"
Further damper and "Lot's wife" for dinner, and an afternoon of thirst,
set us all dreading supper, and about sundown three very thirsty, forlorn
white folk were standing by the duck-under below "Knock-up camp," waiting
for the Quiet Stockman, and hoping against hope that his meat had not
"turned on him"; and when he and his "boys" came jangling down the
opposite bank, and splashing and plunging over the "duckunder" below,
driving a great mob of horses before them we assailed him with questions.
But although Jack's meat was "chucked out days ago" he was merciful to us
and shouted out: "Will a dozen boiled duck do instead? 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.
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