diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:24 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:24 -0700 |
| commit | 5d24e9d9e5016db832470128886628f4a6768e4b (patch) | |
| tree | 1c1df4fde3e09675cd867830e3aeac0ef462092b /1036-h | |
Diffstat (limited to '1036-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 1036-h/1036-h.htm | 11190 |
1 files changed, 11190 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/1036-h/1036-h.htm b/1036-h/1036-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..941fc3f --- /dev/null +++ b/1036-h/1036-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11190 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Joe Wilson and his Mates, by Henry Lawson + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1036 ***</div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Henry Lawson + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + Transcriber’s Note: This etext was entered twice (manually) and + electronically compared, by Alan R. Light This method assures a low rate + of errors in the text—often lower than in the original. Special + thanks go to Gary M. Johnson, of Takoma Park, Maryland, for his assistance + in procuring a copy of the original text, and to the readers of + soc.culture.australian and rec.arts.books (USENET newsgroups) for their + help in preparing the glossary. Italicized words or phrases are + capitalized. Some obvious errors may have been corrected. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + An incomplete glossary of Australian, British, or antique terms and + concepts which may prove helpful to understanding this book: + </p> + <p> + “A house where they took in cards on a tray” (from Joe Wilson’s + Courtship): An upper class house, with servants who would take a visitor’s + card (on a tray) to announce their presence, or, if the family was out, to + keep a record of the visit. + </p> + <p> + Anniversary Day: Mentioned in the text, is now known as Australia Day. It + commemorates the establishment of the first English settlement in + Australia, at Port Jackson (Sydney Harbour), on 26 January 1788. + </p> + <p> + Gin: An obvious abbreviation of “aborigine”, it only refers to *female* + aborigines, and is now considered derogatory. It was not considered + derogatory at the time Lawson wrote. + </p> + <p> + Jackaroo: At the time Lawson wrote, a Jackaroo was a “new chum” or + newcomer to Australia, who sought work on a station to gain experience. + The term now applies to any young man working as a station hand. A female + station hand is a Jillaroo. Variant: Jackeroo. + </p> + <p> + Old-fashioned child: A child that acts old for their age. Americans would + say ‘Precocious’. + </p> + <p> + ‘Possum: In Australia, a class of marsupials that were originally mistaken + for possums. They are not especially related to the possums of North and + South America, other than both being marsupials. + </p> + <p> + Public/Pub.: The traditional pub. in Australia was a hotel with a “public” + bar—hence the name. The modern pub has often (not always) dispensed + with the lodging, and concentrated on the bar. + </p> + <p> + Tea: In addition to the regular meaning, Tea can also mean a light snack + or a meal (i.e., where Tea is served). In particular, Morning Tea (about + 10 AM) and Afternoon Tea (about 3 PM) are nothing more than a snack, but + Evening Tea (about 6 PM) is a meal. When just “Tea” is used, it usually + means the evening meal. Variant: Tea-time. + </p> + <p> + Tucker: Food. + </p> + <p> + Shout: In addition to the regular meaning, it also refers to buying drinks + for all the members of a group, etc. The use of this term can be + confusing, so the first instance is footnoted in the text. + </p> + <p> + Sly-grog-shop: An unlicensed bar or liquor-store. + </p> + <p> + Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + </p> + <p> + Store Bullock: Lawson makes several references to these. A bullock is a + castrated bull. Bullocks were used in Australia for work that was too + heavy for horses. ‘Store’ may refer to those cattle, and their + descendants, brought to Australia by the British government, and sold to + settlers from the ‘Store’—hence, the standard draft animal. + </p> + <p> + Also: a hint with the seasons—remember that the seasons are reversed + from those in the northern hemisphere, hence June may be hot, but December + is even hotter. Australia is at a lower latitude than the United States, + so the winters are not harsh by US standards, and are not even mild in the + north. In fact, large parts of Australia are governed more by “dry” versus + “wet” than by Spring-Summer-Fall-Winter. + </p> + <p> + —A. L. <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES + </h1> + <p> + Author of “While the Billy Boils”, “On the Track and Over the Sliprails”, + “When the World was Wide, and other verses”, “Verses, Popular and + Humorous”, “Children of the Bush”, “When I was King, and other verses”, + etc. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Author’s Farewell to the Bushmen. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Some carry their swags in the Great North-West + Where the bravest battle and die, + And a few have gone to their last long rest, + And a few have said “Good-bye!” + The coast grows dim, and it may be long + Ere the Gums again I see; + So I put my soul in a farewell song + To the chaps who barracked for me. + + Their days are hard at the best of times, + And their dreams are dreams of care— + God bless them all for their big soft hearts, + And the brave, brave grins they wear! + God keep me straight as a man can go, + And true as a man may be! + For the sake of the hearts that were always so, + Of the men who had faith in me! + + And a ship-side word I would say, you chaps + Of the blood of the Don’t-give-in! + The world will call it a boast, perhaps— + But I’ll win, if a man can win! + And not for gold nor the world’s applause— + Though ways to the end they be— + I’ll win, if a man might win, because + Of the men who believed in me. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> The Author’s Farewell to the Bushmen. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART"> <b>Part I.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> Joe Wilson’s Courtship. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> Brighten’s Sister-In-Law. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> ‘Water Them Geraniums’. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> I. A Lonely Track. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> II. ‘Past Carin’’. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> A Double Buggy at Lahey’s Creek. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> I. Spuds, and a Woman’s Obstinacy. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> II. Joe Wilson’s Luck. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> III. The Ghost of Mary’s Sacrifice. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> IV. The Buggy Comes Home. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> The Writer Wants to Say a Word. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <b>Part II.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> The Golden Graveyard. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> The Chinaman’s Ghost. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> The Loaded Dog. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> Poisonous Jimmy Gets Left. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> I. Dave Regan’s Yarn. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> II. Told by One of the Other Drovers. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> The Ghostly Door. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> A Wild Irishman. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> The Babies in the Bush. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> A Bush Dance. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> The Buck-Jumper. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> Jimmy Grimshaw’s Wooing. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> At Dead Dingo. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> Telling Mrs Baker. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> The Little World Left Behind. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> The Never-Never Country. </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PART" id="link2H_PART"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + Part I. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Joe Wilson’s Courtship. + </h2> + <p> + There are many times in this world when a healthy boy is happy. When he is + put into knickerbockers, for instance, and ‘comes a man to-day,’ as my + little Jim used to say. When they’re cooking something at home that he + likes. When the ‘sandy-blight’ or measles breaks out amongst the children, + or the teacher or his wife falls dangerously ill—or dies, it doesn’t + matter which—‘and there ain’t no school.’ When a boy is naked and in + his natural state for a warm climate like Australia, with three or four of + his schoolmates, under the shade of the creek-oaks in the bend where + there’s a good clear pool with a sandy bottom. When his father buys him a + gun, and he starts out after kangaroos or ‘possums. When he gets a horse, + saddle, and bridle, of his own. When he has his arm in splints or a stitch + in his head—he’s proud then, the proudest boy in the district. + </p> + <p> + I wasn’t a healthy-minded, average boy: I reckon I was born for a poet by + mistake, and grew up to be a Bushman, and didn’t know what was the matter + with me—or the world—but that’s got nothing to do with it. + </p> + <p> + There are times when a man is happy. When he finds out that the girl loves + him. When he’s just married. When he’s a lawful father for the first time, + and everything is going on all right: some men make fools of themselves + then—I know I did. I’m happy to-night because I’m out of debt and + can see clear ahead, and because I haven’t been easy for a long time. + </p> + <p> + But I think that the happiest time in a man’s life is when he’s courting a + girl and finds out for sure that she loves him and hasn’t a thought for + any one else. Make the most of your courting days, you young chaps, and + keep them clean, for they’re about the only days when there’s a chance of + poetry and beauty coming into this life. Make the best of them and you’ll + never regret it the longest day you live. They’re the days that the wife + will look back to, anyway, in the brightest of times as well as in the + blackest, and there shouldn’t be anything in those days that might hurt + her when she looks back. Make the most of your courting days, you young + chaps, for they will never come again. + </p> + <p> + A married man knows all about it—after a while: he sees the woman + world through the eyes of his wife; he knows what an extra moment’s + pressure of the hand means, and, if he has had a hard life, and is + inclined to be cynical, the knowledge does him no good. It leads him into + awful messes sometimes, for a married man, if he’s inclined that way, has + three times the chance with a woman that a single man has—because + the married man knows. He is privileged; he can guess pretty closely what + a woman means when she says something else; he knows just how far he can + go; he can go farther in five minutes towards coming to the point with a + woman than an innocent young man dares go in three weeks. Above all, the + married man is more decided with women; he takes them and things for + granted. In short he is—well, he is a married man. And, when he + knows all this, how much better or happier is he for it? Mark Twain says + that he lost all the beauty of the river when he saw it with a pilot’s + eye,—and there you have it. + </p> + <p> + But it’s all new to a young chap, provided he hasn’t been a young + blackguard. It’s all wonderful, new, and strange to him. He’s a different + man. He finds that he never knew anything about women. He sees none of + woman’s little ways and tricks in his girl. He is in heaven one day and + down near the other place the next; and that’s the sort of thing that + makes life interesting. He takes his new world for granted. And, when she + says she’ll be his wife——! + </p> + <p> + Make the most of your courting days, you young chaps, for they’ve got a + lot of influence on your married life afterwards—a lot more than + you’d think. Make the best of them, for they’ll never come any more, + unless we do our courting over again in another world. If we do, I’ll make + the most of mine. + </p> + <p> + But, looking back, I didn’t do so badly after all. I never told you about + the days I courted Mary. The more I look back the more I come to think + that I made the most of them, and if I had no more to regret in married + life than I have in my courting days, I wouldn’t walk to and fro in the + room, or up and down the yard in the dark sometimes, or lie awake some + nights thinking.... Ah well! + </p> + <p> + I was between twenty-one and thirty then: birthdays had never been any use + to me, and I’d left off counting them. You don’t take much stock in + birthdays in the Bush. I’d knocked about the country for a few years, + shearing and fencing and droving a little, and wasting my life without + getting anything for it. I drank now and then, and made a fool of myself. + I was reckoned ‘wild’; but I only drank because I felt less sensitive, and + the world seemed a lot saner and better and kinder when I had a few + drinks: I loved my fellow-man then and felt nearer to him. It’s better to + be thought ‘wild’ than to be considered eccentric or ratty. Now, my old + mate, Jack Barnes, drank—as far as I could see—first because + he’d inherited the gambling habit from his father along with his father’s + luck: he’d the habit of being cheated and losing very bad, and when he + lost he drank. Till drink got a hold on him. Jack was sentimental too, but + in a different way. I was sentimental about other people—more fool + I!