and put it away; then he seemed to
brighten suddenly, and said briskly:
"Well, Lizzie! Are you satisfied!"
"Yes, Andy; I'm satisfied."
"Quite sure, now?"
"Yes; I'm quite sure, Andy. I'm
perfectly satisfied."
"Well, then, Lizzie -- it's settled!"
. . . . .
But to-day -- a couple of months after the proposal described above --
Andy had trouble on his mind, and the trouble was connected
with Lizzie Porter. He was putting up a two-rail fence
along the old log-paddock on the frontage, and
working like a man in trouble,
trying to work it off his mind; and
evidently not succeeding --
for the last two panels were out of line. He was ramming a post --
Andy rammed
honestly, from the bottom of the hole, not the last few
shovelfuls
below the surface, as some do. He was ramming the last layer of clay
when a cloud of white dust came along the road, paused,
and drifted or poured off into the scrub, leaving long Dave Bentley,
the horse-breaker, on his last victim.
"'Ello, Andy! Graftin'?"
"I want to speak to you, Dave," said Andy, in a strange voice.
"All -- all right!" said Dave, rather puzzled. He got down,
wondering what was up, and hung his horse to the last post but one.
Dave was Andy's opposite in one respect: he jumped to
conclusions,
as women do; but,
unlike women, he was
mostly wrong. He was
an old chum and mate of Andy's who had always liked, admired, and trusted him.
But now, to his
helpless surprise, Andy went on scraping the earth
from the surface with his long-handled
shovel, and heaping it conscientiously
round the butt of the post, his face like a block of wood,
and his lips set
grimly. Dave broke out first (with bush oaths):
"What's the matter with you? Spit it out! What have I been doin' to you?
What's yer got yer rag out about, anyway?"
Andy faced him suddenly, with
hatred for "funny business"
flashing in his eyes.
"What did you say to my sister Mary about Lizzie Porter?"
Dave started; then he
whistled long and low. "Spit it all out, Andy!"
he advised.
"You said she was travellin' with a feller!"
"Well, what's the harm in that? Everybody knows that --"
"If any crawler says a word about Lizzie Porter -- look here,
me and you's got to fight, Dave Bentley!" Then, with still greater vehemence,
as though he had a share in the
garment: "Take off that coat!"
"Not if I know it!" said Dave, with the sudden quietness that comes
to brave but headstrong and
impulsive men at a
critical moment:
"Me and you ain't goin' to fight, Andy; and" (with sudden energy)
"if you try it on I'll knock you into jim-rags!"
Then, stepping close to Andy and
taking him by the arm:
"Andy, this thing will have to be fixed up. Come here;
I want to talk to you." And he led him some paces aside,
inside the
boundary line, which seemed a ludicrously unnecessary precaution,
seeing that there was no one within sight or
hearing save Dave's horse.
"Now, look here, Andy; let's have it over. What's the matter
with you and Lizzie Porter?"
"I'M travellin' with her, that's all; and we're going to get married
in two years!"
Dave gave vent to another long, low
whistle. He seemed to think
and make up his mind.
"Now, look here, Andy: we're old mates, ain't we?"
"Yes; I know that."
"And do you think I'd tell you a blanky lie, or crawl behind your back?
Do you? Spit it out!"
"N--no, I don't!"
"I've always stuck up for you, Andy, and -- why, I've fought for you
behind your back!"
"I know that, Dave."
"There's my hand on it!"
Andy took his friend's hand
mechanically, but gripped it hard.
"Now, Andy, I'll tell you straight: It's Gorstruth about Lizzie Porter!"
They stood as they were for a full minute, hands clasped;
Andy with his jaw dropped and staring in a dazed sort of way at Dave.
He raised his disengaged hand
helplessly to his
thatch, gulped suspiciously,
and asked in a broken voice:
"How -- how do you know it, Dave?"
"Know it? Andy, I SEEN 'EM MESELF!"
"You did, Dave?" in a tone that suggested sorrow more than anger
at Dave's part in the
seeing of them.
"Gorstruth, Andy!"