"Well?" Dad remarked, still grinning. Then Mick spoke feelingly.
"YOU SWINDLING OLD CRAWLER!" he said, and galloped away. It was well for him he got a good start.
For long after that we turned the horses and cows into the little paddock at night, and if ever the dog barked Dad would jump up and go out in his shirt.
We put them back into the paddock again, and the first night they were there two cows got out and went away, taking with them the chain that fastened the slip-rails. We never saw or heard of them again; but Dad treasured them in his heart. Often, when he was thoughtful, he would ponder out plans for getting even with the Donovans--we knew it was the Donovans. And Fate seemed to be of Dad's mind; for the Donovans got into "trouble,", and were reported to be "doing time." That pleased Dad; but the vengeance was a little vague. He would have liked a finger in the pie himself.
Four years passed. It was after supper, and we were all husking corn in the barn. Old Anderson and young Tom Anderson and Mrs. Maloney were helping us. We were to assist them the following week. The barn was illuminated by fat-lamps, which made the spiders in the rafters uneasy and disturbed the slumbers of a few fowls that for months had insisted on roosting on the cross-beam.
Mrs. Maloney was arguing with Anderson. She was claiming to have husked two cobs to his one, when the dogs started barking savagely. Dad crawled from beneath a heap of husks and went out. The night was dark. He bade the dogs "Lie down." They barked louder. "Damn you--lie down!" he roared.
They shut up. Then a voice from the darkness said:
"Is that you, Mr. Rudd?"
Dad failed to recognise it, and went to the fence where the visitor was.
He remained there talking for fully half-an-hour. Then he returned, and said it was young Donovan.
"DONOVAN! MICK Donovan?" exclaimed Anderson. And Mother and Mrs. Maloney and Joe echoed "MICK Donovan?" They WERE surprised.
"He's none too welcome," said Anderson, thinking of his horses and cows.
Mother agreed with him, while Mrs. Maloney repeated over and over again that she was always under the impression that Mick Donovan was in gaol along with his bad old father. Dad was uncommunicative. There was something on his mind. He waited till the company had gone, then consulted with Dave.
They were outside, in the dark, and leant on the dray. Dad said in a low voice: "He's come a hundred mile to-day, 'n' his horse is dead-beat, 'n'
he wants one t' take him t' Back Creek t'morrer 'n' leave this one in his place...Wot d'y' think?" Dave seemed to think a great deal, for he said nothing.
"Now," continued Dad, "it's me opinion the horse is n't his; it's one he's shook--an' I've an idea." Then he proceeded to instruct Dave in the idea.
A while later he called Joe and drilled him in the idea.
That night, young Donovan stayed at Shingle Hut. In the morning Dad was very affable. He asked Donovan to come and show him his horse, as he must see it before thinking of exchanging. They proceeded to the paddock together. The horse was standing under a tree, tired-looking. Dad stood and looked at Donovan for fully half-a-minute without speaking.
"Why, damn it!" he exclaimed, at last, "that's MY OWN horse...You don't mean...S'help me! Old Bess's foal!" Donovan told him he was making a mistake.
"Mistake be hanged!" replied Dad, walking round the animal. "Not much of a mistake about HIM!"Just here Dave appeared, as was proper.
"Do you know this horse?" Dad asked him. "Yes, of course," he answered, surprisedly, with his eyes open wide, "Bess's foal!--of course it is.""There you are!" said Dad, grinning triumphantly.
Donovan seemed uneasy.
Joe in his turn appeared. Dad put the same question to him. Of course Joe knew Bess's foal--"the one that got stole."There was a silence.
"Now," said Dad, looking very grave, "what have y' got t' say? Who'd y'
get him off? Show's y'r receipt."
Donovan had nothing to say; he preferred to be silent.
"Then," Dad went on, "clear out of this as fast as you can go, an' think y'rself lucky."He cleared, but on foot.
Dad gazed after him, and, as he left the paddock, said:
"One too many f' y' that time, Mick Donovan!" Then to Dave, who was still looking at the horse: "He's a stolen one right enough, but he's a beauty, and we'll keep him; and if the owner ever comes for him, well--if he is the owner--he can have him, that's all."We had the horse for eighteen months and more. One day Dad rode him to town. He was no sooner there than a man came up and claimed him. Dad objected. The man went off and brought a policeman. "Orright"--Dad said--"TAKE him." The policeman took him. He took Dad too. The lawyer got Dad off, but it cost us five bags of potatoes. Dad did n't grudge them, for he reckoned we'd had value. Besides, he was even with the Donovans for the two cows.
