believed it,’ he tells me, ‘if I hadn’t seen it with me own eyes!’
“We sleep off our big feed and, first thing next morning, we’ve got the steers moving on their way up to the Auckland sales. Old Drumble’s burnt his throat, stuffing down all that hot pumpkin, so he’s not going to be doing any barking in a hurry. I’m only surprised he didn’t burn his paws, too, but they seem okay—at least, he’s not limping any.
“You know,” said Andy, “I’m riding Nosy behind the steers, and still finding it a bit hard to believe the way Old Drumble got the sheep across the Piako at Pipiroa. But it happened all right, I know.”
“How did you know?” asked Jack.
“I know,” said Andy, “because, as we’re driving them steers down the Thames coast, my ears are still ringing from that thundering bark he used to stop the river. Nearly time for you to leave us, Jack.”
“Tell us the rest of the story before we get to the cemetery? ”
“Then we’d best take it easy.” Andy whistled and, up ahead, Old Drumble slowed the mob.
“As we head towards Auckland,” said Andy, “there’s heavy rain all the way from Kopu, and a cloudburst up the Plains, Ngatea way, so the Piako’s going to be carrying a fair bit of water, but we expect they’ll have shifted the scow, so the ferry should be working and we can get the steers across.
“You wouldn’t believe it, Jack, but we get the steers as far as Pipiroa, and they’ve dumped the sand over the side of the scow, but the flood’s lifted and swung her hard in, and jammed her rubbing strake under the ferry’s rubbing strake, what you call the belting. The noise is something dreadful, the two boats screeching, grinding, and tearing bits off each other. Nosy sticks her fingers in her ears; of course, a horse is fairly sensitive in the ear, as you know.”
Jack nodded.
“The crew’s just used the scow’s punt to carry a hawser across the river, taken it round a big macrocarpa this side and made it fast; and they’re going to try and winch the scow off the ferry, but they can’t do it till the flood’s gone down. It looks like we’ll have to get the steers across the Piako ourselves, if we’re going to get them up to Auckland in time for the sales. That cocky up the Tapu Valley, he’s not going to be too pleased, if we don’t get him a decent price because we’re late.”
“Did Old Drumble stop the river with his bark again?” Jack asked.
Andy shook his head. “I told you how he burnt his throat. The useless old coot’s not going to be doing any barking for a couple of weeks.
“Not only that but, as we was bringing the steers down the coast, he disappears at Puru, north of Thames, and he doesn’t show up again till we’re coming past Totara Vineyards, several miles south of the town. I’ve just whipped into the vineyard and bought meself a bottle of Stanley Young Chan’s port wine to rub on the inside of me throat for the rheumatism, when Old Drumble catches up with us, and he looks a proper shambles.
“Would you believe it, the wicked old sinner, he’s done a pub crawl along Pohlen Street! Had a beer in every pub, he reckons, all eighty-six of them. Then he thinks for a while and croaks, ‘No, I counted a hundred and twenty.’”
“A hundred and twenty pubs!” said Jack.
“He’s lying!” said Andy. “There might have been a hundred and twenty pubs along Pohlen Street in the good old days when the Thames was flush with gold and kauri, but there’s nothing like that number now. All the same, Old Drumble’s had a skinful.
“Like I was saying, Jack, we gets to Pipiroa, and Old Drumble can’t bark, and no wonder. Not just with scoffing hot pumpkin out of the hangi, and then tipping all that booze down his gullet. That’s not all by a long shot. He’s been smoking, too, and tobacco’s harder ona dog’s throat than hot pumpkin. Old Drumble’s got no show of stopping the river with his bark.”
“Did you swim the
“We sleep off our big feed and, first thing next morning, we’ve got the steers moving on their way up to the Auckland sales. Old Drumble’s burnt his throat, stuffing down all that hot pumpkin, so he’s not going to be doing any barking in a hurry. I’m only surprised he didn’t burn his paws, too, but they seem okay—at least, he’s not limping any.
“You know,” said Andy, “I’m riding Nosy behind the steers, and still finding it a bit hard to believe the way Old Drumble got the sheep across the Piako at Pipiroa. But it happened all right, I know.”
“How did you know?” asked Jack.
“I know,” said Andy, “because, as we’re driving them steers down the Thames coast, my ears are still ringing from that thundering bark he used to stop the river. Nearly time for you to leave us, Jack.”
“Tell us the rest of the story before we get to the cemetery? ”
“Then we’d best take it easy.” Andy whistled and, up ahead, Old Drumble slowed the mob.
“As we head towards Auckland,” said Andy, “there’s heavy rain all the way from Kopu, and a cloudburst up the Plains, Ngatea way, so the Piako’s going to be carrying a fair bit of water, but we expect they’ll have shifted the scow, so the ferry should be working and we can get the steers across.
“You wouldn’t believe it, Jack, but we get the steers as far as Pipiroa, and they’ve dumped the sand over the side of the scow, but the flood’s lifted and swung her hard in, and jammed her rubbing strake under the ferry’s rubbing strake, what you call the belting. The noise is something dreadful, the two boats screeching, grinding, and tearing bits off each other. Nosy sticks her fingers in her ears; of course, a horse is fairly sensitive in the ear, as you know.”
Jack nodded.
“The crew’s just used the scow’s punt to carry a hawser across the river, taken it round a big macrocarpa this side and made it fast; and they’re going to try and winch the scow off the ferry, but they can’t do it till the flood’s gone down. It looks like we’ll have to get the steers across the Piako ourselves, if we’re going to get them up to Auckland in time for the sales. That cocky up the Tapu Valley, he’s not going to be too pleased, if we don’t get him a decent price because we’re late.”
“Did Old Drumble stop the river with his bark again?” Jack asked.
Andy shook his head. “I told you how he burnt his throat. The useless old coot’s not going to be doing any barking for a couple of weeks.
“Not only that but, as we was bringing the steers down the coast, he disappears at Puru, north of Thames, and he doesn’t show up again till we’re coming past Totara Vineyards, several miles south of the town. I’ve just whipped into the vineyard and bought meself a bottle of Stanley Young Chan’s port wine to rub on the inside of me throat for the rheumatism, when Old Drumble catches up with us, and he looks a proper shambles.
“Would you believe it, the wicked old sinner, he’s done a pub crawl along Pohlen Street! Had a beer in every pub, he reckons, all eighty-six of them. Then he thinks for a while and croaks, ‘No, I counted a hundred and twenty.’”
“A hundred and twenty pubs!” said Jack.
“He’s lying!” said Andy. “There might have been a hundred and twenty pubs along Pohlen Street in the good old days when the Thames was flush with gold and kauri, but there’s nothing like that number now. All the same, Old Drumble’s had a skinful.
“Like I was saying, Jack, we gets to Pipiroa, and Old Drumble can’t bark, and no wonder. Not just with scoffing hot pumpkin out of the hangi, and then tipping all that booze down his gullet. That’s not all by a long shot. He’s been smoking, too, and tobacco’s harder ona dog’s throat than hot pumpkin. Old Drumble’s got no show of stopping the river with his bark.”
“Did you swim the
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