Dave Regan and party -- bush-fencers, tank-sinkers, rough carpenters, &c. -- were finishing the third and last culvert of their contract on the last section of the new railway line, and had already sent in their vouchers for the completed contract, so that there might be no excuse for extra delay in connection with the cheque.
Now it had been expressly stipulated in the plans and specifications that the timber for certain beams and girders was to be iron-bark and no other, and Government inspectors were authorised to order the removal from the ground of any timber or material they might deem inferior, or not in accordance with the stipulations. The railway contractor's foreman and inspector of sub-contractors was a practical man and a bushman, but he had been a timber-getter himself; his sympathies were bushy, and he was on winking terms with Dave Regan. Besides, extended time was expiring, and the contractors were in a hurry to complete the line.
But the Government inspector was a reserved man who poked round on his independent own and appeared in lonely spots at unexpected times -- with apparently no definite object in life -- like a grey kangaroo bothered by a new wire fence, but unsuspicious of the presence of humans.
He wore a grey suit, rode, or mostly led, an ashen-grey horse; the grass was long and grey, so he was seldom spotted until he was well within the horizon and bearing leisurely down on a party of sub-contractors, leading his horse.
Now iron-bark was scarce and distant on those ridges, and another timber, similar in appearance, but much inferior in grain and "standing" quality, was plentiful and close at hand. Dave and party were "about full of" the job and place, and wanted to get their cheque and be gone to another "spec" they had in view. So they came to reckon they'd get the last girder from a handy tree, and have it squared, in place, and carefully and conscientiously tarred before the inspector happened along, if he did. But they didn't. They got it squared, and ready to be lifted into its place; the kindly darkness of tar was ready to cover a fraud that took four strong men with crowbars and levers to shift; and now (such is the regular cussedness of things) as the fraudulent piece of timber lay its last hour on the ground, looking and smelling, to their guilty imaginations like anything but iron-bark, they were aware of the Government inspector drifting down upon them obliquely, with something of the atmosphere of a casual Bill or Jim who had dropped out of his easy-going track to see how they were getting on, and borrow a match. They had more than half hoped that, as he had visited them pretty frequently during the progress of the work, and knew how near it was to completion, he wouldn't bother coming any more.
But it's the way with the Government. You might move heaven and earth in vain endeavour to get the "Guvermunt" to flutter an eyelash over something of the most momentous importance to yourself and mates and the district -- even to the country; but just when you are leaving authority severely alone, and have strong reasons for not wanting to worry or interrupt it, and not desiring it to worry about you, it will take a fancy into its head to come along and bother.
"It's always the way!" muttered Dave to his mates. "I knew the beggar would turn up! . . . And the only cronk log we've had, too!" he added, in an injured tone. "If this had 'a' been the only blessed iron-bark in the whole contract, it would have been all right. . . .
Good-day, sir!" (to the inspector). "It's hot?"
The inspector nodded. He was not of an impulsive nature.
He got down from his horse and looked at the girder in an abstracted way; and presently there came into his eyes a dreamy, far-away, sad sort of expression, as if there had been a very sad and painful occurrence in his family, way back in the past, and that piece of timber in some way reminded him of it and brought the old sorrow home to him.
He blinked three times, and asked, in a subdued tone:
"Is that iron-bark?"
Jack Bentley, the fluent liar of the party, caught his breath with a jerk and coughed, to cover the gasp and gain time. "I--iron-bark?
Of course it is! I thought you would know iron-bark, mister."
(Mister was silent.) "What else d'yer think it is?"
The dreamy, abstracted expression was back. The inspector, by-the-way, didn't know much about timber, but he had a great deal of instinct, and went by it when in doubt.
"L--look here, mister!" put in Dave Regan, in a tone of innocent puzzlement and with a blank bucolic face. "B--but don't the plans and specifications say iron-bark? Ours does, anyway. I--I'll git the papers from the tent and show yer, if yer like."
It was not necessary. The inspector admitted the fact slowly. He stooped, and with an absent air picked up a chip. He looked at it abstractedly for a moment, blinked his threefold blink; then, seeming to recollect an appointment, he woke up suddenly and asked briskly:
"Did this chip come off that girder?"
Blank silence. The inspector blinked six times, divided in threes, rapidly, mounted his horse, said "Day," and rode off.
Regan and party stared at each other.
"Wha--what did he do that for?" asked Andy Page, the third in the party.
"Do what for, you fool?" enquired Dave.
"Ta--take that chip for?"
"He's taking it to the office!" snarled Jack Bentley.
"What--what for? What does he want to do that for?"
"To get it blanky well analysed! You ass! Now are yer satisfied?"
