Again Tom sought advice, acting upon which he slit the cows' ears, cut
their tails half off to bleed them, and poured pints of "pain
killer" into them through their nostrils; but they wouldn't make an
effort, except, perhaps, to rise and poke the selector when he tried
to tempt their appetites with slices of immature pumpkin. They died
peacefully and persistently, until all were gone save a certain
dangerous, barren, slab-sided luny bovine with white eyes and much
agility in jumping fences, who was known locally as Queen Elizabeth.

Tom shot Queen Elizabeth, and turned his attention to agriculture
again. Then his plough horses took bad with some thing the Teuton
called "der shtranguls." He submitted them to a course of treatment
in accordance with Jacob's advice--and they died.

Even then Tom didn't give in--there was grit in that man. He borrowed
a broken-down dray-horse in return for its keep, coupled it with his
own old riding hack, and started to finish ploughing. The team wasn't
a success. Whenever the draught horse's knees gave way and he
stumbled forward, he jerked the lighter horse back into the plough,
and something would break. Then Tom would blaspheme till he was
refreshed, mend up things with wire and bits of clothes-line, fill his
pockets with stones to throw at the team, and start again. Finally he
hired a dummy's child to drive the horses. The brat did his best he
tugged at the head of the team, prodded it behind, heaved rocks at it,
cut a sapling, got up his enthusiasm, and wildly whacked the light
horse whenever the other showed signs of moving--but he never
succeeded in starting both horses at one and the same time. Moreover
the youth was cheeky, and the selector's temper had been soured: he
cursed the boy along with the horses, the plough, the selection, the