"
"Shooting the blacks?" interpolated Gordon.
"Somethin' like that, Mister. I did let off a rifle a few times,
and I dessay one or two poor, ignorant black feller-countrymen that
had been fun' my cattle as full of spears as so many hedgehogs--I
dessay they got in the road of a bullet or two. They're always
gettin' in the road of things. But we don't talk of shootin' blacks
nowadays These parts is too civilised--it's risky. Anyhow, I made
them blacks let my cattle alone. And I slaved like a driven nigger,
day in and day out, brandin' calves all day long in the dust, with
the sun that hot, the brandin' iron 'ud mark without puttin' it in
the fire at all. And then down comes the tick, and kills my cattle
by the hundred, dyin' and perishin' all over the place. And what
lived through it I couldn't sell anywhere, because they won't let
tick-infested cattle go south, and the Dutch won't let us ship 'em
north to Java, the wretches! And then Mr. Grant's debt was over
everything; and at last I had to chuck it up. That's how I got
broke, Mister. I hope you'll have better luck."
While he was delivering this harangue, Carew had been taking notes
of the establishment. There was just a rough table, three boxes
to sit on, a meat safe, a few buckets, and a rough set of shelves,
supporting a dipper and a few tin plates, and tins of jam, while in
the corner stood some rifles and a double-barrelled gun.
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