Chapter XXXV.

Back Again.

Charley and Philip, after finishing the evening at Major Gordon's, and thanking him very much for his advice, returned to their hotel, and early the next day started for Terua, Charley having borrowed horses for the journey. The following evening by pushing the stock rather hard found them at Terua. It was pleasant to see the way Philip's two dogs Lassie and Darkey entered the homestead. After all their knocking about by sea and land, after being tied-up in out-of-the-way corners and strange stables, the barking chorus of the dogs at Terua sounded like music to their ears, and they sniffed round Henry Easthorpe, and then jumped upon him with all the delight of old acquaintanship. They certainly did not know Terua, but they knew Henry, and consequently they felt themselves at once at home, and immediately went up to the Terua dogs and made friends. The Tenia dogs growled a bit, as if they didn't exactly agree to this sort of familiarity, but Lassie wriggled herself pretty quickly into their remembrance, and gradually it occurred to them who she was and where she came from, for some of them had come from Woodlands, and of course remembered Apanui. Whereupon they walked away and ceased barking.

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"I see you have brought the dogs with you Manning," said Henry Easthorpe, smiling all over his face at the sight of his old friend and neighbour.

"Yes, Henry, I couldn't very well part with them, you know. We found them useful in bringing the rams over the hill. What a wretched track. Why havn't you a decent road?"

"That is nothing to what you will see yet," replied Henry. "Wait till you come out at the back. But you fellows must be hungry," and Henry rang for the Chinese cook to bring in some tea.

"You had better get Dick to stable those bulls somewhere, Henry, for a few days, until we can knock up a place for them," said Charley, unbuckling his leggings.

"There is'nt a place to be found, except the wool-shed," replied Henry. "We can put them in a couple of the horse stalls, if you like:" and Charlie consented to this proposition.

No conveniences in the shape of farm buildings existed at Terua, and, what is more, were not likely to exist for some time to come. A scrub stable had been run up for the plough horses, at the cost of a few days' labor for a couple of men. It was a kind of break-wind, with four or five stalls, and one side completely open. A few upright posts and top cross pieces formed the frame, and the back and sides were then lashed. Divisions were run up inside; a brandy case, or other kind of handy box, formed the feeding boxes; some pegs, driven in the uprights, received the harness, and there was the thing complete—as good a stable as one would wish to work in, there being plenty of room for the horses to kick freely out into the ambient air. Of course the horses were not kept in at night; they never are, except in the extreme south of the Colony, and the animals appear to be all the better for this mode of treatment. The draughts of the stable are thus avoided and the horses do well. Of course some grow old and are often sold for a song, but on the whole the open paddock and gorse hedge save a deal of illness; so that the horse works on until it is time to shoot him. This is better than the sport mentioned by Pepys in his diary, called "selling a horse for a dish of eggs and herrings."

In this commodious building the two bulls were tied, some dry fern cast for litter, and there they were bedded down comfortably after their long drive. They had made friends on the journey up, after a severe tussle on the public road, wherein the old bull had fairly home the young one back off his legs into the ditch, and when he got up, looking rather foolish, and showed fight again, had borne him across the road on to the other side and jammed him up against the fence, which proceeding settled young Mr. Bully, and he grew civil ever afterwards. The oldest of the bulls was a bit footsore, and when he got to the station, and Dick had stood him in a pool of water for a litte while (the said pool being encircled by all the hands about the place) to take a "thrifle of th' inflammation" out of him. Amidst many criticisms the bull stood, bellowing lowly at the sight of the cows, but evidently enjoying his bath. After that night however the old bull was put in the cow paddock, and the young one in the horse paddock, and from that day to this it is to be doubted whether either of these animals has ever even smelt the inside of a stable.

The rams were put in the ram paddock, which by this time had been enlarged and made secure, and the ewes ran with the cows until a little paddock could be got ready for them. Henry did not believe in carrying on as Beeton had done. Each class of stock was kept in its own paddock, as much as possible, whereas Beeton had allowed every thing to go where it pleased. True enough, there were a few fences on the place, but these had never been kept properly secure, and, as a general rule, the slip rails at the gateways were in so wretched a state of delapidation that stock preferred to go through them rather than the fence. Henry very quickly had the slip rails seen to, and the fences patched up, but it took the shepherds a long time to break the sheep from poking themselves through, or at least trying to poke themselves everywhere.

The sheep yards at the homestead had been patched up sufficiently to pass the stock through, but they were of so unworkable a plan that Henry had utterly condemned them, and was erecting a new set of yards upon a plan of his own

"Just look at the way the sheep had to go," said Henry to Philip next morning pointing to the race, the end of which butted up against one of the page 21 yard fences, as if a clean run for the sheep could not have been found somewhere or another. "Beeton often used to complain about the difficulty of passing the sheep through, and no wonder."

"It faces the son too, said Philip."

