CHAPTER VII
THE RINGER OF THE SHED
A sweet breeze and a flawless sky rendered it an exquisite morning whenNaomi and her piano-tuner took their seats behind the kind of pair whichthe girl loved best to handle. They were youngsters both, the one afilly as fresh as paint, the other a chestnut colt, better broken,perhaps, but sufficiently ready to be led astray. The very start waslively. Engelhardt found himself holding on with his only hand as if hislife depended on it, instead of on the firm gloved fingers and the tautwhite-sleeved arm at his side. He looked from the pair of young ones tothat arm and those fingers, and back again at the pair. They werepulling alarmingly, especially the filly. Engelhardt took an anxiouslook at the driver's face. He was prepared to find it resolute but pale.He found it transfigured with the purest exultation. After all, this wasthe daughter of the man who had returned the bushranger's fire withlaughter as loud as his shots; she was her father's child; and from thismoment onward the piano-tuner felt it a new honor to be sitting at herside.
"How do you like it?" she found time to ask him when the worst seemedover.
"First-rate," he replied.
"Not in a funk?"
"Not with you."
"That's a blessing. The filly needs watching--little demon! But shesha'n't smash your other arm for you, Mr. Engelhardt, if I can preventit. No screws loose, Sam, I hope?"
"Not if I knows it, miss!"
Sam Rowntree had jumped on behind to come as far as the first gate, toopen it. Already they were there, and as Sam ran in front of theimpatient pair the filly shied violently at a blue silk fly-veil whichfluttered from his wide-awake.
"That nice youth is the dandy of the men's hut," explained Naomi, asthey tore through the gates, leaving Sam and his fly-veil astern in atwinkling. "I daren't say much to him, because he's the only man the hutcontains just at present. The rest spend most nights out at the shed, soI should be pretty badly off if I offended Sam. I wasn't too pleasedwith the state of the buggy, as a matter of fact. It's the old Shanghaimy father used to fancy, and somehow it's fallen on idle days; but itruns lighter than anything else we've got, and it's sweetly swung.That's why I chose it for this little trip of ours. You'll find it likea feather-bed for your bruises and bones and things--if only SamRowntree used his screw-hammer properly. Feeling happy so far?"
Engelhardt declared that he had never been happier in his life. Therewas more truth in the assertion than Naomi suspected. She also washappy, but in a different way. A tight rein, an aching arm, a clearcourse across a five-mile paddock, and her beloved Riverina breezebetween her teeth, would have made her happy at any time and in anycircumstances. The piano-tuner's company added no sensible zest to aperformance which she thoroughly enjoyed for its own sake; but with himthe exact opposite was the case. She was not thinking of him. He wasthinking only of her. She had her young bloods to watch. His eyes spenthalf their time upon her grand strong hand and arm. Suddenly these gavea tug and a jerk, both together. But he was in too deep a dream eitherto see what was wrong or to understand his companion's exclamation.
"He didn't!" she had cried.
"Didn't what?" said Engelhardt. "And who, Miss Pryse?"
"Sam Rowntree didn't use his screw-hammer properly. Wretch! The nearswingle-tree's down and trailing."
It took Engelhardt some moments to grasp exactly what she meant. Then hesaw. The near swingle-tree was bumping along the ground at the filly'sheels, dragged by the traces. Already the filly had shown herself theone to shy as well as to pull, and it now appeared highly probable thatshe would give a further exhibition of her powers by kicking theShanghai to matchwood. Luckily, the present pace was too fast for that.The filly had set the pace herself. The filly was keeping it up. As forthe chestnut, it was contentedly playing second fiddle with tracesdrooping like festoons. Thus the buggy was practically being drawn by asingle rein with the filly's mouth at one end of it and Naomi's hand atthe other.
"Once let the bar tickle her hoofs, and she'll hack us to smithereens,"said the latter, cheerfully. "We'll euchre her yet by keeping this up!"And she took her whip and flogged the chestnut.
But this did not ease the strain on her left hand and arm, for thechestnut's pace was nothing to the filly's, so that even with the willhe had not the power to tighten his traces and perform his part.Engelhardt saw the veins swelling in the section of wrist between thewhite sleeve and the dogskin glove. He reached across and tried to helpher with his left hand; but she bade him sit quiet, or he wouldcertainly tumble out and be run over; and with her command she sent aroar of laughter into his ear, though the veins were swelling on herforehead, too. Truly she was a chip of the old block, and the grain wasas good as ever.
It came to an end at last.
"Hurray!" said Naomi. "I see the fence."
