Bush Studies by Barbara Baynton

dizzy-like. See th’ mist t’s even! Two more, then rain—rain, an’ them two out in it without no tilt on the cart.” He sat down for a moment, even before he dusted his ungoverned floury hands.
    â€œPint er tea, War, jes’ t’ warm ther worms an’ lif’ me ’art, eh!”
    Every movement of the dog was in accord with this plan.
    His master looked at the billy, and said, “’twarn’t bilin’”, and that a watched pot never boiled. He rested a while silently with his floury hands covering his face. He bent his mouth to the dog’s ear and whispered. Warder, before replying, pointed his ears and raised his head. The old man’s hand rested on the dog’s neck.
    â€œTell yer wot, War, w’ile it’s bilin’ I’ll ’ave another go at ther button, cos I want ter give ’im ther ’at soon as he comes. S’pose they’ll orl come!” He had sat down again, and seemed to whistle his words. “Think they’ll orl come, Loo?”
    Loo would not commit himself about “orl”, not being quite sure of his master’s mind.
    The old man’s mouth twitched, a violent effort jerked him. “Might be a boy arter orl; ain’t cocky sure!” His head wagged irresponsibly, and his hat fell off as he rolled into the bunk. He made no effort to replace it, and, for once unheeded, the fire flickered on his polished head. Never before had the dog seen its baldness. The change from night-cap to hat had always been effected out of his sight.
    â€œWar, ain’t cocky sure it’ll be a gal?”
    The dog discreetly or modestly dropped his eyes, but his master had not done with concessions.
    â€œWarder!” Warder looked at him. “Tell yer wot, you can go every Sunday evenin’ an’ see if ’tis a boy!”
    He turned over on his side, with his face to the wall. Into the gnarled uncontrolled hand swaying over the bunk the dog laid his paw.
    When the old man got up, he didn’t put on his hat nor even pick it up. Altogether there was an unusualness about him tonight that distressed his mate. He sat up after a few moments, and threw back his head, listening strainingly for outside sounds. The silence soothed him, and he lay down again. A faded look was in his eyes.
    â€œThort I ’eard bells—church bells,” he said to the dog looking up too, but at him, “Couldn’t ’ave. No church bells in the bush. Ain’t ’eard ’em since I lef’ th’ ole country.” He turned his best ear to the fancied sound. He had left his dog and the hut, and was dreaming of shadowy days.
    He raised himself from the bunk, and followed the dog’s eyes to a little smoke-stained bottle on the shelf. “No, no, War!” he said. “Thet’s for sickness; mus’ be a lot worser’n wot I am!” Breathing noisily, he went through a list of diseases, among which were palsy, snake-bite, “dropersy”, and “suddint death”, before he would be justified in taking the last of his pain-killer.
    His pipe was in his hidden belt, but he had another in one of those little pockets. He tried it, said “’twouldn’t draw’r”, and very slowly and clumsily stripped the edge of a cabbage-tree frond hanging from the rafter, and tried to push it through the stem, but could not find the opening. He explained to the intent dog that the hole was stopped up, but it didn’t matter. He placed it under the bunk where he sat, because first he would “’ave a swig er tea”. His head kept wagging at the billy. No, until the billy boiled he was going to have a little snooze. The dog was to keep quiet until the billy boiled.
    Involuntarily he murmured, looking at his mate, “Funny w’ere ther tommy’awk’s gone ter!” Then he missed the axe. “My Gord, Warder!” he said, “I lef’ the axe