"Of course it does," replied Henry. "But don't look at them any longer. I will show you the plan of my new yards bye-and-bye," he continued, with all the conscious pride of an architect and designer. "Come along man," and the two started off to where the ewes were lambing.

Charley had, after his long absence, settled down to his books and accounts, and almost all the contractors about the place thought it fit to sacrifice a day's or half a day's work in order to say something or another about their particular jobs. One wanted the posts he had delivered counted, another his fence chained up, a third his scrub measured. So Charley's hands were pretty full. A few had, of course, got drunk down at the little public-house, and were still there for that matter, having perhaps quarrelled with their mates. They were waiting for a settling-up, and had spent all, and more than all, of the money due to them. When Charley and Philip passed the house with the bulls it was peculiar to see how these fellows melted, as it were, from off the verandah and disappeared inside. Of course, the men would not have made such fools of themselves if there had not been a public-house in the neighbourhood. Much more scrub and fern would have been cut and fallen, and consequently a greater area of grass laid down, had they kept sober, but then they could not keep sober with all those tempting bottles gleaming on the shelves not three miles off. Nor was there any necessity for a public-house, or, rather, drinking-bar (for no one would care to sleep or eat in the place if he could help it), in that particular spot. True it was a ferry in winter-time, and the authorities, by granting a license, received a certain number of pounds sterling in exchange, and so added to the revenue; but at what cost? In place of putting their money into a piece of land and becoming decent settlers the labourers regularly transmitted their wages to England for a certain quantity of alcohol, which, when drunk, was completely lost. Nothing did so much harm and was the cause of so much annoyance to Charley and Henry Easthorpe as the wretched little shanty of a public-house down by the river.

Charley therefore had his hands full, and Philip went about with Henry during the following two or three months, and assisted him with the lambing. The ewes lambed in the large paddock they had been accustomed to lamb in, and a most miserable lot of sheep they looked. Until the boiling-down place, in process of erection, was finished little or nothing could be done in the way of culling, for it was no use sending the culls over the hills to Egdecombe.

"You must do the best you can, Manning," said Henry, "but a good many of the old ewes will die on your hands."

"I expect they will, replied Philip, but we will see what sort of a percentage we can get."

Philip had about eighteen hundred to two thousand sheep to look after in his rough boundaries, while Henry and the other shepherds looked after the remainder. There were in all about six to seven thousand ewes to lamb. Beeton had allowed the sheep to lamb without giving them more than one shepherd's regular attention, the consequence being that the man could not possibly look after all the sheep. Deaths were therefore numerous, and the percentage of lambs small. Henry Easthorpe, on the other hand, adopted a more humane system. The ewes were carefully looked after, and instead of getting 55 to 60 per cent, of lambs he got nearly 70, which meant an extra five to six hundred lambs. Certainly the hills afforded good shelter to the sheep from the fierce cold south-easters, for from whatever quarter the wind blew shelter could be found. The feed was wretchedly bare in consequence of the overstocked state of the run, and it was pitiable to see the poor things crawl about biting the scant herbage.

All this, however, was in course of rectification. The hills were good dry limestone ranges, and there was nothing to prevent their being brought into splendid feeding condition.

"We will boil-down all the old crawlers, Manning, as soon as we can," said Henry, "and Charley says that he will have a five hundred acre paddock ready during the autumn, and that will relieve us of a good many of the dry sheep next winter."

"How many will you cull?"

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"I think about three thousand," replied Henry.

"And will you be able to sell any of the fat stock," asked Philip, for even upon the most wretched run some sheep will get fat.

"Yes," replied Henry, "and boil-down what the butchers won't take. I shall get rid of at least six thousand this year all told, and if Charley finds new ground for a couple of thousand that ought to relieve the lambing-paddock next winter."

"So it will," replied Philip, "and two or three years of that sort of work will soon give you plenty of feed. Why, you ought to carry thirty thousand sheep on this ground!"

"Forty," laconically replied Henry.

"No," said Philip incredulously.

"Charley says we shall carry forty," repeated Henry, "and if he goes on clearing I think we shall."

"If the Maoris don't stop you."

"Hang the Maoris," replied Henry, pitching a piece of stone from where he was sitting, right away down to the bottom of the gully. For this conversation occurred one day when the two were out on the run together, and had sat down to have their lunch. Horse-flesh was not much used at Terua, all the work having to be done on foot.

"They havn't caught Huru yet," said Philip.

"No," replied Henry. "I wish they had."

"What would you do, Henry, if he was to come here?"

"Well, I'd have a fight for the stud sheep," replied Henry, after thinking for a few moments, and coming to the conclusion that it was his bounden duty to save the stud flock. "But there was a Maori woman up yesterday from the pa down the river wanting some medicine. Didn't Charley toll you?"

"No," replied Philip.

"Well, there was then," said Henry. "Suppose you go down to-morrow and see what you can do for her. We might get some news. I will get Alex to give an eye to your sheep."

"Agreed," replied Philip, and having finished their lunch, our two friends went on their rounds.