Engelhardt saw it soon after, and in another minute the horses stoodsmoking, and the buggy panting on its delicate springs, before asix-bar gate which even the filly was disinclined to tackle just then.
"Do you think you can drive through with your one hand, and hold themtight on t'other side?" said Naomi. "Clap your foot on the break andtry."
He nodded and managed creditably; but before opening the gate Naomi madea temporary fixture of the swingle-tree by means of a strap; and thisproved the last of their troubles. The shed was now plainly in sight,with its long regular roof, and at one end three huts parallel with itand with each other. To the left of the shed, as they drove up, Naomipointed out the drafting yards. A dense yellow cloud overhung them likea lump of London fog.
"They're drafting now," said Naomi. "I expect Mr. Gilroy is draftinghimself. If so, let's hope he's too busy to see us. It would be a pity,you know, to take him away from his work," she added next instant; butEngelhardt was not deceived.
They drove down the length of the shed, which had small pens attached oneither side, with a kind of port-hole opening into each. Out of theseport-holes there kept issuing shorn sheep, which ran down little slopingboards, and thus filled the pens. At one of the latter Naomi pulled up.It contained twice as many sheep as any other pen, and a good half ofthem were cut and bleeding. The pens were all numbered, and this one wasnumber nineteen.
"Bear that in mind," said Naomi. "Nineteen!"
Engelhardt looked at her. Her face was flushed and her voice unusuallyquiet and hard. But she drove on without another word, save of generalexplanation.
"Each man has his pen," she said, "and shears his sheep just insidethose holes. Then the boss of the shed comes round with his note-book,counts out the pens, and enters the number of sheep to the number ofeach pen. If a shearer cuts his sheep about much, or leaves a lot ofwool on, he just runs that man's pen--doesn't count 'em at all. Atleast, he ought to. It seems he doesn't always do it."
Again her tone was a singular mixture of hard and soft.
"Mr. Gilroy is over the shed, isn't he?" said Engelhardt, a littleinjudiciously.
"He is," returned Naomi, and that was all.
They alighted from the buggy at the farther end of the shed, where hugedoors stood open, showing a confused stack of wool-bales within, andSanderson, the store-keeper, engaged in branding them with stencil andtar-brush. He took off his wide-awake to Naomi, and winked at thepiano-tuner. The near-sighted youth was also there, and he came out totake charge of the pair, while Engelhardt entered the shed at Naomi'sskirts.
Beyond the bales was the machine which turned them out. Here the twowool-pressers were hard at work and streaming with perspiration. Naomipaused to see a bale pressed down and sewn up. Then she led hercompanion on to where the wool-pickers were busy at side tables, and thewool-sorter at another table which stood across the shed in a commandingposition, with a long line of shearers at work to right and left, and anequally long pen full of unshorn sheep between them. The wool-sorter'sseemed the softest job in the shed. Boys brought him fleeces--perhaps adozen a minute--flung them out upon the table, and rolled them up againinto neat bundles swiftly tied with string. These bundles thewool-sorter m
erely tossed over his shoulder into one or other of thefive or six bins at his back.
"He gets a pound a thousand fleeces," Naomi whispered, "and we shearsomething over eighty thousand sheep. He will take away a check ofeighty odd pounds for his six weeks' work."
"And what about the shearers?"
"A pound a hundred. Some of them will go away with forty or fiftypounds."
"It beats piano-tuning," said Engelhardt, with a laugh. They crossed anopen space, mounted a few steps, and began threading their way down theleft-hand aisle, between the shearers and the pen from which they had tohelp themselves to woolly sheep. The air was heavy with the smell offleeces, and not unmusical with the constant swish and chink of fortypairs of shears.
"Well, Harry?" said Naomi, to the second man they came to. "Harry is anold friend of mine, Mr. Engelhardt--he was here in the old days. Mr.Engelhardt is a new friend, Harry, but a very good one, for all that.How are you getting on? What's your top-score?"
"Ninety-one, miss--I shore ninety-one yesterday."
"And a very good top-score, too, Harry. I'd rather spend three monthsover the shearing than have sheep cut about and wool left on. What wasthat number I asked you to keep in mind, Mr. Engelhardt?"
"Nineteen, Miss Pryse."
"Ah, yes! Who's number nineteen, Harry?"
Harry grinned.
"They call him the ringer of the shed, miss."
"Oh, indeed. That means the fastest shearer, Mr. Engelhardt--the man whoruns rings round the rest, eh, Harry? What's _his_ top-score, do yousuppose?"
"Something over two hundred."
"I thought as much. And his name?"
"Simons, miss."
"Point him out, Harry."
"Why, there he is; that big chap now helping himself to a woolly."
