Arthur Upfield - Sands of Windee

“Ah yes, that is so,” admitted the little priest. “What a pity it is that the poor things have to be shot!”

“I agree. Sometimes I regard myself as a murderer. It wouldn’t be so bad if there was any sport in getting them, any equality between them and the hunter.”

“Sport!” ejaculated Dot from the rear. “There is no real sport in anykindahuntin ’. There’s gents go a-huntin’ elephants with big-bore rifles wot represents hundreds of thousands of dollars in experimenting and plant to make ’em; and there’shuntin ’ in England where thousands of pounds are spent onhossflesh anddorgs to chase a poor little mangy fox. An’ they callstheirselves sportsmen! The feller I calculate is a sportsman is like a cousin of mine. ’Imand some of his pals were sitting over a camp fire one night in oleArizonee, when a mountain lion shoves ’is head out of aclos’t -by bush, and my cousin, ’e says, calm like: ‘Hey, Ted, here’s a lion. Lend usyer tobacco-knife.’”

Dot raised chuckles all round. The sergeant was interested enough to inquire what happened next.

“Waal, my cousin ’e up andorf afterthet lion full of beans; but the lion seed him a-comin’, and was so surprised attakin ’ a bird’s-eye view at a human without a gun that ’e skedaddled into Wyoming.”

“Your cousin must have been a character,” young Jeff laughed. He was recovering rapidly from his liver complaint.

“He wasthet, you bet!” Dot admitted, vainly trying to roll a cigarette. “A bit casual like in his ways, though. Killed four fellers in various arguments, and ended by committing suicide.”

“Oh! How did he do that?” inquired Father Ryan.

“Waal, yer reverence, it was like this ’ere,” Dot explained without blinking an eyelid. “As I said, me cousin was terrible casual. Itcome on slow like, his casualness. An’ then one day ’e was too casual on the draw. He sure was. He wasthet casual andthet full of holesthet ’e never even said, ‘So long!’ ”

Nature and the Rabbit

OF THE HANDS at Windee, only three did not intend to go to the tin-kettling: Mr Roberts, who was overwhelmed by work; the cook, Alf the Nark (so-called because of his chronic temper); and Bony, who, not having met the Fosters, did not consider himself entitled to be present. The men’s quarters during the afternoon were a scene of great preparation, for Harry Foster was a popular overseer, and they intended honouring his bride and him by wearing their best clothes. They borrowed a flat-iron from Mrs Poulton, the “Government House” cook, and Ron, the Englishman, was kept ironing shirts and soft collars for an hour or more.

Sergeant Morris spent the afternoon with Father Ryan and the twoStantons in an easy-chair on the wide veranda of the big house. From where he sat he could see the men’s quarters, but throughout the afternoon failed to see Bony, with whom he badly wanted to speak. To preserve the detective’s incognito he decided against seeking him out too openly, and waited to see him before making an excuse to leave the house.

Marion and Mrs Poulton brought them tea about three o’clock, and when they arranged the things on a side-table Father Ryan could not but applaud the fact that the snobbery of wealth was entirely absent from themenage. In truth, Mrs Poulton, fat, small, greying, and sixty, was far more a companion-housekeeper than a kitchen cook. She had entered the service of the late Mrs Stanton shortly after Marion was born, and when Mrs Stanton died she undertook the whole of the house-work, the care of the children, and the domestic management of Jeff Stanton. The boss of Windee owed her a debt that he recognized he could never repay.

Mrs Poulton was dressed in her Sunday black, wearing stiff linen cuffs on her wrists and an enormous cameo brooch at the throat of her high-collared bodice. Marion wore a frock of pinkcharmeuse, and the kindly old priest felt whilst watching her that indescribable glow of content which is felt under such circumstances by a lover of beautiful things after having lived for years in the harsh ugliness of a prison-or a decaying Australian bush town.

As for Sergeant Morris, Mount Lion and a district as large as Wales claimed all his interest as policeman and administrator. In his odd or spare time he was a registrar of births and deaths, and married or buried Protestants if they preferred his unordained services to the ordained services of a Roman Catholic priest. These latter duties, however, were not onerous, since the whole of the people under his jurisdiction could have occupied quite comfortably the Government benches in the House of Commons.

The secret of Father Ryan’s wide popularity rested on the fact that first and foremost he was a very human, sympathetic man. His calling never obtruded. A product ofMaynooth, Ireland, he shed his political enthusiasms entirely and moulded his religious tenets in conformity with the conditions and the outlook of his parishioners and friends.

Dinner had been served at one o’clock that day, and after tea taken at half-past six he went with Jeff Stanton to watch the men leave for Nullawil. The two-ton trucks were drawn up outside the men’s quarters, and when the two men joined the throng of hands arranging their own seating accommodation, Father Ryan was warmly greeted.

“I want you to pile on to Ron’s truck,” Jeff told them; and then, addressing himself to the driver of the second truck, went on: “Keep behind Ron and pick up the outside men who have centred at Range Hut. Both of you stop at the night-paddock gate this side of Nullawil, and wait for me. Have you got plenty of petrol-tins?”

They assured him with grins that they had, and a few seconds later the trucks pulled out on the eighty-mile journey. They watched the dust rise behind them and listened to the shouts and laughter ever growing fainter in the wonderful still air of early evening.

“They won’t be shouting to-morrow,” Jeff observed grimly, when he and the padre turned towards the house. “Not one of us will do a hand’s turn. I’ll be paying out wages for nothing and spending money on seventy gallons of petrol and several gallons of oil.”

“ ’Tisyourself should admit that the smiles and laughterye’ve seen and heard this day are sufficient payment.”

“Perhaps I should. Father,” owned Jeff with twinkling eyes. “They’re good lads when treated as men, as I have always treated ’em. You’ve got to give me credit there.”

“Indeed I do, Jeff,” the little priest said, giving his companion a sly dig in the ribs with his elbow. “I give you credit, too, with having a little more intelligence than most employers. In that you are one with Mr Henry Ford. You never suffer strikes because you do treat your hands as men, and you are both millionaires. Why, here comes Miss Marion in trouble.”

“Dad, why isn’t Bony going?” she inquired.

“Not gone? By gad, I don’t remember seeing him go on the trucks, now you mention it!”

“No, there he is coming across from the horse-yards. Ask him, Dad! He could come with us. I’m sure he would like to go.”

Stanton, turning, saw Bony, and throwing back his head, roared in a voice almost to be heard in Mount Lion.

“Dad!”Marion cried reproachfully.

“Well, you don’t expect me to go gallivanting after a nig, do you?” Jeff demanded.

Marion made no comment, but smiled at Father Ryan’s smile. The three awaited the approach of the half-caste, and when he had doffed his hat to Marion, Jeff said in his loud gruff voice:

“Why-in-hellain’t you gone to the tin-kettling?”

“Well, as I am not acquainted with the overseer and his bride, I thought it would be presumptuous to go,” Bony quietly explained.