"He's dead now," he said calmly, and walked out. Then he went to work at
the post-holes again, just as though nothing had happened.
Fifteen years have passed since then, and the man is still at Shingle Hut.
He was the best horse Dad ever had. He slaved from daylight till dark;
keeps no Sunday; knows no companion; lives chiefly on meat and machine
oil; domiciles in the barn; and has never asked for a rise in his wages.
His name we never knew. We call him "Jack." The neighbours called him
"CRANKY Jack."
Chapter VIII.
A Kangaroo-Hunt from Shingle Hut.
We always looked forward to Sunday. It was our day of sport. Once, I
remember, we thought it would never come. We longed restlessly for it,
and the more we longed the more it seemed to linger.
A meeting of selectors had been held; war declared against the marsupial;
and a hunt on a grand scale arranged for this particular Sabbath. Of
course those in the neighbourhood hunted the kangaroo every Sunday, but
"on their own," and always on foot, which had its fatigues. This was to
be a raid EN MASSE and on horseback. The whole country-side was to
assemble at Shingle Hut and proceed thence.
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