The retriever， finding the front door shut against him， hadbounded round and in by the back way， and now stood smilingin the doorway leading from the passage， the cartridge still inhis mouth and the fuse spluttering. They burst out of that bar.
Tommy bounded first after one and then after another， for，being a young dog， he tried to make friends with everybody.
The Bushmen ran round corners， and some shut themselvesin the stable. There was a new weather-board and corrugatedironkitchen and wash-house on piles in the back-yard， withsome women washing clothes inside. Dave and the publicanbundled in there and shut the door—the publican cursing Daveand calling him a crimson fool， in hurried tones， and wantingto know what the hell he came here for.
The retriever went in under the kitchen， amongst the piles，but， luckily for those inside， there was a vicious yellowmongrel cattle-dog sulking and nursing his nastiness underthere—a sneaking， fighting， thieving canine， whom neighbourshad tried for years to shoot or poison. Tommy saw hisdanger—he’d had experience from this dog—and started outand across the yard， still sticking to the cartridge. Half-wayacross the yard the yellow dog caught him and nipped him.
Tommy dropped the cartridge， gave one terrified yell， and tookto the Bush. The yellow dog followed him to the fence andthen ran back to see what he had dropped.
Nearly a dozen other dogs came from round all the cornersand under the buildings—spidery， thievish， cold-bloodedkangaroo-dogs， mongrel sheep- and cattle-dogs， vicious blackand yellow dogs—that slip after you in the dark， nip yourheels， and vanish without explaining—and yapping， yelpingsmall fry. They kept at a respectable distance round the nastyyellow dog， for it was dangerous to go near him when hethought he had found something which might be good fora dog to eat. He sniffed at the cartridge twice， and was justtaking a third cautious sniff when—
It was very good blasting powder—a new brand that Davehad recently got up from Sydney； and the cartridge had beenexcellently well made. Andy was very patient and painstakingin all he did， and nearly as handy as the average sailor withneedles， twine， canvas， and rope.
Bushmen say that that kitchen jumped off its piles and onagain. When the smoke and dust cleared away， the remains ofthe nasty yellow dog were lying against the paling fence ofthe yard looking as if he had been kicked into a fire by a horseand afterwards rolled in the dust under a barrow， and finallythrown against the fence from a distance. Several saddlehorses，which had been ’hanging-up’ round the verandah， weregalloping wildly down the road in clouds of dust， with brokenbridle-reins flying； and from a circle round the outskirts， fromevery point of the compass in the scrub， came the yelping ofdogs. Two of them went home， to the place where they wereborn， thirty miles away， and reached it the same night and stayedthere； it was not till towards evening that the rest came backcautiously to make inquiries. One was trying to walk on twolegs， and most of ’em looked more or less singed； and a little，singed， stumpy-tailed dog， who had been in the habit of hoppingthe back half of him along on one leg， had reason to be glad thathe’d saved up the other leg all those years， for he needed it now.
There was one old one-eyed cattle-dog round that shanty foryears afterwards， who couldn’t stand the smell of a gun beingcleaned. He it was who had taken an interest， only second tothat of the yellow dog， in the cartridge. Bushmen said that itwas amusing to slip up on his blind side and stick a dirty ramrodunder his nose： he wouldn’t wait to bring his solitary eye tobear—he’d take to the Bush and stay out all night.
For half an hour or so after the explosion there were severalBushmen round behind the stable who crouched， doubled up，against the wall， or rolled gently on the dust， trying to laughwithout shrieking. There were two white women in hystericsat the house， and a half-caste rushing aimlessly round with adipper of cold water. The publican was holding his wife tightand begging her between her squawks， to ‘hold up for mysake， Mary， or I’ll lam the life out of ye.’
Dave decided to apologise later on， ‘when things had settleda bit，’ and went back to camp. And the dog that had done it all，‘Tommy’， the great， idiotic mongrel retriever， came slobberinground Dave and lashing his legs with his tail， and trotted homeafter him， smiling his broadest， longest， and reddest smile ofamiability， and apparently satisfied for one afternoon with thefun he’d had.
Andy chained the dog up securely， and cooked some morechops， while Dave went to help Jim out of the hole.
And most of this is why， for years afterwards， lanky， easygoingBushmen， riding lazily past Dave’s camp， would cry， ina lazy drawl and with just a hint of the nasal twang—‘‘El-lo， Da-a-ve！ How’s the fishin’ getting on， Da-a-ve？’