But he did rig up fencing-wire for old Mac, the carrier, one night,
though not across the road. Harry, by the way, was a city-born
bushman, who had been everything for some years. Anything from
six-foot-six to six-foot-nine, fourteen stone, and a hard case. He is
a very successful coach-builder now, for he knows the wood, the roads,
and the weak parts in a coach.
It was in the good seasons when competition was keen and men's hearts
were hard--not as it is in times of drought, when there is no
competition, and men's hearts are soft, and there is all kindness and
goodwill between them. He had had much opposition in fighting Cobb &
Co., and his coaches had won through on the outer tracks. There was
little malice in his composition, but when old Mac, the teamster,
turned his teams over to his sons and started a light van for parcels
and passengers from Cunnamulla--that place which always sounds to me
suggestive of pumpkin pies--out in seeming opposition to Harry
Chatswood, Harry was annoyed.
Perhaps Mac only wished to end his days on the road with parcels that
were light and easy to handle (not like loads of fencing wire) and
passengers that were sociable; but he had been doing well with his
teams, and, besides, Harry thought he was after the mail contract: so
Harry was annoyed more than he was injured. Mac was mean with the
money he had not because of the money he had a chance of getting; and
he mostly slept in his van, in all weathers, when away from home
which was kept by his wife about half-way between the half-way house
and the next "township.
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