WOOL AWAY!

Evening Star, Issue 19666, 20 September 1927, Page 11

WOOL AWAY!

THE CUT OUT-AHU A HEW START [Written by Harry Scott, for Lho ‘ Evening Star. 1 ] CHAPTER VI. The next morning Peter’s hand resembled a pumpkin. It was a marvel to me that be should attempt to shear at all. But on the stroke of the gong he was up and at it. Trouble came to him immediately; as soon as he switched his machine into gear it emitted a peculiar rasping sound, indicating that something was vitally wrong. Acting on my information of the previous evening, the trouble was soon traced to a deep groove which had been filed in the small friction wheel of the head gear. Without attempting to fix it, Peter walked along to Jack Stringer’s stand and pulled his machine out of gear. Stringer, who had come into the shed as if nothing untoward had ever occurred, straightened himself and smiled agreeably. “ Get out,” snapped Pet/jr. 1 m going to shear in your stand.” “ Very well,” answered Stringer. 1 will.” With that he marched off to engage the services of the expert in order to have Peter’s head gear repaired. Although Peter, in spite ot his sore head and swollen hand, buzzed along quite merrily in bis new stand, lie offered to return it to Stringer again at the start of the next run. Stringer, however, curtly declined to shift. Finally, amid much excitement, the last sheep was shorn. When the tally Ijoiu'd was pasted up Peter was declared the ringer. Stringer, sixty-five sheep behind him, was second. ■ The crowd gathered in the shod vveio congratulating the winner, when suddenly Stringer jumped on to one of the wool tables and shouted: “ You’re all harkin’ up the wrong tree. I’m the winner. .Sixty-five sheep nmre 'vent out ol No. 8 stands porthole than any other. I hold No. 8 stand; therefore .1 collect the sweep money.” . ........ A pretty piece ol hind tins — Stringer’s last card. However, the boss would have none ol it, and made no bones about handing the money to Jimmy Howes, the real winner. 1 smiled to myself whoa Mr Oliver, in a neat speech, staled that ho had never had a more agreeable gang of shearers. 1 guess ho knew little ot what had been going on behind the scenes. Wo had been booked up previously for our next shod —a lar-away station situated near Wanaring, about 300 miles from Bourke. All being well, each man was to get 3,000 sheep, which, although of the desert variety, were not such hard shearing as is generally believed. .... Practically all of our gang, including Jack Stringer, had signed on undof the new boss. We made a very fast cycle run back to By rock, where wo spent the night. The scene as wo boarded the train for Bourko the following day was quite touching. For a rough bush choir a crowd of shearers, when alcoholically lubricated, can ring remarkably sweetly. We found Bourke to bo a rising township with a population at that time of 700 or 800 people. Many of the buildings were quite artistically designed. As regards climate, the town is said to stand second only to Hell in the heat rating list. A night here, and we were again on our bicycles. Fully equipped, we started off on our final lap. Shortly after crossing the Barwon River we came across an orange grove—a, veritable oasis in the desert. The Bit kangaroo fence, wickedly barbed, did not prevent our party from freshening up our supply of rations. Paul Mart, Peter, and I kept together all the way. Throughout tho sweltering day wo pedalled steadily into tho desert. At a lonely hotel wc secured a loaf of bread and filled our water bottles. At dusk wc pulled up and camped in a chimp of scrub. A refreshing open-air sleep, another big days’ cycling, and wc pulled up at Waitaring. However the inhabitants of Wanaring lived I could never understand. The stations all being enormous tracts of land were few and far between, and in the township there was neither commercial bustle nor tourist attraction.

On the last day of our ride, when we were still some distance from the shed, Paul got tangled up in his front wheel. When we turned back, on hearing his shout of distress, wc found tho wheel to have transformed itself into a miuiaTnro “figure of eight” railway. Our plight was rather serious, for, with a fair distance to go, wc were out of water.

Mart suggested leaving the bicycle for a camel team to bring on. He wanted to walk the rest of tho way, but I thought of another solution ot the problem. In my early youth 1 had practised various forms of trick riding, and now one of them wits to come in handy. Having straightened Paul’s wheel so that it would bear its own weight, I managed to mount my own machine with Paul on my back. Then, wheeling the damaged bicycle alongside me, we sot off to the accompaniment of my companions’ cheers and laughter. Needless to say, the feat was almost more than I could accomplish, but eventually I wavered into the station with ray human swag. The shed was a “bough” one—that is, instead of the usual corrugated iron roof, it was thatched with scrub. Rain was very unlikely to come, but in that event the boss had large canvas coverings to spread over tho wooh Wo were accommodated in tents—two men in each—and there was a central hut which served us a cookshop.

We had had a snack and were busy making ourselves eomlorlahle in our louts when the big half-easlo, Jack Stringer, with most of the other men, pulled into the station. Great was my surprise when Stringer, after satisfying his hunger, walked over to the tent occupied by Peter and myself, and flung ns a friendly greeting through the flap. “Hullo!” asked Peter. “What’s the trouble, old chap?” “Nothin’ at all,” answered Stringer. “I just want to be friends with you three eoves.”

“That's easy. Jack, tie a man, and everything’s right.” “ You bet I will, Peter. J’ll go straight from now on. I reckon you fellows have treated me better than 1 deserved, and J'm grateful. You two sleepin’ here? Who's in with your mate?” “ I don’t know. He’s next floor. You’d better go and see.” Stringer walked off, A few seconds later we heard hiin asking Paul Mart if ho might share his tent. “Why, yes,” answered Paul. “You can have half of this tent, but not an inch more. How’s that?”

‘Do me, Paul, i’ll get my bike and fa up the bunk.” [t wasn’t long before Mart joined us iu our tent, and wo all began to marvel at the new twist to Stringer’s character.

“Do you really think he is sorry for what has happened?” asked Peter. “ Well, for my part,” answered Mart, “ 1 believe he means more mischief. That’s why I let him share my tent, i can watch him better. “Good idea,” I chipped in. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as i could kick him.”

(To be continued.)