Got fourteen at
one shot this morning, and boiled 'em right off," he explained as we
seized upon his tucker-bags. "Kept a dozen of 'em in case of accidents."
Besides a shot-gun, Jack had much sense.
A dozen cold boiled duck "did" very nicely after four meals of damper and
bloater-paste; and a goodly show they made set out in our mixing dish.
Dan, gloating over them, offered to "do the carving." "I'm real good at
the poultry carving trick, when there's a bird apiece," he chuckled,
spearing bird after bird with a two-pronged fork, and passing round one
apiece as we sat expectantly around the mixing dish, all among the
tucker-bags and camp baggage. And so excellent a sauce is hunger that we
received and enjoyed our "bird apiece" unabashed and unblushingly - the
men-folk returning for further helpings, and the "boys" managing all that
were left.
All agreed that "you couldn't beat cold boiled duck by much"; but in the
morning grilled fish was accepted as "just the thing for breakfast"; then
finding ourselves face to face with Lot's wife, and not too much of that,
we beat a hasty retreat to the homestead; a further opportune "catch" of
duck giving us heart for further brumby encounters and another night's
camp out-bush. Then the following morning as we rode towards the
homestead Dan "reckoned" that from an educational point of view the trip
had been a pronounced success.
