AND OTHER AUSTRALIAN TALES***


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NUGGETS IN THE DEVIL'S PUNCH BOWL
AND OTHER AUSTRALIAN TALES


      *      *      *      *      *      *

_Crown 8vo. cloth. 6s._

THE KIDNAPPED SQUATTER

And Other Australian Tales


BY

ANDREW ROBERTSON


LONDON AND NEW YORK
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.

      *      *      *      *      *      *


NUGGETS IN THE DEVIL'S PUNCH BOWL
AND OTHER AUSTRALIAN TALES

by

ANDREW ROBERTSON

Author of "The Kidnapped Squatter," etc.






London
Longmans, Green, and Co.
And New York: 15 East 16th Street

Melbourne
Melville, Mullen, and Slade
1894

(All rights reserved)

Printed by
Hazell, Watson, and Viney, Ld.,
London and Aylesbury.




CONTENTS.

                                        PAGE
NUGGETS IN THE DEVIL'S PUNCH BOWL          1

LANKY TIM                                 59

LOST IN THE BUSH                         103

THUNDER-AND-LIGHTNING                    159




NUGGETS IN THE DEVIL'S PUNCH BOWL




CHAPTER I


Bill Marlock had been shearing all the morning, with long slashing cuts
before which the fleece fell, fold upon fold. He was the "ringer" of the
shed, and his reputation was at stake, for Norman Campbell was running
him close. To-day was Saturday, and it was known from the tally that
Bill was only one sheep ahead, and that Norman was making every effort
to finish the week "one better" than the record shearer of Yantala
woolshed. The two men were working side by side, and eyeing each other
from time to time with furtive glances. Norman suddenly straightened
himself, and, quick as a frightened snake, thrust his long body across
the "board," with the sheep he had shorn in his sinewy hands, and shot
it into the tally pen among the white, shivering sheep. Then he dashed
into the catching pen, and seized the smaller of two sheep that
remained. At almost the same moment Bill had his hands upon the same
sheep, but took them off when he saw the other man was before him, and
was obliged to content himself, much to his chagrin, with the "cobbler,"
a grizzled, wiry-haired old patriarch that every one had shunned.

When Bill carried out this sheep there was a loud roar from all the
shearers who caught from that pen, followed by derisive laughter.

"Who shaved the cobbler?" was shouted from one end of the shed to the
other.

When almost every man had slashed and stabbed Bill with these cutting
words, a whisper ran round the "board" that Norman had beaten Bill in
his tally, and that the beaten man was groaning over his defeat and
climbing down from the position of the fastest shearer in the shed.

Bill did not like this: that was clear. He had known all the morning
that his pride of place was slipping from him, for his wrist ached and
was giving way under the strain. He finished shearing the "cobbler" when
the manager shouted "Smoko!" Then Bill slid down on the slippery floor
without a word, and laid his head upon his outstretched arm.

The sun was hot. Everything was frizzling, frying, or baking. The
stunted white-gums drooped and yawned; the grass hung limp; the tall
thistles bowed their heads and shut their eyes; the lizards were as
quiet as the granite boulders on which they lay; the crows sat
motionless on the fences; and the clouds were too lazy to move.

"Ee takes es gruel without choking, an' doesn't find no bones in't,"
said Jack Jewell, with a jerk of his left thumb towards Bill.

"Ol' Bill's panned out. Ef ee isn't ringer 'is porridge 'as no salt
in't," said Tom Wren.

"He! he!" giggled a weak little man; "it's like ridin' in a kerridge