Pals: Young Australians in Sport and Adventure

"Comin' over to-night, Tom?"

"By jings! I'd like to, Joe, but dad said this morning he was going to shell corn to-night. You know what that means. What's on?"

"Oh! Sandy's stayin' in for the night; so I thought of gettin' Jimmy Flynn an' Yellow Billy so's we could have bushrangers, an' stick up the coach by moonlight. If they can't come, Sandy an' I'll go 'possumin' in the slaughter-house paddock."

"I say! what a jolly lark the bushranging'd be. How'd you manage it, Joe?"

"We've planned that out all right. We'd get Jimmy Flynn's billy-goat cart an' the billies. He'd be mailman, an' it'd be gold-escort day. Yellow Billy'd be the trooper; he's got a pistol, you know. He'd ride the roan steer he's broken in. Then you, Sandy, an' I'd be Ben Bolt's gang. We'd do a plant in a lonely spot along the road an' surprise 'em. I'd tackle Billy, you'd look after Jimmy, Sandy 'd collar the mailbags and gold boxes, and then scoot with the loot. I think it'd be better to shoot Billy, so's to make it a bit more real; that's what Ben Bolt'd do."

"But, Joe, where'd we get the guns?"

"I'd get father's. You'd have to make believe with a nulla-nulla. We could stick a boomerang in our belts, it'd look like pistols in the dark."

"But I say, Joe, ole chap, you wouldn't really shoot Billy?" said Tom in a tone that savoured both of fear and scepticism.

"You're a precious muff, Hawkins! I was just kidding you. No, you stupid, it's all gammon. The noise the powder 'll make 'll scare the seven senses outer Billy."

"By golly! it'll be crummie enough. Put it off till to-morrow, Joe, an' I'll come."

"Can't be done, my boy. Sandy'll not be here, for one thing. Besides, I have to pull father down to Yallaroi Bend to-morrow. It's his service night there. Sorry you can't come, Tom. We'll have to do our best without you."

"Oh Moses! to think that I can't join!" groaned Tom. "Look here, Joe, I—I'll do a sneak. I'll be here somehow, you may bet your Sunday breeks," continued the eager lad, as he stepped into the little "flat-bottom" boat which had brought him over.

"Joe!" he shouted when he had rowed some distance from the shore. "I'll give a cooee if I can get, an' two cooees if the way's blocked. So don't start till you hear."

"Right-o!"

The place where these boys lived, moved, and had their being was a district famed for its fertility, on one of the northern rivers in New South Wales.

The river itself had many of the elements of nobility and beauty as, taking its rise in the snowy heights of the New England ranges, it clove its way eastward, finally debouching into the blue waters of the Pacific. The river-flats formed magnificent stretches of arable lands; too rich, indeed, for such cereals as wheat and oats, for their rank growth rendered them liable to the fatal rust.

Here, however, was the home of the maize, the pumpkin, the sweet potato, the orange, the lemon, the plantain. Here too, the natural sequence, in a way, of the prolific corn and the multitudinous pumpkin, were reared and flourished the unromantic pig.

Fed on pumpkins, with skim milk for beverage, topped off with corn, the Australian grunter—whether as delicious, crisp bacon, or posing as aristocratic ham—produces flesh with a flavour fit to set before a king.

Away from the river-flats the land becomes undulating and ridgy, and well grassed for cattle runs. In the scrub belts, running back from the river and its affluents into the hilly country, are to be found valuable timbers, hard and soft; especially that forest noble, the red cedar.

Cattle runs of large extent exist in the back-blocks, formed in the early days by that class of men to whom Australia owes so much; the men who to-day are vilified by those not worthy to black their boots: the hardy, adventurous, courageous, indomitable pioneer, who more often than not laid down his life and his fortune in the interest of Colonial expansion and occupation.