to learn how, I suppose. And those towny clothes aren’t going to be any use as the weather cools.
“Poor devil, didn’t even find it easy saying thanks, and I can understand that. Out the monk under that hedge of Jim Dickey’s, and he wakes to find half a dozen sheep standing over him. Probably thought they were going to eat him!” Andy chuckled, but Jack could hear something else in his voice.
“Old Drumble,” he said, and he had to cough to clear his throat. “Andy, you said Old Drumble was still onthe other bank of the Piako. At Pipiroa. How did he get across?”
“Now where was I up to? Something about that colossal wall of water collapsing, and looking for me pipe, and Old Drumble still on the other bank.” Andy turned from looking back at the swagger making his way up the road towards the factory.
“How did Old Drumble get across the Piako?” His dry leathery brown face crumpled and creased and grinned at Jack.
“Where we just got across dry-footed, there’s a torrent of dirty water thirty feet deep, and them huge waves bucketing downstream between us and Old Drumble on the other bank.”
“How did he get across?” Jack asked again.
“I asks meself the very same question,” said Andy. “How is that Old Drumble going to get across?”
Chapter Twenty
How Old Drumble Got Across
the Flooded Piako, How He Made a
Proper Pig of Himself at the Copper Maori,
and Why He Couldn’t Bark Again
When They Got to Pipiroa With the Steers.
“N O TROUBLE to Old Drumble,” said Andy. “He takes a deep breath, grabs hold of his nose with one paw, and dives head first into the flood.”
“Did he get drowned?”
“Old Drumble’s too cunning for that, Jack. He dog-paddles across under water—all them rough waves are just on the surface of the river, you see—comes to the top, scrambles up the bank our side, shakes himself and takes up the lead, and the sheep follow him towards Kopu.
“We stop up the road, once Old Drumble’s dried out, light a fire, and fry half a dozen big flounder—that’s what I picked up out of the dry river-bed and stuffed down me shirt. You see the water’s tidal there, so the flatties come up on the incoming tide.
“ ‘That wasn’t a bad idea of yours,’ I tell Old Drumble, ‘holding the river up with your bark,’ and he winks atme and helps himself to another flattie.
“A few days,” said Andy to Jack, “and we’ve turned out them sheep on the new grass up the Tapu Valley. The cocky’s that pleased to see them, he puts down a copper Maori for us: wild pork, kumaras, pumpkin, and spuds.
“Now pumpkin’s one of Old Drumble’s favourites, specially hangied. Come to think of it, if he’s got a fault, it’s that he’s got no self-control at all, not when it comes to pumpkin out of a copper Maori.
“The only trouble with pumpkin,” Andy told Jack, “it holds the heat. Many’s the time I’ve warned the greedy old fool to give it time to cool but, no, he’s got to get stuck into it, stuffing it down his gob with both paws before the cocky has time to uncover the rest of the hangi.
“Not only that, but the old guts is tearing into the pork. There’s more wild pigs up the Tapu Valley than you could point a stick at. The cocky’s put several weaners and a couple of fat maiden sows in the copper Maori, and Old Drumble’s scoffing away, lips drawn back off his teeth, so he can rip into the pork without getting them burnt.
“Before the old coot’s finished feeding his face, he’s bright orange with pumpkin all over his coat, and greasy with pork fat from the tips of his ears to the white tuft on the tip of his tail. His table manners aren’t the best; I know your mother wouldn’t approve, Jack. In fact, youcould say Old Drumble makes a right pig of himself.
“The cocky can’t believe how much pumpkin Old Drumble puts away. He shoves his hat on to the back of his head and speaks in a slow sort of voice: I can still hear him.
“ ‘I wouldn’t of
“Poor devil, didn’t even find it easy saying thanks, and I can understand that. Out the monk under that hedge of Jim Dickey’s, and he wakes to find half a dozen sheep standing over him. Probably thought they were going to eat him!” Andy chuckled, but Jack could hear something else in his voice.
“Old Drumble,” he said, and he had to cough to clear his throat. “Andy, you said Old Drumble was still onthe other bank of the Piako. At Pipiroa. How did he get across?”
“Now where was I up to? Something about that colossal wall of water collapsing, and looking for me pipe, and Old Drumble still on the other bank.” Andy turned from looking back at the swagger making his way up the road towards the factory.
“How did Old Drumble get across the Piako?” His dry leathery brown face crumpled and creased and grinned at Jack.
“Where we just got across dry-footed, there’s a torrent of dirty water thirty feet deep, and them huge waves bucketing downstream between us and Old Drumble on the other bank.”
“How did he get across?” Jack asked again.
“I asks meself the very same question,” said Andy. “How is that Old Drumble going to get across?”
Chapter Twenty
How Old Drumble Got Across
the Flooded Piako, How He Made a
Proper Pig of Himself at the Copper Maori,
and Why He Couldn’t Bark Again
When They Got to Pipiroa With the Steers.
“N O TROUBLE to Old Drumble,” said Andy. “He takes a deep breath, grabs hold of his nose with one paw, and dives head first into the flood.”
“Did he get drowned?”
“Old Drumble’s too cunning for that, Jack. He dog-paddles across under water—all them rough waves are just on the surface of the river, you see—comes to the top, scrambles up the bank our side, shakes himself and takes up the lead, and the sheep follow him towards Kopu.
“We stop up the road, once Old Drumble’s dried out, light a fire, and fry half a dozen big flounder—that’s what I picked up out of the dry river-bed and stuffed down me shirt. You see the water’s tidal there, so the flatties come up on the incoming tide.
“ ‘That wasn’t a bad idea of yours,’ I tell Old Drumble, ‘holding the river up with your bark,’ and he winks atme and helps himself to another flattie.
“A few days,” said Andy to Jack, “and we’ve turned out them sheep on the new grass up the Tapu Valley. The cocky’s that pleased to see them, he puts down a copper Maori for us: wild pork, kumaras, pumpkin, and spuds.
“Now pumpkin’s one of Old Drumble’s favourites, specially hangied. Come to think of it, if he’s got a fault, it’s that he’s got no self-control at all, not when it comes to pumpkin out of a copper Maori.
“The only trouble with pumpkin,” Andy told Jack, “it holds the heat. Many’s the time I’ve warned the greedy old fool to give it time to cool but, no, he’s got to get stuck into it, stuffing it down his gob with both paws before the cocky has time to uncover the rest of the hangi.
“Not only that, but the old guts is tearing into the pork. There’s more wild pigs up the Tapu Valley than you could point a stick at. The cocky’s put several weaners and a couple of fat maiden sows in the copper Maori, and Old Drumble’s scoffing away, lips drawn back off his teeth, so he can rip into the pork without getting them burnt.
“Before the old coot’s finished feeding his face, he’s bright orange with pumpkin all over his coat, and greasy with pork fat from the tips of his ears to the white tuft on the tip of his tail. His table manners aren’t the best; I know your mother wouldn’t approve, Jack. In fact, youcould say Old Drumble makes a right pig of himself.
“The cocky can’t believe how much pumpkin Old Drumble puts away. He shoves his hat on to the back of his head and speaks in a slow sort of voice: I can still hear him.
“ ‘I wouldn’t of
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