"W-w-wuz they at him, Dad?"
Dad turned on him, trembling with rage.
"Oh, you son of the Devil!" he commenced. "You worthless pup, you! Look there! Do you see that?" (He pointed to the horse.) "Did n't I tell you to mind him? Did n"
"Yes," snivelled Joe; "but Anderson's dog had a k-k-k-angaroo bailed up."
"Damn you, be off out of this!" And Dad aimed a block of wood at Joe which struck him on the back as he made away. But nothing short of two broken legs would stop Joe, who the next instant had dashed among the corn like an emu into a scrub.
Dad returned to the house, foaming and vowing to take the gun and shoot Joe down like a wallaby. But when he saw two horses hanging up he hesitated and would have gone away again had Mother not called out that he was wanted. He went in reluctantly.
Red Donovan and his son, Mick, were there. Donovan was the publican, butcher, and horse-dealer at the Overhaul. He was reputed to be well-in, though some said that if everybody had their own he would n't be worth much. He was a glib-tongued Irishman who knew everything—or fondly imagined he did—from the law to horse-surgery. There was money to be made out of selections, he reckoned, if selectors
