Bush Studies by Barbara Baynton Read Free Book Online Page A

ewe. He carried the lamb outside, for he would not finger-suckle it that night before Waterloo.
    From his bunk-head he took an axe, cut in two a myall log, and brought in half. He threw it on the fire for a back-log, first scraping the live coals and ashes to a heap for his damper.
    He filled and trimmed his slush-lamp, and from a series of flat pockets hanging on the wall he took thread, needle, and beeswax. He hung a white cloth in a way that defined the eye of the needle which he held at long range; but vary as he would from long to longest the thread remained in one hand, the needle in the other. Needle, thread, light, everything was wrong, he told War. “’Es fer me, thenk a Lord I ken see an’ year’s well’s ever I could. Ehm, War! See any change?” War said there had been no change observable to him. “There ain’t no change in you neither, War!” he said in gratitude to the grizzled old dog. But he felt that War had been disappointed at his failure, and he promised that he would rise betimes tomorrow and sew on the button by daylight.
    â€œNever mind, War; like ter see ’em after supper?” Comradeship was never by speech better demonstrated.
    From the middle beam the old man untied two bags. Boiled mutton was in one, and the heel of a damper in another.
    â€œNo blowey carn’t get in there, eh?” the dog looked at the meat uncritically, but critically noted the resting place of two disturbed “bloweys”.
    â€œNo bones!” He had taken great care to omit them. “Neow!” As ever, War took his word; he caught and swallowed instantly several pieces flung to him. At the finish his masters “Eny?” referred to bones. War’s grateful eyes twinkled, “Not a one.” “Never is neow!” had reference to a trouble War had had with one long ago.
    It was now time for his own supper, but after a few attempts he shirked it. “Blest if I evven fergot t’bile th’ billy; funny ef me t’ ferget!” He held his head for a moment, then filled the billy, and in a strange uncertainty went towards and from the fire with it, and in the end War thought there was no sense at all in putting it so far from the blaze when it had to boil.
    â€œTell yer wot, War, w’ile it biles us’ll count ’em. Gimme appertite, ehm, War?”
    War thought “countin’ ’em” was the tonic. Then together they closed the door, spread a kangaroo-skin on the floor, and put the slush-lamp where the light fell on it. The man sat down, so did War, took off his belt, turned it carefully, tenderly, and opened his knife to cut the stitching. This was a tedious process, for it was wax thread, and had been crossed and recrossed. Then came the chink of the coins falling. The old man counted each as it rolled out, and the dog tallied with a paw.
    â€œNo more?” Certainly more, said War. A jerk, tenderly calculated, brought another among the seductive heap.
    â€œAll?” no—still the upraised paw. The old man chuckled.
    â€œOle ’en gets more b’ scratchin’.” This was the dog’s opinion, and a series of little undulations produced another, and after still further shaking, yet another.
    War was asked with ridiculous insincerity, “All?” and with ridiculous sincerity his solemn eyes and dropped paw said “All”. Then there was the honest count straight through, next the side show with its pretence of “disrememberin’”, or doubts as to the number—doubts never laid except by a double count. In the first, so intent was the man, that he forgot his mate; though his relief in being good friends again had made him ignore his fear.
    But the dog had heard an outside sound, and, moving to the door, waited for certainty. At this stage the man missed his mate’s eyes.
    He lay face downward, covering his treasure, when he realized that his friend was uneasy. And as