—whereas Jack was sentimental about himself. Before he was + married, and when he was recovering from a spree, he’d write rhymes about + ‘Only a boy, drunk by the roadside’, and that sort of thing; and he’d call + ‘em poetry, and talk about signing them and sending them to the ‘Town and + Country Journal’. But he generally tore them up when he got better. The + Bush is breeding a race of poets, and I don’t know what the country will + come to in the end. + </p> + <p> + Well. It was after Jack and I had been out shearing at Beenaway shed in + the Big Scrubs. Jack was living in the little farming town of Solong, and + I was hanging round. Black, the squatter, wanted some fencing done and a + new stable built, or buggy and harness-house, at his place at Haviland, a + few miles out of Solong. Jack and I were good Bush carpenters, so we took + the job to keep us going till something else turned up. ‘Better than doing + nothing,’ said Jack. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s a nice little girl in service at Black’s,’ he said. ‘She’s more + like an adopted daughter, in fact, than a servant. She’s a real good + little girl, and good-looking into the bargain. I hear that young Black is + sweet on her, but they say she won’t have anything to do with him. I know + a lot of chaps that have tried for her, but they’ve never had any luck. + She’s a regular little dumpling, and I like dumplings. They call her + ‘Possum. You ought to try a bear up in that direction, Joe.’ + </p> + <p> + I was always shy with women—except perhaps some that I should have + fought shy of; but Jack wasn’t—he was afraid of no woman, good, bad, + or indifferent. I haven’t time to explain why, but somehow, whenever a + girl took any notice of me I took it for granted that she was only playing + with me, and felt nasty about it. I made one or two mistakes, but—ah + well! + </p> + <p> + ‘My wife knows little ‘Possum,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll get her to ask her out to + our place and let you know.’ + </p> + <p> + I reckoned that he wouldn’t get me there then, and made a note to be on + the watch for tricks. I had a hopeless little love-story behind me, of + course. I suppose most married men can look back to their lost love; few + marry the first flame. Many a married man looks back and thinks it was + damned lucky that he didn’t get the girl he couldn’t have. Jack had been + my successful rival, only he didn’t know it—I don’t think his wife + knew it either. I used to think her the prettiest and sweetest little girl + in the district. + </p> + <p> + But Jack was mighty keen on fixing me up with the little girl at Haviland. + He seemed to take it for granted that I was going to fall in love with her + at first sight. He took too many things for granted as far as I was + concerned, and got me into awful tangles sometimes. + </p> + <p> + ‘You let me alone, and I’ll fix you up, Joe,’ he said, as we rode up to + the station. ‘I’ll make it all right with the girl. You’re rather a + good-looking chap. You’ve got the sort of eyes that take with girls, only + you don’t know it; you haven’t got the go. If I had your eyes along with + my other attractions, I’d be in trouble on account of a woman about once + a-week.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘For God’s sake shut up, Jack,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + Do you remember the first glimpse you got of your wife? Perhaps not in + England, where so many couples grow up together from childhood; but it’s + different in Australia, where you may hail from two thousand miles away + from where your wife was born, and yet she may be a countrywoman of yours, + and a countrywoman in ideas and politics too. I remember the first glimpse + I got of Mary. + </p> + <p> + It was a two-storey brick house with wide balconies and verandahs all + round, and a double row of pines down to the front gate. Parallel at the + back was an old slab-and-shingle place, one room deep and about eight + rooms long, with a row of skillions at the back: the place was used for + kitchen, laundry, servants’ rooms, &c. This was the old homestead + before the new house was built. There was a wide, old-fashioned, + brick-floored verandah in front, with an open end; there was ivy climbing + up the verandah post on one side and a baby-rose on the other, and a + grape-vine near the chimney. We rode up to the end of the verandah, and + Jack called to see if there was any one at home, and Mary came trotting + out; so it was in the frame of vines that I first saw her. + </p> + <p> + More than once since then I’ve had a fancy to wonder whether the rose-bush + killed the grape-vine or the ivy smothered ‘em both in the end. I used to + have a vague idea of riding that way some day to see. You do get strange + fancies at odd times. + </p> + <p> + Jack asked her if the boss was in. He did all the talking. I saw a little + girl, rather plump, with a complexion like a New England or Blue Mountain + girl, or a girl from Tasmania or from Gippsland in Victoria. Red and white + girls were very scarce in the Solong district. She had the biggest and + brightest eyes I’d seen round there, dark hazel eyes, as I found out + afterwards, and bright as a ‘possum’s. No wonder they called her + ‘’Possum’. I forgot at once that Mrs Jack Barnes was the prettiest girl in + the district. I felt a sort of comfortable satisfaction in the fact that I + was on horseback: most Bushmen look better on horseback. It was a black + filly, a fresh young thing, and she seemed as shy of girls as I was + myself. I noticed Mary glanced in my direction once or twice to see if she + knew me; but, when she looked, the filly took all my attention. Mary + trotted in to tell old Black he was wanted, and after Jack had seen him, + and arranged to start work next day, we started back to Solong. + </p> + <p> + I expected Jack to ask me what I thought of Mary—but he didn’t. He + squinted at me sideways once or twice and didn’t say anything for a long + time, and then he started talking of other things. I began to feel wild at + him. He seemed so damnably satisfied with the way things were going. He + seemed to reckon that I was a gone case now; but, as he didn’t say so, I + had no way of getting at him. I felt sure he’d go home and tell his wife + that Joe Wilson was properly gone on little ‘Possum at Haviland. That was + all Jack’s way. + </p> + <p> + Next morning we started to work. We were to build the buggy-house at the + back near the end of the old house, but first we had to take down a rotten + old place that might have been the original hut in the Bush before the old + house was built. There was a window in it, opposite the laundry window in + the old place, and the first thing I did was to take out the sash. I’d + noticed Jack yarning with ‘Possum before he started work. While I was at + work at the window he called me round to the other end of the hut to help + him lift a grindstone out of the way; and when we’d done it, he took the + tips of my ear between his fingers and thumb and stretched it and + whispered into it— + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t hurry with that window, Joe; the strips are hardwood and hard to + get off—you’ll have to take the sash out very carefully so as not to + break the glass.’ Then he stretched my ear a little more and put his mouth + closer— + </p> + <p> + ‘Make a looking-glass of that window, Joe,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + I was used to Jack, and when I went back to the window I started to puzzle + out what he meant, and presently I saw it by chance. + </p> + <p> + That window reflected the laundry window: the room was dark inside and + there was a good clear reflection; and presently I saw Mary come to the + laundry window and stand with her hands behind her back, thoughtfully + watching me. The laundry window had an old-fashioned hinged sash, and I + like that sort of window—there’s more romance about it, I think. + There was thick dark-green ivy all round the window, and Mary looked + prettier than a picture. I squared up my shoulders and put my heels + together and put as much style as I could into the work. I couldn’t have + turned round to save my life. + </p> + <p> + Presently Jack came round, and Mary disappeared. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well?’ he whispered. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re a fool, Jack,’ I said. ‘She’s only interested in the old house + being pulled down.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on the business + round the corner, and she ain’t interested when I’M round this end.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You seem mighty interested in the business,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Jack. ‘This sort of thing just suits a man of my rank in times + of peace.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What made you think of the window?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, that’s as simple as striking matches. I’m up to all those dodges. + Why, where there wasn’t a window, I’ve fixed up a piece of looking-glass + to see if a girl was taking any notice of me when she thought I wasn’t + looking.’ + </p> + <p> + He went away, and presently Mary was at the window again, and this time + she had a tray with cups of tea and a plate of cake and bread-and-butter. + I was prizing off the strips that held the sash, very carefully, and my + heart suddenly commenced to gallop, without any reference to me. I’d never + felt like that before, except once or twice. It was just as if I’d + swallowed some clockwork arrangement, unconsciously, and it had started to + go, without warning. I reckon it was all on account of that blarsted Jack + working me up. He had a quiet way of working you up to a thing, that made + you want to hit him sometimes—after you’d made an ass of yourself. + </p> + <p> + I didn’t hear Mary at first. I hoped Jack would come round and help me out + of the fix, but he didn’t. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr—Mr Wilson!’ said Mary. She had a sweet voice. + </p> + <p> + I turned round. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought you and Mr Barnes might like a cup of tea.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, thank you!’ I said, and I made a dive for the window, as if hurry + would help it. I trod on an old cask-hoop; it sprang up and dinted my shin + and I stumbled—and that didn’t help matters much. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! did you hurt yourself, Mr Wilson?’ cried Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hurt myself! Oh no, not at all, thank you,’ I blurted out. ‘It takes more + than that to hurt me.’ + </p> + <p> + I was about the reddest shy lanky fool of a Bushman that was ever taken at + a disadvantage on foot, and when I took the tray my hands shook so that a + lot of the tea was spilt into the saucers. I embarrassed her too, like the + damned fool I was, till she must have been as red as I was, and it’s a + wonder we didn’t spill the whole lot between us. I got away from the + window in as much of a hurry as if Jack had cut his leg with a chisel and + fainted, and I was running with whisky for him. I blundered round to where + he was, feeling like a man feels when he’s just made an ass of himself in + public. The memory of that sort of thing hurts you worse and makes you + jerk your head more impatiently than the thought of a past crime would, I + think. + </p> + <p> + I pulled myself together when I got to where Jack was. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here, Jack!’ I said. ‘I’ve struck something all right; here’s some tea + and brownie—we’ll hang out here all right.’ + </p> + <p> + Jack took a cup of tea and a piece of cake and sat down to enjoy it, just + as if he’d paid for it and ordered it to be sent out about that time. + </p> + <p> + He was silent for a while, with the sort of silence that always made me + wild at him. Presently he said, as if he’d just thought of it— + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s a very pretty little girl, ‘Possum, isn’t she, Joe? Do you notice + how she dresses?—always fresh and trim. But she’s got on her best + bib-and-tucker to-day, and a pinafore with frills to it. And it’s + ironing-day, too. It can’t be on your account. If it was Saturday or + Sunday afternoon, or some holiday, I could understand it. But perhaps one + of her admirers is going to take her to the church bazaar in Solong + to-night. That’s what it is.’ + </p> + <p> + He gave me time to think over that. + </p> + <p> + ‘But yet she seems interested in you, Joe,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you offer + to take her to the bazaar instead of letting another chap get in ahead of + you? You miss all your chances, Joe.’ + </p> + <p> + Then a thought struck me. I ought to have known Jack well enough to have + thought of it before. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Jack,’ I said. ‘What have you been saying to that girl about + me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, not much,’ said Jack. ‘There isn’t much to say about you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What did you tell her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, nothing in particular. She’d heard all about you before.