They turned and saw a huge fellow drag out an unshorn sheep by the leg,and fling it against his moleskins with a clearly unnecessary violenceand cruelty.
"Come on, Mr. Engelhardt," said Naomi, in her driest tones; "I have aword to say to the ringer of the shed. I rather think he won't ring muchlonger."
They walked on and watched the long man at his work. It was the work ofa ruffian. The shearer next him had started on a new sheepsimultaneously, and was on farther than the brisket when the ringer hadreached the buttocks. On the brisket of the ringer's sheep a slit oflivid blue had already filled with blood, and blood started from otherplaces as he went slashing on. He was either too intent or too insolentto take the least heed of the lady and the young man watching him. Theyoung man's heart was going like a clock in the night, and he wassufficiently ashamed of it. As for Naomi, she was visibly boiling over,but she held her tongue until the sheep rose bleeding from its fleece.Then, as the man was about to let the poor thing go, she darted betweenit and the hole.
"Tar here on the brisket!" she called down the board.
A boy came at a run and dabbed the wounds.
"Why didn't you call him yourself?" she then asked sternly of the man,still detaining his sheep.
"What business is that of yours?" he returned, impudently.
"That you will see presently. How many sheep did you shear yesterday?"
"Two hundred and two."
"And the day before?"
"Two hundred and five."
"That will do. It's too much, my man, you can't do it properly. I've hada look at your sheep, and I mean to run your pen. What's more, if youdon't intend to go slower and do better, you may throw down your shearsthis minute!"
The man had slowly lifted himself to something like his full height,which was enormous. So were his rounded shoulders and his long hairyarms and hands. So was his face, with its huge hook-nose and itsmouthful of yellow teeth. These were showing in an insolent yet savagegrin, when a good thing happened at a very good time.
A bell sounded, and someone sang out, "Smoke-oh!"
Instantly many pairs of shears were dropped; in the ensuing two minutesthe rest followed, as each man finished the sheep he was engaged on whenthe bell rang. Thus the swish and tinkle of the shears changed swiftlyto a hum of conversation mingled with deep-drawn sighs. And this stoppedsuddenly, miraculously, as the shed opened its eyes and ears to thescene going forward between its notorious ringer and Naomi Pryse, theowner of the run.
In another moment men with pipes in their hands and sweat on theirbrows were edging toward the pair from right and left.
"Your name, I think, is Simons?" Naomi was saying, coolly, but so thatall who had a mind might hear her. "I have no more to say to you,Simons, except that you will shear properly or go where they like theirsheep to have lumps of flesh taken out and lumps of wool left on."
"Since when have you been over the board, miss?" asked Simons, a littlemore civilly under the eyes of his mates.
"I am not over the board," said Naomi, hotly, "but I am over the man whois."
She received instant cause to regret this speech.
"We wish you was!" cried two or three. "_You_ wouldn't make a bloomingmull of things, you wouldn't!"
"I'll take my orders from Mr. Gilroy, and from nobody else," saidSimons, defiantly.
"Well, you may take fair warning from me."
"That's as I like."
"It's as _I_ like," said Naomi. "And look here, I won't waste more wordsupon you and I won't stand your impertinence. Better throw down yourshears now--for I've done with you--before I call upon your mates totake them from you."
"We don't need calling, miss, not we!"
Half a dozen fine fellows had stepped forward, with Harry at their head,and the affair was over. Simons had flung his shears on the floor with aclatter and a curse, and was striding out of the shed amid the hissesand imprecations of his comrades.
Naomi would have got away, too, for she had had more than enough of thewhole business, but this was not so easy. Someone raised three cheersfor her. They were given with a roar that shook the iron roof likethunder. And to cap all this a gray old shearer planted himself in herpath.
"It's just this way, miss," said he. "We liked Simons little enough,but, begging your pardon, we like Mr. Gilroy less. He doesn't know howto treat us at all. He has no idea of bossing a shed like this. And markmy words, miss, unless you remove that man, and give us some smartergentleman like, say, young Mr. Chester----"
"Ay, Chester'll do!"
"He knows his business!"
"He's a man, he is----"
"And the man for us!"
"Unless you give us someone more to our fancy, like young Mr. Chester,"concluded the old man, doing his best to pacify his mates with look andgesture, "there'll be further trouble. This is only the beginning.There'll be trouble, and maybe worse, until you make a change."
Naomi felt inexpressibly uncomfortable.
"Mr. Gilroy is the manager of this station," said she, for once with aslight tremor in her voice. "Any difference that you have with him, youmust fight it out between you. I am quite sure that he means to be just.I, at any rate, must interfere no more. I am sorry I interfered at all."
