Australian Tales - Setis

fandangoes from the tea-tree scrub just behind you,” said the thief, “and
now I mean to make you cut capers to quite another tune. You first spoil
all my traps with your filthy kit, and then you have the impudence to
laugh at me, till you frighten my horse. Now I'll see how you laugh under
my particular tickle.”
“Arrah! laugh did ye mane? shure thin isn't it crying I've bin, honey, till
I'm nigh broken hearted?”
“Give me no more of your blarney,” roared the bushranger. “Didn't I
see you hopping about my swag, like a cannibal round his cookery?”
“Troth thin, you'd hop too, I'm thinking, sir,” said Micky, “if ye'd git
Saint Vitus's dance as bad as I have.”
“Oh, you've got that lively disorder too, have you? You must be
shocking bad; but I'll see if I can cure you.”
“Thankee, sir,” said Mick, trembling. “I shall always owe you
somethin. You're a good gintleman, an I shall niver forget yez.”
“Shoulder the bundle,” shouted the bushranger.
“That's jist what I was goin to do sir, whin ye come back agin,” said
Micky, hoisting the bundle on his back. “Troth it's mighty heavy, so it is.
I'm afeard your horse wouldn't ha run away from the troopers wid this
load on his back, sir.”
“Now march along before me — double quick time,” said the thief;
“and if you speak another word I'll blow your head off, so take warning.”
“Sorra anither worrd will I spake, sir, good or bad,” whined Micky.
“But pray don't hurt me head; it aches awful jist now. Mine's a very bad
head, so it is.”
After a short march through the bush they came to a creek, the waters
of which were running bank high, and foaming and bubbling as if they
were boiling hot.
“Now,” said the ruffian, “pitch those mangy swags into the creek; they
want washing.”
“I'd rayther carry em home an wash em wid soft soap if you plaze, sir,”
said poor Mick, trembling with terror.
“Would you though?” sneered the thief. “I'll save your soft soap. In
with them. I can't bear the smell of them any longer.”
“Och hone! pity a poor old cripple, and jist let me take out me pills. I'm
gettin very bad agin, sir. Wud ye be ginerous enough to let me save me
pills, yer honour.”
“No, not if they'd save you from scratching your hide off; pitch them
in, pills and all, or in you go yourself.” As the ruffian thundered out this
alternative he fired off another shot, which blew the top of Micky's hat to
tatters.
“Ow, ow, ow! murther!” groaned Micky. “There they go, sir, there they
go;” and away went the swags, rolling over and over in the turbid waters
of the creek.