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"Ole Sollicker." "Couldn't you get them from him yourself?" "I did n't try. I was glad to see them goin'; on'y I begun to think after, thinks I, it 's a pity o' the poor misforchunate carrion walkin' all that way, free gracious for nothin'; an' p'r'aps a trip to Booligal pound on top of it; an' them none too fat. But I 'm glad for Alf. I hate that beggar.
Five gone out o' eighteen since then, an' three more dead if they on'y know'd it. Good for trade, I s'pose." "Had any supper?" asked Thompson. "Well, no. Run out o' tucker to-day, an' reckoned I'd do till I foun' time to go to Booligal to-morrow." While three or four of the fellows placed their eatables before Cartwright, Thompson remarked: "You gave me a bit of a start.
The connection of Tamar the Hammerhead, who cut the Grass Bank out of the forest, with Timothy Gibbs, of Booligal, in New South Wales, may not be clear at first sight. Tam's beech forest covered two or three green hills in Gaul at the time when Caius Sulpicius, and his working party of the Tenth Legion, were laying down new paving stones on the big road from Amiens over the hill-tops.
Later, a wild night of driving rain, and flashes, and crashes, and black forms struggling in the mud against the glint of flares on slimy white crater edges, left things still uncertain. It was there that Tim Gibbs came in and Booligal. Tradition in New South Wales puts the climate of Hay, Hell, and Booligal in that order.
"The Huns must have had a dug-out down there, Bill," he added, pointing to certain splintered, buried timber at the foot of the bank. Now there may be no such place as the Grass Bank; and there may have been no Hammerhead nor Tim Gibbs; and he did not come from Booligal. But the story is true to this extent that it happens all the time upon this battlefield. France, December 20th.
Tell Warrigal Alf his carrion's on the road for Yoongoolee yards, horse an' all; an' from there they'll go to Booligal pound if he ain't smart. I met them just now." "Where shall I find Alf?" "Ain't his wagon bitin' you there in the clear? You ain't a bad hand at sleepin' no, I 'm beggared if you are. I bin bellerin' at you for two hours, dash near." "Who has got the bullocks, Mosey?"
When they came to a sea of brown mud waves, which some cynic had misnamed the "Grass Bank," it was not Tim who volunteered to take it. He had been in far too many hot corners to retain any of his old hankering after them, and the Grass Bank was hotter than Booligal.
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