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She hadn’t heard much good, I suppose,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, that’s true, as far as I could make out. But you’ve only got + yourself to blame. I didn’t have the breeding and rearing of you. I + smoothed over matters with her as much as I could.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What did you tell her?’ I said. ‘That’s what I want to know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, to tell the truth, I didn’t tell her anything much. I only answered + questions.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what questions did she ask?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, in the first place, she asked if your name wasn’t Joe Wilson; and I + said it was, as far as I knew. Then she said she heard that you wrote + poetry, and I had to admit that that was true.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Jack,’ I said, ‘I’ve two minds to punch your head.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And she asked me if it was true that you were wild,’ said Jack, ‘and I + said you was, a bit. She said it seemed a pity. She asked me if it was + true that you drank, and I drew a long face and said that I was sorry to + say it was true. She asked me if you had any friends, and I said none that + I knew of, except me. I said that you’d lost all your friends; they stuck + to you as long as they could, but they had to give you best, one after the + other.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What next?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She asked me if you were delicate, and I said no, you were as tough as + fencing-wire. She said you looked rather pale and thin, and asked me if + you’d had an illness lately. And I said no—it was all on account of + the wild, dissipated life you’d led. She said it was a pity you hadn’t a + mother or a sister to look after you—it was a pity that something + couldn’t be done for you, and I said it was, but I was afraid that nothing + could be done. I told her that I was doing all I could to keep you + straight.’ + </p> + <p> + I knew enough of Jack to know that most of this was true. And so she only + pitied me after all. I felt as if I’d been courting her for six months and + she’d thrown me over—but I didn’t know anything about women yet. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you tell her I was in jail?’ I growled. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, by Gum! I forgot that. But never mind I’ll fix that up all right. + I’ll tell her that you got two years’ hard for horse-stealing. That ought + to make her interested in you, if she isn’t already.’ + </p> + <p> + We smoked a while. + </p> + <p> + ‘And was that all she said?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who?—Oh! ‘Possum,’ said Jack rousing himself. ‘Well—no; let + me think—— We got chatting of other things—you know a + married man’s privileged, and can say a lot more to a girl than a single + man can. I got talking nonsense about sweethearts, and one thing led to + another till at last she said, “I suppose Mr Wilson’s got a sweetheart, Mr + Barnes?”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what did you say?’ I growled. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I told her that you were a holy terror amongst the girls,’ said Jack. + ‘You’d better take back that tray, Joe, and let us get to work.’ + </p> + <p> + I wouldn’t take back the tray—but that didn’t mend matters, for Jack + took it back himself. + </p> + <p> + I didn’t see Mary’s reflection in the window again, so I took the window + out. I reckoned that she was just a big-hearted, impulsive little thing, + as many Australian girls are, and I reckoned that I was a fool for + thinking for a moment that she might give me a second thought, except by + way of kindness. Why! young Black and half a dozen better men than me were + sweet on her, and young Black was to get his father’s station and the + money—or rather his mother’s money, for she held the stuff (she kept + it close too, by all accounts). Young Black was away at the time, and his + mother was dead against him about Mary, but that didn’t make any + difference, as far as I could see. I reckoned that it was only just going + to be a hopeless, heart-breaking, stand-far-off-and-worship affair, as far + as I was concerned—like my first love affair, that I haven’t told + you about yet. I was tired of being pitied by good girls. You see, I + didn’t know women then. If I had known, I think I might have made more + than one mess of my life. + </p> + <p> + Jack rode home to Solong every night. I was staying at a pub some distance + out of town, between Solong and Haviland. There were three or four wet + days, and we didn’t get on with the work. I fought shy of Mary till one + day she was hanging out clothes and the line broke. It was the old-style + sixpenny clothes-line. The clothes were all down, but it was clean grass, + so it didn’t matter much. I looked at Jack. + </p> + <p> + ‘Go and help her, you capital Idiot!’ he said, and I made the plunge. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson!’ said Mary, when I came to help. She had the + broken end of the line and was trying to hold some of the clothes off the + ground, as if she could pull it an inch with the heavy wet sheets and + table-cloths and things on it, or as if it would do any good if she did. + But that’s the way with women—especially little women—some of + ‘em would try to pull a store bullock if they got the end of the rope on + the right side of the fence. I took the line from Mary, and accidentally + touched her soft, plump little hand as I did so: it sent a thrill right + through me. She seemed a lot cooler than I was. + </p> + <p> + Now, in cases like this, especially if you lose your head a bit, you get + hold of the loose end of the rope that’s hanging from the post with one + hand, and the end of the line with the clothes on with the other, and try + to pull ‘em far enough together to make a knot. And that’s about all you + do for the present, except look like a fool. Then I took off the post end, + spliced the line, took it over the fork, and pulled, while Mary helped me + with the prop. I thought Jack might have come and taken the prop from her, + but he didn’t; he just went on with his work as if nothing was happening + inside the horizon. + </p> + <p> + She’d got the line about two-thirds full of clothes, it was a bit short + now, so she had to jump and catch it with one hand and hold it down while + she pegged a sheet she’d thrown over. I’d made the plunge now, so I + volunteered to help her. I held down the line while she threw the things + over and pegged out. As we got near the post and higher I straightened out + some ends and pegged myself. Bushmen are handy at most things. We laughed, + and now and again Mary would say, ‘No, that’s not the way, Mr Wilson; + that’s not right; the sheet isn’t far enough over; wait till I fix it,’ + &c. I’d a reckless idea once of holding her up while she pegged, and I + was glad afterwards that I hadn’t made such a fool of myself. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s only a few more things in the basket, Miss Brand,’ I said. ‘You + can’t reach—I’ll fix ‘em up.’ + </p> + <p> + She seemed to give a little gasp. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, those things are not ready yet,’ she said, ‘they’re not rinsed,’ and + she grabbed the basket and held it away from me. The things looked the + same to me as the rest on the line; they looked rinsed enough and blued + too. I reckoned that she didn’t want me to take the trouble, or thought + that I mightn’t like to be seen hanging out clothes, and was only doing it + out of kindness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, it’s no trouble,’ I said, ‘let me hang ‘em out. I like it. I’ve hung + out clothes at home on a windy day,’ and I made a reach into the basket. + But she flushed red, with temper I thought, and snatched the basket away. + </p> + <p> + ‘Excuse me, Mr Wilson,’ she said, ‘but those things are not ready yet!’ + and she marched into the wash-house. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah well! you’ve got a little temper of your own,’ I thought to myself. + </p> + <p> + When I told Jack, he said that I’d made another fool of myself. He said + I’d both disappointed and offended her. He said that my line was to stand + off a bit and be serious and melancholy in the background. + </p> + <p> + That evening when we’d started home, we stopped some time yarning with a + chap we met at the gate; and I happened to look back, and saw Mary hanging + out the rest of the things—she thought that we were out of sight. + Then I understood why those things weren’t ready while we were round. + </p> + <p> + For the next day or two Mary didn’t take the slightest notice of me, and I + kept out of her way. Jack said I’d disillusioned her—and hurt her + dignity—which was a thousand times worse. He said I’d spoilt the + thing altogether. He said that she’d got an idea that I was shy and + poetic, and I’d only shown myself the usual sort of Bush-whacker. + </p> + <p> + I noticed her talking and chatting with other fellows once or twice, and + it made me miserable. I got drunk two evenings running, and then, as it + appeared afterwards, Mary consulted Jack, and at last she said to him, + when we were together— + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you play draughts, Mr Barnes?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ said Jack. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you, Mr Wilson?’ she asked, suddenly turning her big, bright eyes on + me, and speaking to me for the first time since last washing-day. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I do a little.’ Then there was a silence, and I had to say + something else. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you play draughts, Miss Brand?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but I can’t get any one to play with me here of an + evening, the men are generally playing cards or reading.’ Then she said, + ‘It’s very dull these long winter evenings when you’ve got nothing to do. + Young Mr Black used to play draughts, but he’s away.’ + </p> + <p> + I saw Jack winking at me urgently. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll play a game with you, if you like,’ I said, ‘but I ain’t much of a + player.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson! When shall you have an evening to spare?’ + </p> + <p> + We fixed it for that same evening. We got chummy over the draughts. I had + a suspicion even then that it was a put-up job to keep me away from the + pub. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps she found a way of giving a hint to old Black without committing + herself. Women have ways—or perhaps Jack did it. Anyway, next day + the Boss came round and said to me— + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Joe, you’ve got no occasion to stay at the pub. Bring along + your blankets and camp in one of the spare rooms of the old house. You can + have your tucker here.’ + </p> + <p> + He was a good sort, was Black the squatter: a squatter of the old school, + who’d shared the early hardships with his men, and couldn’t see why he + should not shake hands and have a smoke and a yarn over old times with any + of his old station hands that happened to come along. But he’d married an + Englishwoman after the hardships were over, and she’d never got any + Australian notions. + </p> + <p> + Next day I found one of the skillion rooms scrubbed out and a bed fixed up + for me. I’m not sure to this day who did it, but I supposed that + good-natured old Black had given one of the women a hint. After tea I had + a yarn with Mary, sitting on a log of the wood-heap. I don’t remember + exactly how we both came to be there, or who sat down first. There was + about two feet between us. We got very chummy and confidential. She told + me about her childhood and her father. + </p> + <p> + He’d been an old mate of Black’s, a younger son of a well-to-do English + family (with blue blood in it, I believe), and sent out to Australia with + a thousand pounds to make his way, as many younger sons are, with more or + less. They think they’re hard done by; they blue their thousand pounds in + Melbourne or Sydney, and they don’t make any more nowadays, for the + Roarin’ Days have been dead these thirty years. I wish I’d had a thousand + pounds to start on! + </p> + <p> + Mary’s mother was the daughter of a German immigrant, who selected up + there in the old days. She had a will of her own as far as I could + understand, and bossed the home till the day of her death. Mary’s father + made money, and lost it, and drank—and died. Mary remembered him + sitting on the verandah one evening with his hand on her head, and singing + a German song (the ‘Lorelei’, I think it was) softly, as if to himself. + Next day he stayed in bed, and the children were kept out of the room; + and, when he died, the children were adopted round (there was a little + money coming from England). + </p> + <p> + Mary told me all about her girlhood. She went first to live with a sort of + cousin in town, in a house where they took in cards on a tray, and then + she came to live with Mrs Black, who took a fancy to her at first. I’d had + no boyhood to speak of, so I gave her some of my ideas of what the world + ought to be, and she seemed interested. + </p> + <p> + Next day there were sheets on my bed, and I felt pretty cocky until I + remembered that I’d told her I had no one to care for me; then I suspected + pity again. + </p> + <p> + But next evening we remembered that both our fathers and mothers were + dead, and discovered that we had no friends except Jack and old Black, and + things went on very satisfactorily. + </p> + <p> + And next day there was a little table in my room with a crocheted cover + and a looking-glass. + </p> + <p> + I noticed the other girls began to act mysterious and giggle when I was + round, but Mary didn’t seem aware of it. + </p> + <p> + We got very chummy. Mary wasn’t comfortable at Haviland. Old Black was + very fond of her and always took her part, but she wanted to be + independent. She had a great idea of going to Sydney and getting into the + hospital as a nurse. She had friends in Sydney, but she had no money. + There was a little money coming to her when she was twenty-one—a few + pounds—and she was going to try and get it before that time. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Miss Brand,’ I said, after we’d watched the moon rise. ‘I’ll + lend you the money. I’ve got plenty—more than I know what to do + with.’ + </p> + <p> + But I saw I’d hurt her. She sat up very straight for a while, looking + before her; then she said it was time to go in, and said ‘Good-night, Mr + Wilson.’ + </p> + <p> + I reckoned I’d done it that time; but Mary told me afterwards that she was + only hurt because it struck her that what she said about money might have + been taken for a hint. She didn’t understand me yet, and I didn’t know + human nature. I didn’t say anything to Jack—in fact about this time + I left off telling him about things. He didn’t seem hurt; he worked hard + and seemed happy. + </p> + <p> + I really meant what I said to Mary about the money. It was pure good + nature. I’d be a happier man now, I think, and richer man perhaps, if I’d + never grown any more selfish than I was that night on the wood-heap with + Mary. I felt a great sympathy for her—but I got to love her. I went + through all the ups and downs of it. One day I was having tea in the + kitchen, and Mary and another girl, named Sarah, reached me a clean plate + at the same time: I took Sarah’s plate because she was first, and Mary + seemed very nasty about it, and that gave me great hopes. But all next + evening she played draughts with a drover that she’d chummed up with. I + pretended to be interested in Sarah’s talk, but it didn’t seem to work. + </p> + <p> + A few days later a Sydney Jackaroo visited the station. He had a good + pea-rifle, and one afternoon he started to teach Mary to shoot at a + target. They seemed to get very chummy. I had a nice time for three or + four days, I can tell you. I was worse than a wall-eyed bullock with the + pleuro. The other chaps had a shot out of the rifle. Mary called ‘Mr + Wilson’ to have a shot, and I made a worse fool of myself by sulking. If + it hadn’t been a blooming Jackaroo I wouldn’t have minded so much. + </p> + <p> + Next evening the Jackaroo and one or two other chaps and the girls went + out ‘possum-shooting. Mary went. I could have gone, but I didn’t. I + mooched round all the evening like an orphan bandicoot on a burnt ridge, + and then I went up to the pub and filled myself with beer, and damned the + world, and came home and went to bed. I think that evening was the only + time I ever wrote poetry down on a piece of paper. I got so miserable that + I enjoyed it. + </p> + <p> + I felt better next morning, and reckoned I was cured. I ran against Mary + accidentally and had to say something. + </p> + <p> + ‘How did you enjoy yourself yesterday evening, Miss Brand?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, very well, thank you, Mr Wilson,’ she said. Then she asked, ‘How did + you enjoy yourself, Mr Wilson?’ + </p> + <p> + I puzzled over that afterwards, but couldn’t make anything out of it. + Perhaps she only said it for the sake of saying something. But about this + time my handkerchiefs and collars disappeared from the room and turned up + washed and ironed and laid tidily on my table. I used to keep an eye out, + but could never catch anybody near my room. I straightened up, and kept my + room a bit tidy, and when my handkerchief got too dirty, and I was ashamed + of letting it go to the wash, I’d slip down to the river after dark and + wash it out, and dry it next day, and rub it up to look as if it hadn’t + been washed, and leave it on my table. I felt so full of hope and joy that + I worked twice as hard as Jack, till one morning he remarked casually— + </p> + <p> + ‘I see you’ve made a new mash, Joe. I saw the half-caste cook tidying up + your room this morning and taking your collars and things to the + wash-house.’ + </p> + <p> + I felt very much off colour all the rest of the day, and I had such a bad + night of it that I made up my mind next morning to look the hopelessness + square in the face and live the thing down. + </p> + <p> + It was the evening before Anniversary Day. Jack and I had put in a good + day’s work to get the job finished, and Jack was having a smoke and a yarn + with the chaps before he started home. We sat on an old log along by the + fence at the back of the house. There was Jimmy Nowlett the + bullock-driver, and long Dave Regan the drover, and big Jim Bullock the + fencer, and one or two others. Mary and the station girls and one or two + visitors were sitting under the old verandah. The Jackaroo was there too, + so I felt happy. It was the girls who used to bring the chaps hanging + round. They were getting up a dance party for Anniversary night. Along in + the evening another chap came riding up to the station: he was a big + shearer, a dark, handsome fellow, who looked like a gipsy: it was reckoned + that there was foreign blood in him. He went by the name of Romany. He was + supposed to be shook after Mary too. He had the nastiest temper and the + best violin in the district, and the chaps put up with him a lot because + they wanted him to play at Bush dances. The moon had risen over Pine + Ridge, but it was dusky where we were. We saw Romany loom up, riding in + from the gate; he rode round the end of the coach-house and across towards + where we were—I suppose he was going to tie up his horse at the + fence; but about half-way across the grass he disappeared. It struck me + that there was something peculiar about the way he got down, and I heard a + sound like a horse stumbling. + </p> + <p> + ‘What the hell’s Romany trying to do?’ said Jimmy Nowlett. ‘He couldn’t + have fell off his horse—or else he’s drunk.’ + </p> + <p> + A couple of chaps got up and went to see. Then there was that waiting, + mysterious silence that comes when something happens in the dark and + nobody knows what it is. I went over, and the thing dawned on me. I’d + stretched a wire clothes-line across there during the day, and had + forgotten all about it for the moment. Romany had no idea of the line, + and, as he rode up, it caught him on a level with his elbows and scraped + him off his horse. He was sitting on the grass, swearing in a surprised + voice, and the horse looked surprised too. Romany wasn’t hurt, but the + sudden shock had spoilt his temper. He wanted to know who’d put up that + bloody line. He came over and sat on the log. The chaps smoked a while. + </p> + <p> + ‘What did you git down so sudden for, Romany?’ asked Jim Bullock + presently. ‘Did you hurt yerself on the pommel?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why didn’t you ask the horse to go round?’ asked Dave Regan. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’d only like to know who put up that bleeding wire!’ growled Romany. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ said Jimmy Nowlett, ‘if we’d put up a sign to beware of the line + you couldn’t have seen it in the dark.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Unless it was a transparency with a candle behind it,’ said Dave Regan. + ‘But why didn’t you get down on one end, Romany, instead of all along? It + wouldn’t have jolted yer so much.’ + </p> + <p> + All this with the Bush drawl, and between the puffs of their pipes. But I + didn’t take any interest in it. I was brooding over Mary and the Jackaroo. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve heard of men getting down over their horse’s head,’ said Dave + presently, in a reflective sort of way—‘in fact I’ve done it myself—but + I never saw a man get off backwards over his horse’s rump.’ + </p> + <p> + But they saw that Romany was getting nasty, and they wanted him to play + the fiddle next night, so they dropped it. + </p> + <p> + Mary was singing an old song. I always thought she had a sweet voice, and + I’d have enjoyed it if that damned Jackaroo hadn’t been listening too. We + listened in silence until she’d finished. + </p> + <p> + ‘That gal’s got a nice voice,’ said Jimmy Nowlett. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nice voice!’ snarled Romany, who’d been waiting for a chance to be nasty. + ‘Why, I’ve heard a tom-cat sing better.’ + </p> + <p> + I moved, and Jack, he was sitting next me, nudged me to keep quiet. The + chaps didn’t like Romany’s talk about ‘Possum at all. They were all fond + of her: she wasn’t a pet or a tomboy, for she wasn’t built that way, but + they were fond of her in such a way that they didn’t like to hear anything + said about her. They said nothing for a while, but it meant a lot. Perhaps + the single men didn’t care to speak for fear that it would be said that + they were gone on Mary. But presently Jimmy Nowlett gave a big puff at his + pipe and spoke— + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose you got bit too in that quarter, Romany?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, she tried it on, but it didn’t go,’ said Romany. ‘I’ve met her sort + before. She’s setting her cap at that Jackaroo now. Some girls will run + after anything with trousers on,’ and he stood up. + </p> + <p> + Jack Barnes must have felt what was coming, for he grabbed my arm, and + whispered, ‘Sit still, Joe, damn you! He’s too good for you!’ but I was on + my feet and facing Romany as if a giant hand had reached down and wrenched + me off the log and set me there. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re a damned crawler, Romany!’ I said. + </p> + <p> + Little Jimmy Nowlett was between us and the other fellows round us before + a blow got home. ‘Hold on, you damned fools!’ they said. ‘Keep quiet till + we get away from the house!’ There was a little clear flat down by the + river and plenty of light there, so we decided to go down there and have + it out. + </p> + <p> + Now I never was a fighting man; I’d never learnt to use my hands. I + scarcely knew how to put them up. Jack often wanted to teach me, but I + wouldn’t bother about it. He’d say, ‘You’ll get into a fight some day, + Joe, or out of one, and shame me;’ but I hadn’t the patience to learn. + He’d wanted me to take lessons at the station after work, but he used to + get excited, and I didn’t want Mary to see him knocking me about. Before + he was married Jack was always getting into fights—he generally + tackled a better man and got a hiding; but he didn’t seem to care so long + as he made a good show—though he used to explain the thing away from + a scientific point of view for weeks after. To tell the truth, I had a + horror of fighting; I had a horror of being marked about the face; I think + I’d sooner stand off and fight a man with revolvers than fight him with + fists; and then I think I would say, last thing, ‘Don’t shoot me in the + face!’ Then again I hated the idea of hitting a man. It seemed brutal to + me. I was too sensitive and sentimental, and that was what the matter was. + Jack seemed very serious on it as we walked down to the river, and he + couldn’t help hanging out blue lights. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why didn’t you let me teach you to use your hands?’ he said. ‘The only + chance now is that Romany can’t fight after all. If you’d waited a minute + I’d have been at him.’ We were a bit behind the rest, and Jack started + giving me points about lefts and rights, and ‘half-arms’, and that sort of + thing. ‘He’s left-handed, and that’s the worst of it,’ said Jack. ‘You + must only make as good a show as you can, and one of us will take him on + afterwards.’ + </p> + <p> + But I just heard him and that was all. It was to be my first fight since I + was a boy, but, somehow, I felt cool about it—sort of dulled. If the + chaps had known all they would have set me down as a cur. I thought of + that, but it didn’t make any difference with me then; I knew it was a + thing they couldn’t understand. I knew I was reckoned pretty soft. But I + knew one thing that they didn’t know. I knew that it was going to be a + fight to a finish, one way or the other. I had more brains and imagination + than the rest put together, and I suppose that that was the real cause of + most of my trouble. I kept saying to myself, ‘You’ll have to go through + with it now, Joe, old man! It’s the turning-point of your life.’ If I won + the fight, I’d set to work and win Mary; if I lost, I’d leave the district + for ever. A man thinks a lot in a flash sometimes; I used to get excited + over little things, because of the very paltriness of them, but I was + mostly cool in a crisis—Jack was the reverse. I looked ahead: I + wouldn’t be able to marry a girl who could look back and remember when her + husband was beaten by another man—no matter what sort of brute the + other man was. + </p> + <p> + I never in my life felt so cool about a thing. Jack kept whispering + instructions, and showing with his hands, up to the last moment, but it + was all lost on me. + </p> + <p> + Looking back, I think there was a bit of romance about it: Mary singing + under the vines to amuse a Jackaroo dude, and a coward going down to the + river in the moonlight to fight for her. + </p> + <p> + It was very quiet in the little moonlit flat by the river. We took off our + coats and were ready. There was no swearing or barracking. It seemed an + understood thing with the men that if I went out first round Jack would + fight Romany; and if Jack knocked him out somebody else would fight Jack + to square matters. Jim Bullock wouldn’t mind obliging for one; he was a + mate of Jack’s, but he didn’t mind who he fought so long as it was for the + sake of fair play—or ‘peace and quietness’, as he said. Jim was very + good-natured. He backed Romany, and of course Jack backed me. + </p> + <p> + As far as I could see, all Romany knew about fighting was to jerk one arm + up in front of his face and duck his head by way of a feint, and then rush + and lunge out. But he had the weight and strength and length of reach, and + my first lesson was a very short one. I went down early in the round. But + it did me good; the blow and the look I’d seen in Romany’s eyes knocked + all the sentiment out of me. Jack said nothing,—he seemed to regard + it as a hopeless job from the first. Next round I tried to remember some + things Jack had told me, and made a better show, but I went down in the + end. + </p> + <p> + I felt Jack breathing quick and trembling as he lifted me up. + </p> + <p> + ‘How are you, Joe?’ he whispered. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m all right,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s all right,’ whispered Jack in a voice as if I was going to be + hanged, but it would soon be all over. ‘He can’t use his hands much more + than you can—take your time, Joe—try to remember something I + told you, for God’s sake!’ + </p> + <p> + When two men fight who don’t know how to use their hands, they stand a + show of knocking each other about a lot. I got some awful thumps, but + mostly on the body. Jimmy Nowlett began to get excited and jump round—he + was an excitable little fellow. + </p> + <p> + ‘Fight! you——!’ he yelled. ‘Why don’t you fight? That ain’t + fightin’. Fight, and don’t try to murder each other. Use your crimson + hands or, by God, I’ll chip you! Fight, or I’ll blanky well bullock-whip + the pair of you;’ then his language got awful. They said we went like + windmills, and that nearly every one of the blows we made was enough to + kill a bullock if it had got home. Jimmy stopped us once, but they held + him back. + </p> + <p> + Presently I went down pretty flat, but the blow was well up on the head + and didn’t matter much—I had a good thick skull. And I had one good + eye yet. + </p> + <p> + ‘For God’s sake, hit him!’ whispered Jack—he was trembling like a + leaf. ‘Don’t mind what I told you. I wish I was fighting him myself! Get a + blow home, for God’s sake! Make a good show this round and I’ll stop the + fight.’ + </p> + <p> + That showed how little even Jack, my old mate, understood me. + </p> + <p> + I had the Bushman up in me now, and wasn’t going to be beaten while I + could think. I was wonderfully cool, and learning to fight. There’s + nothing like a fight to teach a man. I was thinking fast, and learning + more in three seconds than Jack’s sparring could have taught me in three + weeks. People think that blows hurt in a fight, but they don’t—not + till afterwards. I fancy that a fighting man, if he isn’t altogether an + animal, suffers more mentally than he does physically. + </p> + <p> + While I was getting my wind I could hear through the moonlight and still + air the sound of Mary’s voice singing up at the house. I thought hard into + the future, even as I fought. The fight only seemed something that was + passing. + </p> + <p> + I was on my feet again and at it, and presently I lunged out and felt such + a jar in my arm that I thought it was telescoped. I thought I’d put out my + wrist and elbow. And Romany was lying on the broad of his back. + </p> + <p> + I heard Jack draw three breaths of relief in one. He said nothing as he + straightened me up, but I could feel his heart beating. He said afterwards + that he didn’t speak because he thought a word might spoil it. + </p> + <p> + I went down again, but Jack told me afterwards that he FELT I was all + right when he lifted me. + </p> + <p> + Then Romany went down, then we fell together, and the chaps separated us. + I got another knock-down blow in, and was beginning to enjoy the novelty + of it, when Romany staggered and limped. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve done,’ he said. ‘I’ve twisted my ankle.’ He’d caught his heel + against a tuft of grass. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shake hands,’ yelled Jimmy Nowlett. + </p> + <p> + I stepped forward, but Romany took his coat and limped to his horse. + </p> + <p> + ‘If yer don’t shake hands with Wilson, I’ll lamb yer!’ howled Jimmy; but + Jack told him to let the man alone, and Romany got on his horse somehow + and rode off. + </p> + <p> + I saw Jim Bullock stoop and pick up something from the grass, and heard + him swear in surprise. There was some whispering, and presently Jim said— + </p> + <p> + ‘If I thought that, I’d kill him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it?’ asked Jack. + </p> + <p> + Jim held up a butcher’s knife. It was common for a man to carry a + butcher’s knife in a sheath fastened to his belt. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why did you let your man fight with a butcher’s knife in his belt?’ asked + Jimmy Nowlett. + </p> + <p> + But the knife could easily have fallen out when Romany fell, and we + decided it that way. + </p> + <p> + ‘Any way,’ said Jimmy Nowlett, ‘if he’d stuck Joe in hot blood before us + all it wouldn’t be so bad as if he sneaked up and stuck him in the back in + the dark. But you’d best keep an eye over yer shoulder for a year or two, + Joe. That chap’s got Eye-talian blood in him somewhere. And now the best + thing you chaps can do is to keep your mouth shut and keep all this dark + from the gals.’ + </p> + <p> + Jack hurried me on ahead. He seemed to act queer, and when I glanced at + him I could have sworn that there was water in his eyes. I said that Jack + had no sentiment except for himself, but I forgot, and I’m sorry I said + it. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s up, Jack?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing,’ said Jack. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s up, you old fool?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing,’ said Jack, ‘except that I’m damned proud of you, Joe, you old + ass!’ and he put his arm round my shoulders and gave me a shake. ‘I didn’t + know it was in you, Joe—I wouldn’t have said it before, or listened + to any other man say it, but I didn’t think you had the pluck—God’s + truth, I didn’t. Come along and get your face fixed up.’ + </p> + <p> + We got into my room quietly, and Jack got a dish of water, and told one of + the chaps to sneak a piece of fresh beef from somewhere. + </p> + <p> + Jack was as proud as a dog with a tin tail as he fussed round me. He fixed + up my face in the best style he knew, and he knew a good many—he’d + been mended himself so often. + </p> + <p> + While he was at work we heard a sudden hush and a scraping of feet amongst + the chaps that Jack had kicked out of the room, and a girl’s voice + whispered, ‘Is he hurt? Tell me. I want to know,—I might be able to + help.’ + </p> + <p> + It made my heart jump, I can tell you. Jack went out at once, and there + was some whispering. When he came back he seemed wild. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it, Jack?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said, ‘only that damned slut of a half-caste cook + overheard some of those blanky fools arguing as to how Romany’s knife got + out of the sheath, and she’s put a nice yarn round amongst the girls. + There’s a regular bobbery, but it’s all right now. Jimmy Nowlett’s telling + ‘em lies at a great rate.’ + </p> + <p> + Presently there was another hush outside, and a saucer with vinegar and + brown paper was handed in. + </p> + <p> + One of the chaps brought some beer and whisky from the pub, and we had a + quiet little time in my room. Jack wanted to stay all night, but I + reminded him that his little wife was waiting for him in Solong, so he + said he’d be round early in the morning, and went home. + </p> + <p> + I felt the reaction pretty bad. I didn’t feel proud of the affair at all. + I thought it was a low, brutal business all round. Romany was a quiet chap + after all, and the chaps had no right to chyack him. Perhaps he’d had a + hard life, and carried a big swag of trouble that we didn’t know anything + about. He seemed a lonely man. I’d gone through enough myself to teach me + not to judge men. I made up my mind to tell him how I felt about the + matter next time we met. Perhaps I made my usual mistake of bothering + about ‘feelings’ in another party that hadn’t any feelings at all—perhaps + I didn’t; but it’s generally best to chance it on the kind side in a case + like this. Altogether I felt as if I’d made another fool of myself and + been a weak coward. I drank the rest of the beer and went to sleep. + </p> + <p> + About daylight I woke and heard Jack’s horse on the gravel. He came round + the back of the buggy-shed and up to my door, and then, suddenly, a girl + screamed out. I pulled on my trousers and ‘lastic-side boots and hurried + out. It was Mary herself, dressed, and sitting on an old stone step at the + back of the kitchen with her face in her hands, and Jack was off his horse + and stooping by her side with his hand on her shoulder. She kept saying, + ‘I thought you were——! I thought you were——!’ I + didn’t catch the name. An old single-barrel, muzzle-loader shot-gun was + lying in the grass at her feet. It was the gun they used to keep loaded + and hanging in straps in a room of the kitchen ready for a shot at a + cunning old hawk that they called ‘’Tarnal Death’, and that used to be + always after the chickens. + </p> + <p> + When Mary lifted her face it was as white as note-paper, and her eyes + seemed to grow wilder when she caught sight of me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, you did frighten me, Mr Barnes,’ she gasped. Then she gave a little + ghost of a laugh and stood up, and some colour came back. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I’m a little fool!’ she said quickly. ‘I thought I heard old ‘Tarnal + Death at the chickens, and I thought it would be a great thing if I got + the gun and brought him down; so I got up and dressed quietly so as not to + wake Sarah. And then you came round the corner and frightened me. I don’t + know what you must think of me, Mr Barnes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind,’ said Jack. ‘You go and have a sleep, or you won’t be able to + dance to-night. Never mind the gun—I’ll put that away.’ And he + steered her round to the door of her room off the brick verandah where she + slept with one of the other girls. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, that’s a rum start!’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it is,’ said Jack; ‘it’s very funny. Well, how’s your face this + morning, Joe?’ + </p> + <p> + He seemed a lot more serious than usual. + </p> + <p> + We were hard at work all the morning cleaning out the big wool-shed and + getting it ready for the dance, hanging hoops for the candles, making + seats, &c. I kept out of sight of the girls as much as I could. One + side of my face was a sight and the other wasn’t too classical. I felt as + if I had been stung by a swarm of bees. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re a fresh, sweet-scented beauty now, and no mistake, Joe,’ said + Jimmy Nowlett—he was going to play the accordion that night. ‘You + ought to fetch the girls now, Joe. But never mind, your face’ll go down in + about three weeks. My lower jaw is crooked yet; but that fight + straightened my nose, that had been knocked crooked when I was a boy—so + I didn’t lose much beauty by it.’ + </p> + <p> + When we’d done in the shed, Jack took me aside and said— + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Joe! if you won’t come to the dance to-night—and I can’t + say you’d ornament it—I tell you what you’ll do. You get little Mary + away on the quiet and take her out for a stroll—and act like a man. + The job’s finished now, and you won’t get another chance like this.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But how am I to get her out?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Never you mind. You be mooching round down by the big peppermint-tree + near the river-gate, say about half-past ten.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What good’ll that do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never you mind. You just do as you’re told, that’s all you’ve got to do,’ + said Jack, and he went home to get dressed and bring his wife. + </p> + <p> + After the dancing started that night I had a peep in once or twice. The + first time I saw Mary dancing with Jack, and looking serious; and the + second time she was dancing with the blarsted Jackaroo dude, and looking + excited and happy. I noticed that some of the girls, that I could see + sitting on a stool along the opposite wall, whispered, and gave Mary black + looks as the Jackaroo swung her past. It struck me pretty forcibly that I + should have taken fighting lessons from him instead of from poor Romany. I + went away and walked about four miles down the river road, getting out of + the way into the Bush whenever I saw any chap riding along. I thought of + poor Romany and wondered where he was, and thought that there wasn’t much + to choose between us as far as happiness was concerned. Perhaps he was + walking by himself in the Bush, and feeling like I did. I wished I could + shake hands with him. + </p> + <p> + But somehow, about half-past ten, I drifted back to the river slip-rails + and leant over them, in the shadow of the peppermint-tree, looking at the + rows of river-willows in the moonlight. I didn’t expect anything, in spite + of what Jack said. + </p> + <p> + I didn’t like the idea of hanging myself: I’d been with a party who found + a man hanging in the Bush, and it was no place for a woman round where he + was. And I’d helped drag two bodies out of the Cudgeegong river in a + flood, and they weren’t sleeping beauties. I thought it was a pity that a + chap couldn’t lie down on a grassy bank in a graceful position in the + moonlight and die just by thinking of it—and die with his eyes and + mouth shut. But then I remembered that I wouldn’t make a beautiful corpse, + anyway it went, with the face I had on me. + </p> + <p> + I was just getting comfortably miserable when I heard a step behind me, + and my heart gave a jump. And I gave a start too. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, is that you, Mr Wilson?’ said a timid little voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Is that you, Mary?’ + </p> + <p> + And she said yes. It was the first time I called her Mary, but she did not + seem to notice it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did I frighten you?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘No—yes—just a little,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know there was any + one——’ then she stopped. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why aren’t you dancing?’ I asked her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I’m tired,’ she said. ‘It was too hot in the wool-shed. I thought I’d + like to come out and get my head cool and be quiet a little while.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it must be hot in the wool-shed.’ + </p> + <p> + She stood looking out over the willows. Presently she said, ‘It must be + very dull for you, Mr Wilson—you must feel lonely. Mr Barnes said——’ + Then she gave a little gasp and stopped—as if she was just going to + put her foot in it. + </p> + <p> + ‘How beautiful the moonlight looks on the willows!’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘doesn’t it? Supposing we have a stroll by the river.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson. I’d like it very much.’ + </p> + <p> + I didn’t notice it then, but, now I come to think of it, it was a + beautiful scene: there was a horseshoe of high blue hills round behind the + house, with the river running round under the slopes, and in front was a + rounded hill covered with pines, and pine ridges, and a soft blue peak + away over the ridges ever so far in the distance. + </p> + <p> + I had a handkerchief over the worst of my face, and kept the best side + turned to her. We walked down by the river, and didn’t say anything for a + good while. I was thinking hard. We came to a white smooth log in a quiet + place out of sight of the house. + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose we sit down for a while, Mary,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you like, Mr Wilson,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + There was about a foot of log between us. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a beautiful night!’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘isn’t it?’ + </p> + <p> + Presently she said, ‘I suppose you know I’m going away next month, Mr + Wilson?’ + </p> + <p> + I felt suddenly empty. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I thought you knew. I’m going to try and get into the + hospital to be trained for a nurse, and if that doesn’t come off I’ll get + a place as assistant public-school teacher.’ + </p> + <p> + We didn’t say anything for a good while. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose you won’t be sorry to go, Miss Brand?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I—I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Everybody’s been so kind to me here.’ + </p> + <p> + She sat looking straight before her, and I fancied her eyes glistened. I + put my arm round her shoulders, but she didn’t seem to notice it. In fact, + I scarcely noticed it myself at the time. + </p> + <p> + ‘So you think you’ll be sorry to go away?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, Mr Wilson. I suppose I’ll fret for a while. It’s been my home, you + know.’ + </p> + <p> + I pressed my hand on her shoulder, just a little, so as she couldn’t + pretend not to know it was there. But she didn’t seem to notice. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, well,’ I said, ‘I suppose I’ll be on the wallaby again next week.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you, Mr Wilson?’ she said. Her voice seemed very soft. + </p> + <p> + I slipped my arm round her waist, under her arm. My heart was going like + clockwork now. + </p> + <p> + Presently she said— + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you think it’s time to go back now, Mr Wilson?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, there’s plenty of time!’ I said. I shifted up, and put my arm farther + round, and held her closer. She sat straight up, looking right in front of + her, but she began to breathe hard. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mary,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Call me Joe,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I—I don’t like to,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it would be right.’ + </p> + <p> + So I just turned her face round and kissed her. She clung to me and cried. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it, Mary?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + She only held me tighter and cried. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it, Mary?’ I said. ‘Ain’t you well? Ain’t you happy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, Joe,’ she said, ‘I’m very happy.’ Then she said, ‘Oh, your poor + face! Can’t I do anything for it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s all right. My face doesn’t hurt me a bit now.’ + </p> + <p> + But she didn’t seem right. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it, Mary?’ I said. ‘Are you tired? You didn’t sleep last night——’ + Then I got an inspiration. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mary,’ I said, ‘what were you doing out with the gun this morning?’ + </p> + <p> + And after some coaxing it all came out, a bit hysterical. + </p> + <p> + ‘I couldn’t sleep—I was frightened. Oh! I had such a terrible dream + about you, Joe! I thought Romany came back and got into your room and + stabbed you with his knife. I got up and dressed, and about daybreak I + heard a horse at the gate; then I got the gun down from the wall—and—and + Mr Barnes came round the corner and frightened me. He’s something like + Romany, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + Then I got as much of her as I could into my arms. + </p> + <p> + And, oh, but wasn’t I happy walking home with Mary that night! She was too + little for me to put my arm round her waist, so I put it round her + shoulder, and that felt just as good. I remember I asked her who’d cleaned + up my room and washed my things, but she wouldn’t tell. + </p> + <p> + She wouldn’t go back to the dance yet; she said she’d go into her room and + rest a while. There was no one near the old verandah; and when she stood + on the end of the floor she was just on a level with my shoulder. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mary,’ I whispered, ‘put your arms round my neck and kiss me.’ + </p> + <p> + She put her arms round my neck, but she didn’t kiss me; she only hid her + face. + </p> + <p> + ‘Kiss me, Mary!’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I—I don’t like to,’ she whispered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not, Mary?’ + </p> + <p> + Then I felt her crying or laughing, or half crying and half laughing. I’m + not sure to this day which it was. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why won’t you kiss me, Mary? Don’t you love me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because,’ she said, ‘because—because I—I don’t—I don’t + think it’s right for—for a girl to—to kiss a man unless she’s + going to be his wife.’ + </p> + <p> + Then it dawned on me! I’d forgot all about proposing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mary,’ I said, ‘would you marry a chap like me?’ + </p> + <p> + And that was all right. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Next morning Mary cleared out my room and sorted out my things, and didn’t + take the slightest notice of the other girls’ astonishment. + </p> + <p> + But she made me promise to speak to old Black, and I did the same evening. + I found him sitting on the log by the fence, having a yarn on the quiet + with an old Bushman; and when the old Bushman got up and went away, I sat + down. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Joe,’ said Black, ‘I see somebody’s been spoiling your face for the + dance.’ And after a bit he said, ‘Well, Joe, what is it? Do you want + another job? If you do, you’ll have to ask Mrs Black, or Bob’ (Bob was his + eldest son); ‘they’re managing the station for me now, you know.’ He could + be bitter sometimes in his quiet way. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I said; ‘it’s not that, Boss.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, what is it, Joe?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I—well the fact is, I want little Mary.’ + </p> + <p> + He puffed at his pipe for a long time, then I thought he spoke. + </p> + <p> + ‘What did you say, Boss?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing, Joe,’ he said. ‘I was going to say a lot, but it wouldn’t be any + use. My father used to say a lot to me before I was married.’ + </p> + <p> + I waited a good while for him to speak. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Boss,’ I said, ‘what about Mary?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! I suppose that’s all right, Joe,’ he said. ‘I—I beg your + pardon. I got thinking of the days when I was courting Mrs Black.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Brighten’s Sister-In-Law. + </h2> + <p> + Jim was born on Gulgong, New South Wales. We used to say ‘on’ Gulgong—and + old diggers still talked of being ‘on th’ Gulgong’—though the + goldfield there had been worked out for years, and the place was only a + dusty little pastoral town in the scrubs. Gulgong was about the last of + the great alluvial ‘rushes’ of the ‘roaring days’—and dreary and + dismal enough it looked when I was there. The expression ‘on’ came from + being on the ‘diggings’ or goldfield—the workings or the goldfield + was all underneath, of course, so we lived (or starved) ON them—not + in nor at ‘em. + </p> + <p> + Mary and I had been married about two years when Jim came——His + name wasn’t ‘Jim’, by the way, it was ‘John Henry’, after an uncle + godfather; but we called him Jim from the first—(and before it)—because + Jim was a popular Bush name, and most of my old mates were Jims. The Bush + is full of good-hearted scamps called Jim. + </p> + <p> + We lived in an old weather-board shanty that had been a sly-grog-shop, and + the Lord knows what else! in the palmy days of Gulgong; and I did a bit of + digging (‘fossicking’, rather), a bit of shearing, a bit of fencing, a bit + of Bush-carpentering, tank-sinking,—anything, just to keep the billy + boiling. + </p> + <p> + We had a lot of trouble with Jim with his teeth. He was bad with every one + of them, and we had most of them lanced—couldn’t pull him through + without. I remember we got one lanced and the gum healed over before the + tooth came through, and we had to get it cut again. He was a plucky little + chap, and after the first time he never whimpered when the doctor was + lancing his gum: he used to say ‘tar’ afterwards, and want to bring the + lance home with him. + </p> + <p> + The first turn we got with Jim was the worst. I had had the wife and Jim + out camping with me in a tent at a dam I was making at Cattle Creek; I had + two men working for me, and a boy to drive one of the tip-drays, and I + took Mary out to cook for us. And it was lucky for us that the contract + was finished and we got back to Gulgong, and within reach of a doctor, the + day we did. We were just camping in the house, with our goods and chattels + anyhow, for the night; and we were hardly back home an hour when Jim took + convulsions for the first time. + </p> + <p> + Did you ever see a child in convulsions? You wouldn’t want to see it + again: it plays the devil with a man’s nerves. I’d got the beds fixed up + on the floor, and the billies on the fire—I was going to make some + tea, and put a piece of corned beef on to boil over night—when Jim + (he’d been queer all day, and his mother was trying to hush him to sleep)—Jim, + he screamed out twice. He’d been crying a good deal, and I was dog-tired + and worried (over some money a man owed me) or I’d have noticed at once + that there was something unusual in the way the child cried out: as it was + I didn’t turn round till Mary screamed ‘Joe! Joe!’ You know how a woman + cries out when her child is in danger or dying—short, and sharp, and + terrible. ‘Joe! Look! look! Oh, my God! our child! Get the bath, quick! + quick! it’s convulsions!’ + </p> + <p> + Jim was bent back like a bow, stiff as a bullock-yoke, in his mother’s + arms, and his eyeballs were turned up and fixed—a thing I saw twice + afterwards, and don’t want ever to see again. + </p> + <p> + I was falling over things getting the tub and the hot water, when the + woman who lived next door rushed in. She called to her husband to run for + the doctor, and before the doctor came she and Mary had got Jim into a hot + bath and pulled him through. + </p> + <p> + The neighbour woman made me up a shake-down in another room, and stayed + with Mary that night; but it was a long while before I got Jim and Mary’s + screams out of my head and fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + You may depend I kept the fire in, and a bucket of water hot over it, for + a good many nights after that; but (it always happens like this) there + came a night, when the fright had worn off, when I was too tired to bother + about the fire, and that night Jim took us by surprise. Our wood-heap was + done, and I broke up a new chair to get a fire, and had to run a quarter + of a mile for water; but this turn wasn’t so bad as the first, and we + pulled him through. + </p> + <p> + You never saw a child in convulsions? Well, you don’t want to. It must be + only a matter of seconds, but it seems long minutes; and half an hour + afterwards the child might be laughing and playing with you, or stretched + out dead. It shook me up a lot. I was always pretty high-strung and + sensitive. After Jim took the first fit, every time he cried, or turned + over, or stretched out in the night, I’d jump: I was always feeling his + forehead in the dark to see if he was feverish, or feeling his limbs to + see if he was ‘limp’ yet. Mary and I often laughed about it—afterwards. + I tried sleeping in another room, but for nights after Jim’s first attack + I’d be just dozing off into a sound sleep, when I’d hear him scream, as + plain as could be, and I’d hear Mary cry, ‘Joe!—Joe!’—short, + sharp, and terrible—and I’d be up and into their room like a shot, + only to find them sleeping peacefully. Then I’d feel Jim’s head and his + breathing for signs of convulsions, see to the fire and water, and go back + to bed and try to sleep. For the first few nights I was like that all + night, and I’d feel relieved when daylight came. I’d be in first thing to + see if they were all right; then I’d sleep till dinner-time if it was + Sunday or I had no work. But then I was run down about that time: I was + worried about some money for a wool-shed I put up and never got paid for; + and, besides, I’d been pretty wild before I met Mary. + </p> + <p> + I was fighting hard then—struggling for something better. Both Mary + and I were born to better things, and that’s what made the life so hard + for us. + </p> + <p> + Jim got on all right for a while: we used to watch him well, and have his + teeth lanced in time. + </p> + <p> + It used to hurt and worry me to see how—just as he was getting fat + and rosy and like a natural happy child, and I’d feel proud to take him + out—a tooth would come along, and he’d get thin and white and pale + and bigger-eyed and old-fashioned. We’d say, ‘He’ll be safe when he gets + his eye-teeth’: but he didn’t get them till he was two; then, ‘He’ll be + safe when he gets his two-year-old teeth’: they didn’t come till he was + going on for three. + </p> + <p> + He was a wonderful little chap—Yes, I know all about parents + thinking that their child is the best in the world. If your boy is small + for his age, friends will say that small children make big men; that he’s + a very bright, intelligent child, and that it’s better to have a bright, + intelligent child than a big, sleepy lump of fat. And if your boy is dull + and sleepy, they say that the dullest boys make the cleverest men—and + all the rest of it. I never took any notice of that sort of clatter—took + it for what it was worth; but, all the same, I don’t think I ever saw such + a child as Jim was when he turned two. He was everybody’s favourite. They + spoilt him rather. I had my own ideas about bringing up a child. I + reckoned Mary was too soft with Jim. She’d say, ‘Put that’ (whatever it + was) ‘out of Jim’s reach, will you, Joe?’ and I’d say, ‘No! leave it + there, and make him understand he’s not to have it. Make him have his + meals without any nonsense, and go to bed at a regular hour,’ I’d say. + Mary and I had many a breeze over Jim. She’d say that I forgot he was only + a baby: but I held that a baby could be trained from the first week; and I + believe I was right. + </p> + <p> + But, after all, what are you to do? You’ll see a boy that was brought up + strict turn out a scamp; and another that was dragged up anyhow (by the + hair of the head, as the saying is) turn out well. Then, again, when a + child is delicate—and you might lose him any day—you don’t + like to spank him, though he might be turning out a little fiend, as + delicate children often do. Suppose you gave a child a hammering, and the + same night he took convulsions, or something, and died—how’d you + feel about it? You never know what a child is going to take, any more than + you can tell what some women are going to say or do. + </p> + <p> + I was very fond of Jim, and we were great chums. Sometimes I’d sit and + wonder what the deuce he was thinking about, and often, the way he talked, + he’d make me uneasy. When he was two he wanted a pipe above all things, + and I’d get him a clean new clay and he’d sit by my side, on the edge of + the verandah, or on a log of the wood-heap, in the cool of the evening, + and suck away at his pipe, and try to spit when he saw me do it. He seemed + to understand that a cold empty pipe wasn’t quite the thing, yet to have + the sense to know that he couldn’t smoke tobacco yet: he made the best he + could of things. And if he broke a clay pipe he wouldn’t have a new one, + and there’d be a row; the old one had to be mended up, somehow, with + string or wire. If I got my hair cut, he’d want his cut too; and it always + troubled him to see me shave—as if he thought there must be + something wrong somewhere, else he ought to have to be shaved too. I + lathered him one day, and pretended to shave him: he sat through it as + solemn as an owl, but didn’t seem to appreciate it—perhaps he had + sense enough to know that it couldn’t possibly be the real thing. He felt + his face, looked very hard at the lather I scraped off, and whimpered, ‘No + blood, daddy!’ + </p> + <p> + I used to cut myself a good deal: I was always impatient over shaving. + </p> + <p> + Then he went in to interview his mother about it. She understood his lingo + better than I did. + </p> + <p> + But I wasn’t always at ease with him. Sometimes he’d sit looking into the + fire, with his head on one side, and I’d watch him and wonder what he was + thinking about (I might as well have wondered what a Chinaman was thinking + about) till he seemed at least twenty years older than me: sometimes, when + I moved or spoke, he’d glance round just as if to see what that old fool + of a dadda of his was doing now. + </p> + <p> + I used to have a fancy that there was something Eastern, or Asiatic—something + older than our civilisation or religion—about old-fashioned + children. Once I started to explain my idea to a woman I thought would + understand—and as it happened she had an old-fashioned child, with + very slant eyes—a little tartar he was too. I suppose it was the + sight of him that unconsciously reminded me of my infernal theory, and set + me off on it, without warning me. Anyhow, it got me mixed up in an awful + row with the woman and her husband—and all their tribe. It wasn’t an + easy thing to explain myself out of it, and the row hasn’t been fixed up + yet. There were some Chinamen in the district. + </p> + <p> + I took a good-size fencing contract, the frontage of a ten-mile paddock, + near Gulgong, and did well out of it. The railway had got as far as the + Cudgeegong river—some twenty miles from Gulgong and two hundred from + the coast—and ‘carrying’ was good then. I had a couple of + draught-horses, that I worked in the tip-drays when I was tank-sinking, + and one or two others running in the Bush. I bought a broken-down waggon + cheap, tinkered it up myself—christened it ‘The Same Old Thing’—and + started carrying from the railway terminus through Gulgong and along the + bush roads and tracks that branch out fanlike through the scrubs to the + one-pub towns and sheep and cattle stations out there in the howling + wilderness. It wasn’t much of a team. There were the two heavy horses for + ‘shafters’; a stunted colt, that I’d bought out of the pound for thirty + shillings; a light, spring-cart horse; an old grey mare, with points like + a big red-and-white Australian store bullock, and with the grit of an old + washerwoman to work; and a horse that had spanked along in Cob & Co.‘s + mail-coach in his time. I had a couple there that didn’t belong to me: I + worked them for the feeding of them in the dry weather. And I had all + sorts of harness, that I mended and fixed up myself. It was a mixed team, + but I took light stuff, got through pretty quick, and freight rates were + high. So I got along. + </p> + <p> + Before this, whenever I made a few pounds I’d sink a shaft somewhere, + prospecting for gold; but Mary never let me rest till she talked me out of + that. + </p> + <p> + I made up my mind to take on a small selection farm—that an old mate + of mine had fenced in and cleared, and afterwards chucked up—about + thirty miles out west of Gulgong, at a place called Lahey’s Creek. (The + places were all called Lahey’s Creek, or Spicer’s Flat, or Murphy’s Flat, + or Ryan’s Crossing, or some such name—round there.) I reckoned I’d + have a run for the horses and be able to grow a bit of feed. I always had + a dread of taking Mary and the children too far away from a doctor—or + a good woman neighbour; but there were some people came to live on Lahey’s + Creek, and besides, there was a young brother of Mary’s—a young + scamp (his name was Jim, too, and we called him ‘Jimmy’ at first to make + room for our Jim—he hated the name ‘Jimmy’ or James). He came to + live with us—without asking—and I thought he’d find enough + work at Lahey’s Creek to keep him out of mischief. He wasn’t to be + depended on much—he thought nothing of riding off, five hundred + miles or so, ‘to have a look at the country’—but he was fond of + Mary, and he’d stay by her till I got some one else to keep her company + while I was on the road. He would be a protection against ‘sundowners’ or + any shearers who happened to wander that way in the ‘D.T.‘s’ after a + spree. Mary had a married sister come to live at Gulgong just before we + left, and nothing would suit her and her husband but we must leave little + Jim with them for a month or so—till we got settled down at Lahey’s + Creek. They were newly married. + </p> + <p> + Mary was to have driven into Gulgong, in the spring-cart, at the end of + the month, and taken Jim home; but when the time came she wasn’t too well—and, + besides, the tyres of the cart were loose, and I hadn’t time to get them + cut, so we let Jim’s time run on a week or so longer, till I happened to + come out through Gulgong from the river with a small load of flour for + Lahey’s Creek way. The roads were good, the weather grand—no chance + of it raining, and I had a spare tarpaulin if it did—I would only + camp out one night; so I decided to take Jim home with me. + </p> + <p> + Jim was turning three then, and he was a cure. He was so old-fashioned + that he used to frighten me sometimes—I’d almost think that there + was something supernatural about him; though, of course, I never took any + notice of that rot about some children being too old-fashioned to live. + There’s always the ghoulish old hag (and some not so old nor haggish + either) who’ll come round and shake up young parents with such croaks as, + ‘You’ll never rear that child—he’s too bright for his age.’ To the + devil with them! I say. + </p> + <p> + But I really thought that Jim was too intelligent for his age, and I often + told Mary that he ought to be kept back, and not let talk too much to old + diggers and long lanky jokers of Bushmen who rode in and hung their horses + outside my place on Sunday afternoons. + </p> + <p> + I don’t believe in parents talking about their own children everlastingly—you + get sick of hearing them; and their kids are generally little devils, and + turn out larrikins as likely as not. + </p> + <p> + But, for all that, I really think that Jim, when he was three years old, + was the most wonderful little chap, in every way, that I ever saw. + </p> + <p> + For the first hour or so, along the road, he was telling me all about his + adventures at his auntie’s. + </p> + <p> + ‘But they spoilt me too much, dad,’ he said, as solemn as a native bear. + ‘An’ besides, a boy ought to stick to his parrans!’ + </p> + <p> + I was taking out a cattle-pup for a drover I knew, and the pup took up a + good deal of Jim’s time. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes he’d jolt me, the way he talked; and other times I’d have to + turn away my head and cough, or shout at the horses, to keep from laughing + outright. And once, when I was taken that way, he said— + </p> + <p> + ‘What are you jerking your shoulders and coughing, and grunting, and going + on that way for, dad? Why don’t you tell me something?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell you what, Jim?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell me some talk.’ + </p> + <p> + So I told him all the talk I could think of. And I had to brighten up, I + can tell you, and not draw too much on my imagination—for Jim was a + terror at cross-examination when the fit took him; and he didn’t think + twice about telling you when he thought you were talking nonsense. Once he + said— + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m glad you took me home with you, dad. You’ll get to know Jim.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What!’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ll get to know Jim.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But don’t I know you already?