Such Is Life by Tom Collins Page A

certainly,” observed Thompson; “but I can’t help taking an interest in him. As a general rule, the more uncivilised a man is, till you come right down to the level of the blackfellow, the better bushman he is; but I must say this of Thingamybob, that he comes as near the blackfellow”—
    â€œHold on,” interrupted Dixon, whose private conversation with Bum had caused him to lose step in the march of conversation—“Who the (sheol) is this Thingamybob—bar sells?”
    â€œI wish somebody would fetch me a drink of water,” replied Thompson, dropping his subject in pointed rebuke of Dixon’s behaviour. “I’d rather perish than go for it myself; and I won’t live two hours if I don’t get it. It’s Cooper’s fault. When he keeps the meat fresh, it walks away; and when he packs it in salt, and then roasts it in the pan—like this evening—you can see thesalt all over it like frost. Grand remedy for scurvy, and Barcoo rot, and the hundreds of natural diseases that flesh is subject to, as the poet says.”
    â€œLis’n that (adj.) liar,” growled Cooper, with a fairly successful attempt at easy good-nature. “An’ I’m as bad off as him; an’ there ain’t a whimper out o’ me.”
    â€œI’ll bring a drink for you both,” said I, rising and taking two pannikins from the lid of the tucker-box. “I wouldn’t do it only that I’m famishing, myself; and I’m tired of waiting for some one else to give in.”
    Then, whilst helping myself to a drink from the water-bag under the rear of Thompson’s wagon, and filling the pannikins for my friends, I couldn’t possibly avoid overhearing the conversation which sprang into life the moment my back was turned—
    â€œMy lord Billy-be-damd,” remarked Mosey. “Wonder why the (sheol) he ain’t at Runnymede to-night, doin’ the amiable with Mother Bodysark. Bright pair, them two.”
    â€œWouldn’t trust him as fur’s I could sling him,” said Dixon. “Too thick with the (adj.) squatters for my fancy. A man never knows what game that bloke’s up to.”
    â€œCan’t make him out no road,” confessed Cooper. “Seems a decent, easy-goin’, God-send-Sunday sort o’ feller; but I’ll swear there’s more in his head nor a comb’ll take out.”
    â€œHe calls himself a philosopher,” murmured Thompson; “but his philosophy mostly consists in thinking he knows everything, and other people know nothing. That’s the principal point I’ve seen in him; and we’ve been acquainted since we were about that high. It was always his way.”
    â€œWho’s this Mother Bodysark—if it’s a fair question?” asked Cooper.
    â€œMrs. Beaudesart,” corrected Thompson. “She’s a widow woman—sort of forty-second cousin to Mrs. Montgomery, and housekeeper at the station. I never heard of anybody grudging her to Collins.”
    â€œBetween ourselves, Thompson,” remarked Willoughby, “his conversation this afternoon rather amused me. It recalled to my mind an excellent and most characteristic pleasantry, which you may not have heard. The story goes that Coleridge once asked Lamb, ‘Did you ever hear me preach?’ ‘Preach!’ said Lamb; ‘ ’Gad, I never heard you do anything else!’ And yet, if Mr. Collins had enjoyed the advantages accruing from even the rudiments of a liberal ed”—
    â€œHe’s got summick to do with Gub’ment lately,” said Price cunningly. “My ’pinion, he’s shadderin’ summedy.”
    â€œHe ain’t a gurl o’ that sort,” interposed Bum hastily. “My ’pinion, he’s a spieler. No more a detective nor I am.”
    I returned to the group. My friends drained their pannikins;Thompson threw his at the