"Oh! stop your silly nonsense. I’ll put the saddle on Sultan," shouted the impatient boy, as he made off through the house to the stockyard.
"Say, Sandy!" cried out Jess, who was now wide awake. "Have you roused Mr.—er—Fevvers yet?"
"’Ssh! mother’ll hear you," exclaimed the boy warningly, as he returned to the door. "He didn’t have a snooze. Says it’s unbusinesslike to sleep in the daytime. Says they never do that in England. England be blowed, say I. An’ whatyer think? Harry offered him the loan of his leggin’s, but he wouldn’t have ’em. Says they smell of the stockyard, ha—ha! Says they don’t wear ’em in England. Listen! He’s got on a pair of white duck britches, an’ my crikey! they won’t be white any longer. He asked Harry for his fourteen-foot stockwhip. Says he was told an ’Awestralian’ horse would never budge without one. Only dad was there I’d ’a’ put his saddle on Dick Swiveller, an’ by jing! we’d ’a’ had some sport. We’ll knock fun out of him as it is, I reckon. But look alive, girls, or y’ll be left behind."
"Then hey for boot and horse, lad! And round the world away; Young blood will have its course, lad! And every dog his day." KINGSLEY.
The weather in Australia at Christmas is not ideal for riding parties. Midsummer heat and dust, together with hordes of flies, largely countervail the delights of the saddle.
The enthusiastic party that cantered along the tracks leading from the Bullaroi homestead on this particular Christmas, with one exception, made small bones about either dust or heat. Neville, however, was irritated by the dust which the horses’ feet knocked up. Nor would he seek alleviation as did the others by leaving the track at every opportunity. The victim of prejudice and conventionality, expressed in terms of cussedness, he obstinately stuck to the dusty track. The boys and Jessie frisked here and there, making short cuts, jumping gullies and logs, and generally enjoying themselves. They raised, it is true, clouds of dust, to the annoyance of the new chum, as they pounded along the track on their return to the others, after having forged ahead some distance; behaving, in short, like gambolling dogs. Mag would have dearly loved the frolic, but hospitality’s demands made it imperative that she—the eldest—should partner the guest.