‘I don’t think he’s got any bucking in him,’ he said; ‘he carries his head too high for that, and his mouth’s that tight, I could pull him on to his tail if he tried any tricks. He’s a bit frightened, and when he’s got over that he’ll go like an old horse.’

‘I should say that buckjumping was produced in this country by bad breaking,’ said Mr. Neuchamp oracularly. ‘It all depends upon how a horse is treated.’

‘Don’t you believe it, sir. Bucking is like other vices. Runs in the blood. I’ve seen horses that had twice and three times the time taken over ’em that this colt has, and by good grooms too, in good stables, and they’d buck, and buck too till they’d half kill themselves, or you. And as for a stranger, they’d eat him.’

‘And how do you account for that?’ asked Mr. Neuchamp. ‘Why should one horse be free from that particular vice, and another with the same amount, or even more handling, be unmanageable from it?’

‘Why do boys at the same school turn out different? It depends upon the families they come off. So it is with the horses. One strain will be reg’lar cannibals, no matter how steady you are with ’em; the others you can catch and ride away, and they’ll be as quiet as lambs, and yet game all the time, as I believe this one of ours is.’

As he spoke he touched the colt’s side, and he moved off after the sheep in a steady and confident manner, more like an old horse than a young one. He occasionally stopped and sidled, or indulged in a playful plunge or kick. Of course these little irregularities were only amusing to Mr. Windsor, who was in truth a matchless rough-rider, and wellnigh impossible to be thrown by horses of good family or bad. By the end of the day Osmund was apparently as quiet as a trooper, and when unsaddled and turned out seemed quite at home with the cart-horses.

‘Now,’ said Mr. Windsor, as they sat at their evening meal, ‘you’ve got, sir, what everybody is always a-talkin’ about and never seems to get, an out-and-out good hack, fast and easy and well bred, and a stunner to look at. I’ll forfeit my month’s wages if he ain’t a sticker, as well. These quiet ones are just as game as the savages, and indeed more so, in my opinion, because they can eat and rest themselves better. And I wouldn’t sell him, if I was you, if I was offered double what you gave for him.’

‘I don’t think I will,’ said Ernest; ‘but surely good horses are easily picked up in this country, if one is a fair judge. There must be such thousands upon thousands.’

‘So there are,’ replied the Australian, ‘but we might be gray before you dropped on another nag like this, ‘specially for ten notes. Look at his shoulder, how it goes back; see what loins he has; good ribs; with out-and-out legs and feet. He’s more than three-parts bred; and if he don’t gallop and jump a bit I’m much deceived. He’s a bottler, that’s what he is; and if you ever go for to sell him, you’ll be sorry for it.’

‘Well, I don’t think I will, Jack,’ asserted Mr. Neuchamp. ‘I shall always want a horse while I’m in the country, and I think I shall make a pet of this one.’

For the remaining days, before the ‘reporter’ entered the Garrandilla gate, to give legal notice of the invading army of fleece-bearing locusts, Osmund was ridden daily, and became more docile and obedient to the manÈge day by day.

As the long lines of sheep, flock after flock, fed up and finally mingled at the Garrandilla gate, a big man, with a distinctly northern face, rode up on a powerful horse and looked keenly at the array of sheep, horses, men, and dogs.

‘Where’s the person in charge?’ he asked of one of the shepherds.

‘I believe he has gone to the township,’ said the man; ‘he’ll be here to-night.’

‘Have you seen anything of a young gentleman coming up to my station? I am Mr. Jedwood.’

‘Not that I know of. There’s two chaps with that last flock, one of ’em’s a “new chum.”’

Mr. Jedwood rode down to the flock indicated, and there discovered Mr. Neuchamp in the act of eating a piece of boiled corned mutton, and looking around in an unsatisfied manner, as if anxious for more.

‘You are Mr. Neuchamp, I think, a gentleman introduced by letter to me by my old friend Paul Frankston?’

‘The same,’ said Ernest, putting down his damper and mutton carefully and standing up. ‘I intended to present myself to-morrow morning, after being settled with.’

‘Settled with?’ said Jedwood, in a tone of astonishment. ‘You don’t mean to say you’ve really hired yourself to drive travelling sheep! Not but it’s a sensible thing enough to do; still you’re the first “colonial experience” young fellow that it ever occurred to within my knowledge.’

‘I had reasons for it, which can be better explained by and by,’ answered Ernest. ‘In the meantime, there is a travelling companion of mine whom I should feel obliged if you could employ at Garrandilla. Jack, come here!’

Mr. Jedwood looked keenly at the ingenuous countenance of Mr. Jack Windsor, and then, after suffering his eye to fall approvingly upon his athletic frame, said—

‘There’s always employment at Garrandilla for men that know how to work, and are not afraid to put out their strength. What can you do, young man?’

‘Well, most things,’ answered the Australian, with quiet confidence; ‘fence, split, milk, drive bullocks, stock-keep, plough, make dams, build huts; I’m not particular, till August, then I’m a shearer.’

‘Can you break horses?’ asked the squatter, ‘for I have a lot of colts I want badly to put to work, and I can’t get a decent man to handle them.’

‘I can break horses with here and there one,’ responded this accomplished new-world labourer. ‘Mr. Neuchamp and I finished one as we come along, didn’t we, sir?’

