It was always a matter of regret to
poor "Captin" that he used to be the one to end the telling, since no
story on earth could keep him, after a while, from nodding off to sleep.
He would drag himself away to his blankets in the next room, hearing,
as sleep fully descended upon him, the droning voice still entertaining
Jim--whose powers of keeping awake seemed more than human!
Saturday brought no slackening of work. Whatever his previous hired
men had done, old Joe was evidently determined that his present
"parlour-boarders" should not abate their efforts, and even kept them
a little later than usual in the paddocks, remarking that "ter-morrer
bein' Sunday, yous might as well cut a bit more scrub." The next morning
broke fine and clear, and he looked at them a little doubtfully after
breakfast.
"Well, there ain't no work doin' on Sunday, I reckon. I can manage the
ol' keow to-night, if yous want to go home."
The guests looked at each other doubtfully.
"What do you say, Bob? Shall we ride over?"
Bob pondered.
"All one to me, o' course," said Joe, getting up and stumping out. He
paused at the door. "On'y if yous mean ter stick on 'ere a bit you'll
find comin' back a bit 'ard, onced yous see Billabong."
"Just what I was thinking," said Bob, as the old man disappeared.
"I'm not going, Jim; I know jolly well I'd hate to come back
after--er--fleshpotting at your place.
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