don’t let me hear you even think of using that word again.”
When the five o’clock whistle went, Jack trotted down Ward Street to meet his father. “Mum’s going to wash out your mouth with soap,” he told him, “for teaching me to say ‘fart’. She went off pop and reckons she’s going to show you.”
“You didn’t go telling your mother I taught you to say ‘fart’?” Jack’s father jammed on his brakes, skidded, and turned the bike into Whites’ Road. “We’d better go down the bush and hide in Mr Weeks’s sawdust heap where the old mill used to stand. Mum won’t think of looking for us there.” He pedalled a couple of chains. “I thought I told you not to say ‘fart’ in front of her?”
“It just sort of popped out by itself. Dad, won’t Mum be lonely without us?”
“I suppose she will. Perhaps we’d better go home, and I’ll just have to take my punishment.” Mr Jackman turned and pedalled back to the corner of Ward Street.
“What’ll she do?”
“I suppose she’ll thrash me.”
“She wouldn’t thrash you, Dad.”
“Well, you’d better not say fart again, or she might.”
His father felt Jack’s grip loosen on the handlebars. “Were you scared?” he asked.
“Just a bit.” Jack thought and said, “Mr Weeks keeps his bull in the paddock next to the sawdust heap.”
“Who are you more scared of: your mother, or Mr Weeks’s bull?”
“Mum!” said Jack.
“Me, too,” said his father, and Jack rang the bell. He was pleased they weren’t going to hide in the sawdust heap after all, but he didn’t say so.
He waited a while to see what his mother did to his father, but she said nothing, so he went out and climbed the apple tree. Several branches had been sawn off, but he thought he could tell which one Nosy had bitten. He tried biting a branch himself, but nearly fell out of the tree. When he had a go at lowering himself, the trunk was too thick for him to get his legs around. Besides, there were too many branches in his way.
The apple tree didn’t have a straight trunk like a telegraph pole, so it must have grown a fair bit since the day Nosy climbed it and couldn’t get down again. When he heard his name called, he swung down and ran inside.
“What’s for tea, Mum?”
“I’ve minced the last of the cold meat and made a hash. Just look at those hands! You see you give them a good scrub. There’s no call for you to come to the table looking like a savage. And tell your father his tea’s ready; he’s got his nose buried in that paper of his. Come on, the pair of you. I’m not going to tell you again.”
Chapter Fifteen
Why Old Drumble Could Dive
Through Fences, How Jack Got His
Nose Pulled, and Why Mr Jackman Said
He’d Bark at Minnie Mitchell.
I T WAS STILL LIGHT after they finished doing the dishes, so Jack wandered down Ward Street to where Harry Jitters was throwing stones at the telegraph post on the corner. They hit it twice, both of them, then had a look at their hut in the hedge, but it was dark under the lawsonianas. When Jack groaned, Harry shrieked and skinned his knee diving through the fence, instead of climbing over the strainer post.
“Old Drumble dives through fences, no trouble,” said Jack. “He can see how far apart the wires are, because he’s an eye dog.”
“Is that what an eye dog means?”
“That, and having a strong eye so he can head sheep. My mother’s got a strong eye, too. She can dive through fences. And she can tell what I’m thinking through a closed door.”
“Mine, too,” said Harry.
“My mother can head sheep with her strong eye,” said Jack.
“Mine, too.”
“Mine can see what I’m thinking all the way down Ward Street, straight through the church and the plantation, and as far as the corner of Cemetery Road.”
“Aw!”
“True! Andy the Drover told me. She can tell what we’re saying to each other right now. It’s her strong eye.”
“You reckon she can hear us now?”
“No
When the five o’clock whistle went, Jack trotted down Ward Street to meet his father. “Mum’s going to wash out your mouth with soap,” he told him, “for teaching me to say ‘fart’. She went off pop and reckons she’s going to show you.”
“You didn’t go telling your mother I taught you to say ‘fart’?” Jack’s father jammed on his brakes, skidded, and turned the bike into Whites’ Road. “We’d better go down the bush and hide in Mr Weeks’s sawdust heap where the old mill used to stand. Mum won’t think of looking for us there.” He pedalled a couple of chains. “I thought I told you not to say ‘fart’ in front of her?”
“It just sort of popped out by itself. Dad, won’t Mum be lonely without us?”
“I suppose she will. Perhaps we’d better go home, and I’ll just have to take my punishment.” Mr Jackman turned and pedalled back to the corner of Ward Street.
“What’ll she do?”
“I suppose she’ll thrash me.”
“She wouldn’t thrash you, Dad.”
“Well, you’d better not say fart again, or she might.”
His father felt Jack’s grip loosen on the handlebars. “Were you scared?” he asked.
“Just a bit.” Jack thought and said, “Mr Weeks keeps his bull in the paddock next to the sawdust heap.”
“Who are you more scared of: your mother, or Mr Weeks’s bull?”
“Mum!” said Jack.
“Me, too,” said his father, and Jack rang the bell. He was pleased they weren’t going to hide in the sawdust heap after all, but he didn’t say so.
He waited a while to see what his mother did to his father, but she said nothing, so he went out and climbed the apple tree. Several branches had been sawn off, but he thought he could tell which one Nosy had bitten. He tried biting a branch himself, but nearly fell out of the tree. When he had a go at lowering himself, the trunk was too thick for him to get his legs around. Besides, there were too many branches in his way.
The apple tree didn’t have a straight trunk like a telegraph pole, so it must have grown a fair bit since the day Nosy climbed it and couldn’t get down again. When he heard his name called, he swung down and ran inside.
“What’s for tea, Mum?”
“I’ve minced the last of the cold meat and made a hash. Just look at those hands! You see you give them a good scrub. There’s no call for you to come to the table looking like a savage. And tell your father his tea’s ready; he’s got his nose buried in that paper of his. Come on, the pair of you. I’m not going to tell you again.”
Chapter Fifteen
Why Old Drumble Could Dive
Through Fences, How Jack Got His
Nose Pulled, and Why Mr Jackman Said
He’d Bark at Minnie Mitchell.
I T WAS STILL LIGHT after they finished doing the dishes, so Jack wandered down Ward Street to where Harry Jitters was throwing stones at the telegraph post on the corner. They hit it twice, both of them, then had a look at their hut in the hedge, but it was dark under the lawsonianas. When Jack groaned, Harry shrieked and skinned his knee diving through the fence, instead of climbing over the strainer post.
“Old Drumble dives through fences, no trouble,” said Jack. “He can see how far apart the wires are, because he’s an eye dog.”
“Is that what an eye dog means?”
“That, and having a strong eye so he can head sheep. My mother’s got a strong eye, too. She can dive through fences. And she can tell what I’m thinking through a closed door.”
“Mine, too,” said Harry.
“My mother can head sheep with her strong eye,” said Jack.
“Mine, too.”
“Mine can see what I’m thinking all the way down Ward Street, straight through the church and the plantation, and as far as the corner of Cemetery Road.”
“Aw!”
“True! Andy the Drover told me. She can tell what we’re saying to each other right now. It’s her strong eye.”
“You reckon she can hear us now?”
“No
Similar Books
