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Despite Ryan's instructions, his opponents' best efforts, and his own increasingly urgent attempts over the next month, his control remained erratic. Unfortunately his physical condition didn't remain as stable; it worsened steadily. By the end of that time, Medart had lost close to twenty kilos, and the constant pain allowed him only the sleep his body absolutely had to have.
He looked round in desperation for some way of making enough money to buy Jack Ryan's horse and cart, which were still for sale. He could think of nothing but the two-up school, which had swallowed all his spare money before he was married. Since his marriage he had sworn off the school, as he couldn't spare the money with a wife to keep. All his life Chook had lived from hand to mouth.
Shortly after last New Year Ryan's bull had broken loose and gone astray for two days and nights, breaking into neighbours' paddocks and filling himself with hay and damaging other bulls, and making love by night and hiding in the scrub all day.
And so, getting acquainted, and chumming and dozing, with the gums closing over our heads here and there, and the ragged patches of sunlight and shade passing up, over the horses, over us, on the front of the load, over the load, and down on to the white, dusty road again Jim and I got along the lonely Bush road and over the ridges, some fifteen miles before sunset, and camped at Ryan's Crossing on Sandy Creek for the night.
The well-laid plans had carried through to brilliant success, and Ryan's meeting had been converted into a triumph for Ryan's deadly enemy, J. Pinkney Hare. The candidate had sat unobtrusively down in the audience with his friend Miss Carstairs and the child Jenny, spectators all: that was the way they had arranged it.
This man without wife or children, without home other than his wealth and his housekeeper furnished him, was fast taking his confidential clerk into his inner heart. He looked at him a moment, then glanced down at the table. Mr. Ryan's dish of jelly and his own still remained untouched. He spoke impulsively: "Ryan, are you partial to that ill-fated dish beside you?"
What broke his concentration was the insistent repetition of his name. "James! James! It's over stop! James, Jim no more! You've won!" "Huh?" It was Ryan's voice, Medart realized as the power ebbed from him and he slumped to his knees with his head drooped, overwhelmed by pain and exhaustion. "Won I didn't kill him, did I?" "No."
Having read Ryan's letter and slowly scanned the applicants: "What do you know about it?" He nodded at the sluice. "All of nothing," said the Boy. "Does it call for any particular knowing?" asked the Colonel. "Calls for muscle and plenty of keep-at-it." His voice was soft, but as the Colonel looked at him he realized why a hard fellow like Scoville Austin had made this Southerner Superintendent.
I may be wrong, and I do not want to be a killjoy; but we would not wish our friend here to act first and do a lot of sorrowful thinking afterward." It was Wednesday morning when the two visitors left, and the discussions only ended when the door closed upon them. There was not a theological book in Father Ryan's library left unconsulted.
I know yuh to a fare-yuh-well! Brung a cor'ner, did yuh? Tha's all right goin' t' need a cor'ner-but he won't set on Casey Ryan's remains you c'n ask anybody if any cor'ners ever set on Casey Ryan yit! Naw." Casey snarled as contemptuously as was possible to a man in his condition. "No cor'ner ever set on Casey Ryan, an' he ain't goin' to!" The men glanced questioningly at one another.
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