The Margaret store was the only feature in the landscape--a small
building with a heap of empty bottles in the immediate foreground,
and all round it the grim bush, a vista of weird twisted trees
and dull grey earth with scanty grass. At the back were a well, a
windlass, and a trough for water, round which about a hundred goats
were encamped. Hugh sat and smoked, and looked at the prospect.
By-and-by out of the bush came two men, a Chinaman and a white man.
The Chinaman was like all Chinamen; the white man was a fiery,
red-faced, red-bearded, red-nosed little fellow. The Chinee
was dragging a goat along by the horns, the goat hanging back and
protesting loudly in semi-human screams; every now and again a black
mongrel dog would make sudden fiendish dashes at the captive, and
fasten its teeth in its neck. This made it bellow louder; but the
Chinaman, with the impassibility of his race, dragged goat, dog,
and all along, without the slightest show of interest.
The white man trudged ahead, staring fixedly in front; when they
reached the store he stared at Hugh as if he were the Bunyip, but said
no word. Then he unlocked the door, went in, and came out with a
large knife, with which he proceeded to murder the goat scientifically.
The Chinee meanwhile bailed up the rest of the animals, and caught
and milked a couple of "nannies," while a patriarchal old "billy"
walked fragrantly round the yard, uttering hoarse "buukhs" of
defiance.
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