Such Is Life - Joseph Furphy (philippa perry book txt) 📗

pepper-follerin’ ahteh me ’osses hevery mo’nin’ afoot. Wet ’n’ droy; day hin, day heaout; tiew, three, foor heaours runnin’; ’n’ ’ey (horses) spankin’ abeaout, kickin’ oop ’er ’eels loike wun o’clock. ’Ed ter wark ’em deaoun afoot, loike.”

“But why didn’t you hobble them?”

His face reddened slightly. “Me ’obble my ’osses! Tell ’e wot, lad: ’at’s f’r w’y ’e C’lonian ’osses bean’t no good, aside o’ Hinglish ’osses. Ain’t got n’ moor g-ts ’n a snoipe. G-ts shooked outen ’em a-gallerpin’ in ’obbles. Tell ’e, Oi seed my (horses) a-gallerpin’ foor good heaours, ’n’ me ahteh ’em all ’e toime. Noo ’osses ’ud dure sich gallerpin’ in ’obbles. Doan’ ’e preach ’obbles ter me, lad. Oi got good ’osses; noo man betteh; ’osses fit f’r a gentleman; on’y C’lonian ’osses ’es C’lonian fau’ts⁠—ahd ter ketch⁠—’ell ter ketch. Fifteen monce⁠—hevery day on it⁠—wet ’n’ droy; day hin, day heaout; tiew, three, foor heaours runnin’; ’n’ ’ey (horses) spankin’ abeaout, kickin’ oop ’er ’eels loike wun o’clock, ’n’ gittin’ wuss ’n’ wuss, steed o’ betteh ’n’ betteh. Toimes, Oi see me a’moos’ losin’ tempeh.”

I turned away my face to conceal my emotion. Sollicker went on⁠—

“Accohdbl’, wun mo’nin’ las’ winteh, heaout Oi goos, o’ course; ’n’ my ’osses ’edn’t n’ moo ’rn stahted trampin’ loike; ’n’ heverythink quiet ’s zabbath, ’n’ nubbody abeout f’r moiles; ’n’ horf goos ’em ’osses loike billy-o; horf ’ey goos ’arf-ways reaoun’ ’he paddick, ’n’ inter ’e stockyaad ’n’ ’ere ’ey boides; ’n’ ’at dorg a-settin’ in ’e panel, a-watchin’ of ’em, loike Neaow, ’ow d’ye ceaount f’r ’at, lad? Doan’ ’at nonpulse ’e? Coomh!”

“It does, indeed! You didn’t put him on the horses?”

“Noa, s’elp me bob. Neveh clapped heyes honter ’im, not t’ Oi seed ’im hahteh my ’osses, a-yaadin’ of ’em f’r me. My Missus, she ’lows a hangel fetched ’e (dog) deaown f’m ebm! At’s w’y Oi calls ’m ‘Jack.’ ”

“I see!” said I admiringly. Which, the censorious reader will not fail to notice, marked a slight deflection from my moral code. “And he stayed with you, sir?”

“Follered hahteh me ’oss’s ’eels heveh since. (Dog) dews heverythink loike a Christian⁠—heverythink b’t tork. Hevery mo’nin’, hit’s ‘Cyows, Jack; we’s y’ cyows?’ An’ horf goos Jack, ’ees hown self, ’n’ fetches ’e cyows. Hahteh breakfas’ hit’s ’osses, Jack; fetch y’ ’osses’. An’ horf trots Jack, ’n’ presinkly ’e ’osses be in ’e yaad, ’n’ ’e (dog) a-settin’ in ’e panel, a-watchin’ of ’em.”

“Beats all!” I murmured, thinking how the Munchausens run in all shapes; then, desiring to minister occasion to this somewhat clumsy practitioner, I continued, “I suppose you drop across some whoppers of snakes in your rounds, sir?”

“Sceace none. Hain’t seed b’t wun f’r tiew year pas’; ’n’ ’e (reptile) wahn’t noo biggeh ’n me w’ip-an’l.”

“Grand horse you’re riding,” I remarked, after a pause.

This neatly-placed comment opened afresh Solicker’s well of English undefiled; and another hour passed pleasantly enough, except that Alf’s bullocks preyed on my mind, and I wanted them to prey on Yoongoolee instead. I therefore modestly opened my mouth in parable, recounting some half-dozen noteworthy reminiscences, as they occurred to my imagination, and always slightly or scornfully referring to the magnanimous and indomitable hero of my yarn as “one of these openhearted English fools,” or as “an ass of a John Bull that hadn’t sense enough to mind his own business.” These apologues all seemed to point toward chivalrous succour of the helpless and afflicted as a conspicuous weakness of the English character; and Sollicker listened with a stolid approbation unfortunately altogether objective in character.

I never dealt better since I was a man. No one has dealt better since Antony harangued the Sollickers of his day on dead Caesar’s behalf; but I differed from Antony so largely in result that the comparison is seriously disturbed. There was no more spring in my auditor than in a bag of sand. The honest fellow’s double-breasted ignorance stood solidly in the way, rendering prevarication or quibble, or any form of subterfuge unnecessary on his part. He merely formed himself into a hollow square and casually glanced at the impossibility of those particular bullocks loafing on his paddock. If they came across the river again, he would hunt them back into Mondunbarra⁠—he would do that much⁠—but Muster M’Intyre’s orders were orders. Two bullock drivers (here a truculent look came over the retainer’s face) had selected in sight of the very wool-shed; and now all working bullocks found loafing on the run were to be yarded at the station⁠—this lot being specially noticed, for Muster M’Intyre had a bit of a derry on Alf.

By way of changing the subject, Sollicker became confidential. He had been in his present employ ever since his arrival in the country, ten years before, and had never set foot outside the run during that time. He was married, three years ago come Boxing Day, to the station bullockdriver’s daughter; a girl who had been in service at the house, but couldn’t hit it with the missus. Muster M’Intyre wanted to see him settled down, and had fetched the parson a-purpose to do the job. He had only one of a family; a little boy, called Roderick, in honour of Muster M’Intyre. His own name (true to the 9th rule of the Higher Nomenology) was Edward Stanley Vivian⁠—not Zedekiah Backband, as the novel-devouring reader might be prone to imagine⁠—and his age was forty-four. If I knew anyone in straits for a bit of ready cash, I was to send that afflicted person to him for relief. He liked to oblige people; and his tariff was fifteen percent per annum; but the security must be unexceptionable.

I gave him some details of Alf’s sickness, and asked whether he had any medicine at home⁠—Painkiller, by preference. I have great faith in this specific; and I’ll tell you the reason.

A few years before the date of these events, it had been my fortune to be associated, in arduous and unhealthy work, with fifteen or twenty fellow-representatives of the order of