After Thinking The Matter Well Out, Dan Decided He Was "What You Might
Call A Tail-Less Tyke." "We've Had To Manage Without Any Wagging,
Haven't We, Brown, Old Chap?" He Said, Unconscious Of The Note In His
Voice That Told Of Lonely Years And Vague Longings.
As Brown acknowledged this reference to himself, by stirring the circle
of hairs that expressed his sentiments to the world, Dan further proved
the expansiveness of the Maluka's simile.
"You might have noticed," he went on, "that when a dog does own a tail he
generally manages to keep it out of the fight somehow." (In marriage as
Dan had known it, strong men had stood between their women and the sharp
cuffs and blows of life; "keeping her out of the fight somehow.") Then
the procession preparing to re-form, as the Maluka, catching Roper,
mounted me again, Dan completely rounded off the simile. "Dogs seem able
to wrestle through somehow without a tail," he said, "but I reckon a
tail 'ud have a bit of a job getting along without a dog." As usual,
Dan's whimsical fancy had burrowed deep into the heart of a great truth;
for, in spite of what "tails" may say, how few there are of us who have
any desire to "get along without the dog."
We left the water-hole about five o'clock, and riding into the Stirling
camp at sundown, found the Dandy there, busy at the fire, with a dozen or
so of large silver fish spread out on green leaves beside him.
"Good enough!" Dan cried at the first sight of them, and the Dandy
explained that the boys had caught "shoals of 'em" at his dinner-camp at
the Fish Hole, assuring us that the water there was "stiff with 'em."
But the Dandy had been busy elsewhere. "Good enough!" Dan had said at
the sight of the fish, and pointing to a billy full of clear, sweet water
that was just thinking of boiling, the Maluka echoed the sentiment if not
the words.
"Dug a soakage along the creek a bit and got it," the Dandy explained;
and as we blessed him for his thoughtfulness, he lifted up a clean cloth
and displayed a pile of crisp Johnny cakes. "Real slap up ones," he
assured us, breaking open one of the crisp, spongy rolls. It was always
a treat to be in camp with the Dandy: everything about the man was so
crisp and clean and wholesome.
As we settled down to supper, the Fizzer came shouting through the
ant-hills, and, soon after, the Quiet Stockman rode into camp. Our
Fizzer was always the Fizzer. "Managed to escape without help?" he
shouted in welcome as he came to the camp fire, alluding to his promise
"to do a rescue"; and then he surveyed our supper. "Struck it lucky, as
usual," he declared, helping himself to a couple of fish from the fire
and breaking open one of the crisp Johnny cakes.
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