The pace was warm for a
mile, but then, the dread of pursuit having evaporated, the marauders
slowed down, and for the rest of the journey they were experienced
drovers bringing down the largest lot of stock that had ever been handled
by man, full of technical phrases and big talk of runs, and plains, and
flooded rivers, and long, waterless spells. It was Jacker Mack who
sounded the first note of dismay.
'Jee-rusalem! How 'bout the toll?'
Nobody had thought of the toll-bar, and there were the big, white gates
already in sight, stretching across the road, threatening to bring dismal
failure upon the expedition when complete success seemed imminent.
'Down with the fence!' ordered the implacable Moonlighter.
In two minutes the boys had found a weak set of rails in the fence, and
shortly after the goats were being driven across Wilson's paddock,
cutting off a great corner, and heading for the farmer's gates that
opened out on to the open country on which Waddy was built. Through these
gates the flock was driven with a racket and hullaballoo that set
Wilson's half-dozen dogs yapping insanely, and started every rooster on
the farm crowing in shrill protestation. Then helter-skelter over the
flat the goats were swept in on the township and left to their own
devices, whilst a dozen weary, dusty, triumphant small boys stole back to
bed through unlatched windows and doors carefully left open for a
stealthy return.
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