Robbery Under Arms - Rolf Boldrewood (most important books of all time .TXT) 📗

When we came in at night old mother used to look that pleased and happy we couldn’t help feeling better in our hearts. Aileen used to read something out of the paper that she thought might amuse us. I could read pretty fair, and so could Jim; but we were both lazy at it, and after working pretty hard all day didn’t so much care about spelling out the long words in the farming news or the stories they put in. All the same, it would have paid us better if we’d read a little more and put the bullocking on one side, at odd times. A man can learn as much out of a book or a paper sometimes in an hour as will save his work for a week, or put him up to working to better purpose. I can see that now⁠—too late, and more’s the pity.

Anyhow, Aileen could read pretty near as fast as anyone I ever saw, and she used to reel it out for us, as we sat smoking over the fire, in a way that kept us jolly and laughing till it was nearly turning-in time. Now and then George Storefield would come and stay an hour or two. He could read well; nearly as well as she could. Then he had always something to show her that she’d been asking about. His place was eight miles off, but he’d always get his horse and go home, whatever the night was like.

“I must be at my work in the morning,” he’d say; “it’s more than half a day gone if you lose that, and I’ve no half-days to spare, or quarter-days either.”

So we all got on first-rate, and anybody would have thought that there wasn’t a more steady-going, hardworking, happy family in the colony. No more there wasn’t, while it lasted. After all, what is there that’s half as good as being all right and square, working hard for the food you eat, and the sleep you enjoy, able to look all the world in the face, and afraid of nothing and nobody!

We were so quiet and comfortable till the winter was over and the spring coming on, till about September, that I almost began to believe we’d never done anything in our lives we could be made to suffer for.

Now and then, of course, I used to wake up in the night, and my thoughts would go back to “Terrible Hollow,” that wonderful place; and one night with the unbranded cattle, and Starlight, with the blood dripping on to his horse’s shoulder, and the half-caste, with his hawk’s eye and glittering teeth⁠—father, with his gloomy face and dark words. I wondered whether it was all a dream; whether I and Jim had been in at all; whether any of the cross-work had been found out; and, if so, what would be done to me and Jim; most of all, though, whether father and Starlight were away after some big touch; and, if so, where and what it was, and how soon we should hear of it.

As for Jim, he was one of those happy-go-lucky fellows that didn’t bother himself about anything he didn’t see or run against. I don’t think it ever troubled him. It was the only bad thing he’d ever been in. He’d been drawn in against his will, and I think he had made up his mind⁠—pretty nearly⁠—not to go in for any more.

I have often seen Aileen talking to him, and they’d walk along in the evening when the work was done⁠—he with his arm round her waist, and she looking at him with that quiet, pleased face of hers, seeming so proud and fond of him, as if he’d been the little chap she used to lead about and put on the old pony, and bring into the calf-pen when she was milking. I remember he had a fight with a little bull-calf, about a week old, that came in with a wild heifer, and Aileen made as much of his pluck as if it had been a mallee scrubber. The calf baaed and butted at Jim, as even the youngest of them will, if they’ve the wild blood in ’em, and nearly upset him; he was only a bit of a toddler. But Jim picked up a loose leg of a milking-stool, and the two went at it hammer and tongs. I could hardly stand for laughing, till the calf gave him best and walked.

Aileen pulled him out, and carried him in to mother, telling her that he was the bravest little chap in the world; and I remember I got scolded for not going to help him. How these little things come back!

“I’m beginning to be afraid,” says George, one evening, “that it’s going to be a dry season.”

“There’s plenty of time yet,” says Jim, who always took the bright side of things; “it might rain towards the end of the month.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” I said. “We haven’t had any rain to speak of for a couple of months, and that bit of wheat of ours is beginning to go back. The oats look better.”

“Now I think of it,” put in Jim, “Dick Dawson came in from outside, and he said things are shocking bad; all the frontage bare already, and the water drying up.”

“It’s always the way,” I said, bitter-like. “As soon as a poor man’s got a chance of a decent crop, the season turns against him or prices go down, so that he never gets a chance.”

“It’s as bad for the rich man, isn’t it?” said George. “It’s God’s will, and we can’t make or mend things by complaining.”

“I don’t know so much about that,” I said sullenly. “But it’s not as bad for the rich man. Even if the squatters suffer by a drought and lose their stock, they’ve more stock and money in the bank, or else credit to fall back on; while