A rouseabout is an unskilled labourer who works the board where the old shearers stand.
A New Zealander had joined The Man’s team. A gun snagger who should help finish the clip early. The Man would hump his bluey earlier than expected. Unused smile muscles might become activated?
The grazier was a floor walker. An affable bloke, but his shed didn’t reflect his personality. Tension flourished, driven by snaggers striving for ringer status – the fastest shearer.
Three shearers, Rousy and a Guesser (wool classer) sweated under the tin roof. A ratio of three to one on the floor. The floor walker’s nephew clocked in once. A lounge-about. Only lasted a day.
No time for a breather between each snagger shoving his wool-less and often bloodied jumbuck between his legs, down the shute into the branding yard. Rousy swooped on the fleece, gathered it in a circular motion, charged to the classing table, and tossed it into the air. The Guesser got to work.
Rivers of perspiration ran down Rousy’s face.
“Clean the floor!” yelled The Man. “Get this bloody thing outa my way!”
The Man kicked a fleece to the side of his stand, making it even more difficult to gather.
Soft hands take hold of the wool at the front legs before gathering. If it breaks into pieces the Guesser hates that. Don’t upset the Guesser. He (usually a bloke) thinks the snaggers lack class.
In his disproportionate and unfathomable anger, The Man had made a jumble of the fleece. It took Rousy a few seconds to rearrange the mess before tossing it. No time to rest. Back on the board to sweep the sheep dung and remnants of fleece to the side.
Rousy noticed the Kiwi had a bare-bellied yoe; enough time for a swig from the water bag. Actually, half a swig …. “Sheep-O!” yelled The Man.
Rousy scrambled into the large holding pen to rouse more jumbucks into The Man’s pen. More rivers of perspiration.
The Man finished his last victim, burst through the gates to grab the nearest jumbuck, leaving another fleece on the board. Rousy rushed to gather it. Too late. This one was kicked to the side too. The Man spluttered a few expletives, and in an accusatory tone growled, “You’re loading my pen with daggy jumbucks, boy!”
Perhaps.
After the morning session, the snaggers sharpened their combs and then shoveled down tucker sent from the homestead by the babbling brook. At least it was edible. The stuff dished up by the bait layer at the last cut-out was barely so.
No rest for Rousy, he was obliged to count the shorn jumbucks. Gleefully, he announced the morning tally.
“Kiwi is five up on second placed Joe,” he paused for effect, “The Man is two behind him. Kiwi is the ringer.”
The Guesser and the grazier heaped praise on Kiwi. The Man glared at Rousy in silence. He sensed the boy’s amusement.
Unfortunately, Rousy was standing within The Man’s easy reach. In a flash he jumped to his feet, grabbed Rousy by the arms and threatened all sorts of dastardly things.
In seconds he was thrown on his back amongst the dags, dung and remnants of fleece. Kiwi held his arms to the board. Jeans and undies were extracted and tossed nearby, and his legs were held wide apart. Family jewels exposed. The Man stood over Rousy, grease gun in hand.
Raucous laughter followed. “Greasing time.” Amidst the commotion, The Man raised the grease gun into the air like a trophy. Smugly, a moment of reflection on his action, there was enough time for Rousy to get a solid kick on The Man’s leg, just missing his groin. Possibly seeing the venom in Rousy’s eyes he altered plans, grabbed the bucket of branding fluid and smeared exposed testicles with the blue dye. Dye that wouldn’t be removed for weeks.
The Man looked at his artwork, laughed, and pointing at Rousy’s privates announced, “The boy’s got a birthmark.”
During the afternoon session not a word was spoken about the crib-time ‘entertainment’. Everyone simply got on with the task at hand. Rousy contemplated revenge.
At precisely five o’clock the floor walker rang the bell. The shearers finished their last victim and unhooked their gear. The grazier turned off the engine that drove the shearing rods and silence fell upon the shed.
The snaggers unscrewed the combs, slashed them across the bully belt for sharpening, then cleaned and greased their hand pieces ready for tomorrow. The Man removed his Jacky Howe (singlet) and squeezed into a checked flannel shirt he habitually wore at the end of the day.
After a solid day’s work, frothies in hand, the team, sans Rousy but including the Guesser and the grazier, sat in the late afternoon sun where the truck loads the wool bales.
Rousy still had work to do. Inside the wool press he pushed down hard with skinny legs and worked the wool into the edge of the bale. The smell of lanolin would linger on his clothes for weeks.
His penultimate job was to count the jumbucks in the outside pen. Strangely, The Man had slipped further behind.
Rousy performed his final, simple task. He turned to observe The Man’s smug look of satisfaction. Legs dangling over the edge of the loading bay, the team quietly sipped their beer. All except the greedy swiller.
With subdued glee Rousy eye-balled the swiller and announced the result: “Kiwi finished so far in front it doesn’t matter. What really matters is The Man came last.”
Rousy glanced at the Guesser who nodded and winked, fully understanding.
As Rousy expected, The Man couldn’t contain his temper. He jumped to his feet, rage written across his ruddy face. Rousy retreated several paces. The Man charged. Red-eyed and furiously blind he fell over the strategically placed, full bucket of dye. It splashed across his face. A dark blue ‘birthmark’ would linger long.