‘You did, and wonderfully well and quickly, too,’ assented Ernest. ‘I had nothing to do but to hold him. I think I can give my personal guarantee, Mr. Jedwood, if you think it of any value, that Jack can tame any horse in the land.’

‘Then you can come up to-morrow with Mr. Neuchamp,’ said the squatter, ‘and I’ll hire you till shearing. Shall I send a horse for you?’ he added, addressing Ernest.

‘No, thanks, I have my own here; I’ll ride him up.’

‘You seem to be pretty well provided for a new arrival,’ said the proprietor good-humouredly. ‘What with your wages in hand, a horse, a man, and a month’s character as a travelling drover, you have not wasted your time much, though old Paul seemed quite anxious about you, and wrote several letters.’

On the following morning Mr. Neuchamp had a short interview with his master, the overseer, who was in high good humour, having secured two hands in their place at the township aforesaid, one of them a shepherd, most fortunately, at the right (i.e. the concluding) end of his cheque.

‘Well, you’re going to leave us, I suppose, just as you’re getting used to the sheep; but I can’t complain, as you gave me fair notice. You’ve been a month, that makes five pounds each. Here’s your money, lads,’ with which he tendered a five-pound cheque to each of them. ‘Good-day to you, and good luck.’

‘Good-morning. You have my best wishes,’ said Ernest, making a bow which quite overwhelmed the overseer.

‘Here you are, Jack,’ said Mr. Neuchamp, as soon as the man of sheep had departed; ‘I always intended you to have my share of the profits of this droving transaction.’

‘That be hanged for a yarn! I beg your pardon. I mean, I couldn’t think of taking it, sir.’ And Jack’s face really assumed a most unwonted expression—that of genuine diffidence and modesty.

‘But you must,’ said Ernest imperatively; ‘you must take it, in payment for the discovery and breaking of Osmund, besides you will want a fit-out in clothing and other things.’ So he cast the cheque at his feet.

‘Well, if I must, I must,’ said Mr. Windsor reluctantly. ‘It’s a good while since I was as rich as this, and all on the square, too; that’s what gets me. Never mind, sir, if we both live you’ll get over-value for this bit o’ paper some day.’

It was now time to make tracks for Garrandilla. Ernest did not see any road, or know the precise line of country, but Mr. Windsor taking the matter in hand, they soon found themselves in front of a very small slab cottage, standing solemnly alone, at the rear of which, however, were huts, sheds, farm buildings, and haystacks, in such number and abundance that Ernest thought they must have fallen upon the township by mistake.

Mr. Jedwood, however, appeared at the door, and walking out to meet them, told Windsor to betake himself to the stables, and to remain there until he came out to see him, to feed the horse, and to inquire of the groom, who would inform him where he could feed himself. He then invited Ernest to follow him into the house.

‘I am glad to find that you have turned up at last,’ said his host; ‘not that, of course, never having seen you, I should have grieved overmuch myself if you hadn’t, but poor old Paul seemed so anxious that, for his sake, I began to feel an interest in you. If you will walk this way I will show you your room in the barracks—there is a pile of letters for you.’

Ernest felt really pleased to be placed in possession once more of any sort of bedroom, and proceeded to render himself presentable to general society. After these necessary changes had been accomplished, he commenced to look over his letters, of which there were—AmericanicÉ—‘quite a number.’

First of all he opened one in the bluff characters of Mr. Frankston, bold, and easily read, as the true heart of the writer. It ran thus:—

My dear Boy—What, in the name of all the rocks and shoals between the Sow and Pigs and Maafu Reef, are you cruising about so long before turning up at Garrandilla? Is the reason masculine, feminine, or neuter? By the bye, Charley Carryall was here the other day. Told me some first-rate yarns—sorry you weren’t at Morahmee to hear ‘em. Well, but why haven’t you fetched your whaling-ground—I mean your run—yet?

Antonia was in a great way when she saw the telegram, in the Evening Times, that you had been apprehended and locked up for keeping company with ’another prisoner.’ Ha, ha, ha! Can’t help it, couldn’t really! She kept picturing you in a dungeon, and all the rest of it. I said that you would enjoy it for a day or two, during the hot weather. What do you think about walking? Have you got a horse yet? We are all very middling. Couldn’t you square it with Jedwood to come down at Christmas? There’s not much work doing then anywhere. The verandah at Morahmee won’t be half a bad place about that time, if it’s as hot as it was last year. I saw Hartley Selmore the other day. He sold Gammon Downs to a young fellow, just out. My head clerk is rather a queer old character.

‘Ah! sir,’ he said, ‘don’t you think Mr. Selmore will go to hell for selling such a place to that poor young gentleman?’

‘Really I don’t know,’ I answered; ‘there always seems a sufficient supply of young fellows with a little money and no brains. If they were not gobbled up by the Selmores, some other big fish would be sure to have them.’

However, Antonia said Hartley was a cold-blooded rascal, and I was nearly as bad for making light of his villainy. So I did not take much by my joke.

Stock has fallen since you left town, and will fall more yet if the war does not come to an end, and this very dry season. So your money is all the safer in the bank. Don’t on any account invest without consulting me. Work as hard as you like, but don’t get sunstroke. Avoid brandy and water; and when you’re very tired of wool and bullocks, see if you can’t find the road to Morahmee again. Remember me to our Jedwood. He’ll keep you up to the mark, unless he’s altered.—Your old friend,

Paul Frankston.