And so, with a few cases of hysterics to occupy the
attention of the younger women, some whimpering of frightened children
and comforting or chastened nagging by mothers, some unwonted prayers
muttered secretly and forgettingly, and a good deal of subdued
blasphemy, Cunnamulla sank to its troubled slumbers--some of the
sleepers in the commercial and billiard-rooms and parlours at the
Royal, to start up in a cold sweat, out of their beery and hypnotic
nightmares, to find Harry Chatswood making elaborate and fearsome
passes over them with his long, gaunt arms and hands, and a flaming
red table-cloth tied round his neck.
To be done with old Mac, for the present. He made one or two more
trips, but always by daylight, taking care to pick up a swagman or a
tramp when he had no passenger; but his "conveections" had had too
much of a shaking, so he sold his turnout (privately and at a
distance, for it was beginning to be called "the haunted van") and
returned to his teams--always keeping one of the lads with him for
company. He reckoned it would take the devil's own hypnotism to move
a load of fencingwire, or pull a wool-team of bullocks out of a bog;
and before he invoked the ungodly power, which he let them believe he
could--he'd stick there and starve till he and his bullocks died a
"natural" death. (He was a bit Irish--as all Scots are--back on one
side.)
But the strangest is to come. The Professor, next morning, proved
uncomfortably unsociable, and though he could have done a roaring
business that night--and for a week of nights after, for that
matter--and though he was approached several times, he, for some
mysterious reason known only to himself, flatly refused to give one
more performance, and said he was leaving the town that day.
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