So they let her go at last, the piano-tuner following close upon herheels. He had stuck to her all the time with shut mouth and twitchingfingers, ready for anything, as he was ready still. And the first personthese two encountered in the open air was Gilroy himself, with so whitea face and such busy lips that they hardly required him to tell them hehad heard all.
"I am very sorry, Monty," said the girl, in a distressed tone whichhighly surprised her companion; "but I simply couldn't help it. Youcan't stand by and see a sheep cut to pieces without opening yourmouth. Yet I know I was at fault."
"It's not much good knowing it now," returned Gilroy, ungraciously, ashe rolled along at her side; "you should have thought of that first. Asit is, you've given me away to the shed, and made a tough job twice astough as it was before."
"I really am very sorry, Monty. I know I oughtn't to have interfered atall. At the same time, the man deserved sending away, and I am sure youwould have been the first to send him had you seen w
hat I saw. I know Ishould have waited and spoken to you; but I shall keep away from theshed in future."
"That won't undo this morning's mischief. I heard what the brutes saidto you!"
"Then you must have heard what I said to them. Don't try to make me outworse than I am, Monty."
She laid her hand upon his arm, and Engelhardt, to his horror, saw tearson her lashes. Gilroy, however, would not look at her. Instead, hehailed the store-keeper, who had passed them on his way to the huts.
"Make out Simons's account, Sandy," he shouted at the top of his voice,"and give him his check. Miss Pryse has thought fit to sack him over myhead!"
Instantly her penitence froze to scorn.
"That was unnecessary," she said, in the same quiet tone she hademployed toward the shearer, but dropping her arm and halting dead asshe spoke. "If this is the way you treat the men, no wonder you can'tmanage them. Come, Mr. Engelhardt!"
And with this they turned their back on the manager, but not on theshed; that was not Naomi's way at all. She was pre-eminently one to beled, not driven, and she remained upon the scene, showing Engelhardteverything, and explaining the minutest details for his benefit, muchlonger than she would have dreamt of staying in the ordinary course ofaffairs. This involved luncheon in the manager's hut, at which mealNaomi appeared in the highest spirits, cracking jokes with Sanderson,chaffing the boy in spectacles, and clinking pannikins with everyone butthe manager himself. The latter left early, after steadily sulkingbehind his plate, with his beard in his waistcoat and his yellow headpresented like a bull's. Tom Chester was not there at all. Engelhardtwas sorry, though the others treated him well enough to-day--Sandersoneven cutting up his meat for him. It was three o'clock before Naomi andhe started homeward in the old Shanghai.
With the wool-shed left a mile behind, they overtook a huge horsemanleading a spare horse.
"That's our friend Simons," said Naomi. "I wonder what sort of agreeting he'll give me. None at all, I should imagine."
She was wrong. The shearer reined up on one side of the track, and gaveher a low bow, wide-awake in hand, and with it a kind of a glaring grinthat made his teeth stand out like brass-headed nails in the afternoonsunshine. Naomi laughed as they drove on.
"Pretty, wasn't it? That man loves me to distraction, I should say. Onthe whole we may claim to have had a rather lively day. First came thatyoung lady on the near side, who's behaving herself so angelically now;and then the swingle-tree, which they've fixed up well enough to see usthrough this afternoon at any rate. Next there was our friend Simons;and after him, poor dear Monty Gilroy--who had cause to complain, mindyou, Mr. Engelhardt. We mustn't forget that I had no sort of right tointerfere. And now, unless I'm very much mistaken, we're on the pointof meeting two more of our particular friends."
In fact, a couple of tramps were approaching, swag on back, with theslow swinging stride of their kind. Engelhardt colored hotly as herecognized the ruffians of the day before. They were walking on oppositesides of the track, and as the buggy cut between them the fat manunpocketed one hand and saluted them as they passed.
"Not got a larger size yet?" he shouted out. "Why, that ain't a man atall!"
The poor piano-tuner felt red to his toes, and held his tongue withexceeding difficulty. But, as usual, Naomi and her laugh came to hisrescue.
"How polite our friends are, to be sure! A bow here and a salute there!Birds of a feather, too, if ever I saw any; you might look round, Mr.Engelhardt, and see if they're flocking together."
"They are," said he, next minute.
Then Naomi looked for herself. They were descending a slight incline,and, sure enough, on top of the ridge stood the two tramps and themounted shearer. Stamped clean against the sky, it looked much as thoughhorses and men had been carved out of a single slab of ebony.
The Boss of Taroomba Page 7