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, you don’t. You never has time to know Jim at home.’ + </p> + <p> + And, looking back, I saw that it was cruel true. I had known in my heart + all along that this was the truth; but it came to me like a blow from Jim. + You see, it had been a hard struggle for the last year or so; and when I + was home for a day or two I was generally too busy, or too tired and + worried, or full of schemes for the future, to take much notice of Jim. + Mary used to speak to me about it sometimes. ‘You never take notice of the + child,’ she’d say. ‘You could surely find a few minutes of an evening. + What’s the use of always worrying and brooding? Your brain will go with a + snap some day, and, if you get over it, it will teach you a lesson. You’ll + be an old man, and Jim a young one, before you realise that you had a + child once. Then it will be too late.’ + </p> + <p> + This sort of talk from Mary always bored me and made me impatient with + her, because I knew it all too well. I never worried for myself—only + for Mary and the children. And often, as the days went by, I said to + myself, ‘I’ll take more notice of Jim and give Mary more of my time, just + as soon as I can see things clear ahead a bit.’ And the hard days went on, + and the weeks, and the months, and the years—— Ah, well! + </p> + <p> + Mary used to say, when things would get worse, ‘Why don’t you talk to me, + Joe? Why don’t you tell me your thoughts, instead of shutting yourself up + in yourself and brooding—eating your heart out? It’s hard for me: I + get to think you’re tired of me, and selfish. I might be cross and speak + sharp to you when you are in trouble. How am I to know, if you don’t tell + me?’ + </p> + <p> + But I didn’t think she’d understand. + </p> + <p> + 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. I got + the horses out and took the harness off. Jim wanted badly to help me, but + I made him stay on the load; for one of the horses—a vicious, + red-eyed chestnut—was a kicker: he’d broken a man’s leg. I got the + feed-bags stretched across the shafts, and the chaff-and-corn into them; + and there stood the horses all round with their rumps north, south, and + west, and their heads between the shafts, munching and switching their + tails. We use double shafts, you know, for horse-teams—two pairs + side by side,—and prop them up, and stretch bags between them, + letting the bags sag to serve as feed-boxes. I threw the spare tarpaulin + over the wheels on one side, letting about half of it lie on the ground in + case of damp, and so making a floor and a break-wind. I threw down bags + and the blankets and ‘possum rug against the wheel to make a camp for Jim + and the cattle-pup, and got a gin-case we used for a tucker-box, the + frying-pan and billy down, and made a good fire at a log close handy, and + soon everything was comfortable. Ryan’s Crossing was a grand camp. I stood + with my pipe in my mouth, my hands behind my back, and my back to the + fire, and took the country in. + </p> + <p> + Reedy Creek came down along a western spur of the range: the banks here + were deep and green, and the water ran clear over the granite bars, + boulders, and gravel. Behind us was a dreary flat covered with those + gnarled, grey-barked, dry-rotted ‘native apple-trees’ (about as much like + apple-trees as the native bear is like any other), and a nasty bit of + sand-dusty road that I was always glad to get over in wet weather. To the + left on our side of the creek were reedy marshes, with frogs croaking, and + across the creek the dark box-scrub-covered ridges ended in steep + ‘sidings’ coming down to the creek-bank, and to the main road that skirted + them, running on west up over a ‘saddle’ in the ridges and on towards + Dubbo. The road by Lahey’s Creek to a place called Cobborah branched off, + through dreary apple-tree and stringy-bark flats, to the left, just beyond + the crossing: all these fanlike branch tracks from the Cudgeegong were + inside a big horse-shoe in the Great Western Line, and so they gave small + carriers a chance, now that Cob & Co.‘s coaches and the big teams and + vans had shifted out of the main western terminus. There were tall + she-oaks all along the creek, and a clump of big ones over a deep + water-hole just above the crossing. The creek oaks have rough barked + trunks, like English elms, but are much taller, and higher to the branches—and + the leaves are reedy; Kendel, the Australian poet, calls them the ‘she-oak + harps Aeolian’. Those trees are always sigh-sigh-sighing—more of a + sigh than a sough or the ‘whoosh’ of gum-trees in the wind. You always + hear them sighing, even when you can’t feel any wind. It’s the same with + telegraph wires: put your head against a telegraph-post on a dead, still + day, and you’ll hear and feel the far-away roar of the wires. But then the + oaks are not connected with the distance, where there might be wind; and + they don’t ROAR in a gale, only sigh louder and softer according to the + wind, and never seem to go above or below a certain pitch,—like a + big harp with all the strings the same. I used to have a theory that those + creek oaks got the wind’s voice telephoned to them, so to speak, through + the ground. + </p> + <p> + I happened to look down, and there was Jim (I thought he was on the + tarpaulin, playing with the pup): he was standing close beside me with his + legs wide apart, his hands behind his back, and his back to the fire. + </p> + <p> + He held his head a little on one side, and there was such an old, old, + wise expression in his big brown eyes—just as if he’d been a child + for a hundred years or so, or as though he were listening to those oaks + and understanding them in a fatherly sort of way. + </p> + <p> + ‘Dad!’ he said presently—‘Dad! do you think I’ll ever grow up to be + a man?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wh—why, Jim?’ I gasped. + </p> + <p> + ‘Because I don’t want to.’ + </p> + <p> + I couldn’t think of anything against this. It made me uneasy. But I + remembered *I* used to have a childish dread of growing up to be a man. + </p> + <p> + ‘Jim,’ I said, to break the silence, ‘do you hear what the she-oaks say?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I don’t. Is they talking?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I said, without thinking. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is they saying?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + I took the bucket and went down to the creek for some water for tea. I + thought Jim would follow with a little tin billy he had, but he didn’t: + when I got back to the fire he was again on the ‘possum rug, comforting + the pup. I fried some bacon and eggs that I’d brought out with me. Jim + sang out from the waggon— + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t cook too much, dad—I mightn’t be hungry.’ + </p> + <p> + I got the tin plates and pint-pots and things out on a clean new + flour-bag, in honour of Jim, and dished up. He was leaning back on the rug + looking at the pup in a listless sort of way. I reckoned he was tired out, + and pulled the gin-case up close to him for a table and put his plate on + it. But he only tried a mouthful or two, and then he said— + </p> + <p> + ‘I ain’t hungry, dad! You’ll have to eat it all.’ + </p> + <p> + It made me uneasy—I never liked to see a child of mine turn from his + food. They had given him some tinned salmon in Gulgong, and I was afraid + that that was upsetting him. I was always against tinned muck. + </p> + <p> + ‘Sick, Jim?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, dad, I ain’t sick; I don’t know what’s the matter with me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have some tea, sonny?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, dad.’ + </p> + <p> + I gave him some tea, with some milk in it that I’d brought in a bottle + from his aunt’s for him. He took a sip or two and then put the pint-pot on + the gin-case. + </p> + <p> + ‘Jim’s tired, dad,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + I made him lie down while I fixed up a camp for the night. It had turned a + bit chilly, so I let the big tarpaulin down all round—it was made to + cover a high load, the flour in the waggon didn’t come above the rail, so + the tarpaulin came down well on to the ground. I fixed Jim up a + comfortable bed under the tail-end of the waggon: when I went to lift him + in he was lying back, looking up at the stars in a half-dreamy, + half-fascinated way that I didn’t like. Whenever Jim was extra + old-fashioned, or affectionate, there was danger. + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you feel now, sonny?’ + </p> + <p> + It seemed a minute before he heard me and turned from the stars. + </p> + <p> + ‘Jim’s better, dad.’ Then he said something like, ‘The stars are looking + at me.’ I thought he was half asleep. I took off his jacket and boots, and + carried him in under the waggon and made him comfortable for the night. + </p> + <p> + ‘Kiss me ‘night-night, daddy,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + I’d rather he hadn’t asked me—it was a bad sign. As I was going to + the fire he called me back. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it, Jim?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Get me my things and the cattle-pup, please, daddy.’ + </p> + <p> + I was scared now. His things were some toys and rubbish he’d brought from + Gulgong, and I remembered, the last time he had convulsions, he took all + his toys and a kitten to bed with him. And ‘’night-night’ and ‘daddy’ were + two-year-old language to Jim. I’d thought he’d forgotten those words—he + seemed to be going back. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you quite warm enough, Jim?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, dad.’ + </p> + <p> + I started to walk up and down—I always did this when I was extra + worried. + </p> + <p> + I was frightened now about Jim, though I tried to hide the fact from + myself. Presently he called me again. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it, Jim?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Take the blankets off me, fahver—Jim’s sick!’ (They’d been teaching + him to say father.) + </p> + <p> + I was scared now. I remembered a neighbour of ours had a little girl die + (she swallowed a pin), and when she was going she said— + </p> + <p> + ‘Take the blankets off me, muvver—I’m dying.’ + </p> + <p> + And I couldn’t get that out of my head. + </p> + <p> + I threw back a fold of the ‘possum rug, and felt Jim’s head—he + seemed cool enough. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where do you feel bad, sonny?’ + </p> + <p> + No answer for a while; then he said suddenly, but in a voice as if he were + talking in his sleep— + </p> + <p> + ‘Put my boots on, please, daddy. I want to go home to muvver!’ + </p> + <p> + I held his hand, and comforted him for a while; then he slept—in a + restless, feverish sort of way. + </p> + <p> + I got the bucket I used for water for the horses and stood it over the + fire; I ran to the creek with the big kerosene-tin bucket and got it full + of cold water and stood it handy. I got the spade (we always carried one + to dig wheels out of bogs in wet weather) and turned a corner of the + tarpaulin back, dug a hole, and trod the tarpaulin down into the hole, to + serve for a bath, in case of the worst. I had a tin of mustard, and meant + to fight a good round for Jim, if death came along. + </p> + <p> + I stooped in under the tail-board of the waggon and felt Jim. His head was + burning hot, and his skin parched and dry as a bone. + </p> + <p> + Then I lost nerve and started blundering backward and forward between the + waggon and the fire, and repeating what I’d heard Mary say the last time + we fought for Jim: ‘God! don’t take my child! God! don’t take my boy!’ I’d + never had much faith in doctors, but, my God! I wanted one then. The + nearest was fifteen miles away. + </p> + <p> + I threw back my head and stared up at the branches, in desperation; and—Well, + I don’t ask you to take much stock in this, though most old Bushmen will + believe anything of the Bush by night; and—Now, it might have been + that I was all unstrung, or it might have been a patch of sky outlined in + the gently moving branches, or the blue smoke rising up. But I saw the + figure of a woman, all white, come down, down, nearly to the limbs of the + trees, point on up the main road, and then float up and up and vanish, + still pointing. I thought Mary was dead! Then it flashed on me—— + </p> + <p> + Four or five miles up the road, over the ‘saddle’, was an old shanty that + had been a half-way inn before the Great Western Line got round as far as + Dubbo and took the coach traffic off those old Bush roads. A man named + Brighten lived there. He was a selector; did a little farming, and as much + sly-grog selling as he could. He was married—but it wasn’t that: I’d + thought of them, but she was a childish, worn-out, spiritless woman, and + both were pretty ‘ratty’ from hardship and loneliness—they weren’t + likely to be of any use to me. But it was this: I’d heard talk, among some + women in Gulgong, of a sister of Brighten’s wife who’d gone out to live + with them lately: she’d been a hospital matron in the city, they said; and + there were yarns about her. Some said she got the sack for exposing the + doctors—or carrying on with them—I didn’t remember which. The + fact of a city woman going out to live in such a place, with such people, + was enough to make talk among women in a town twenty miles away, but then + there must have been something extra about her, else Bushmen wouldn’t have + talked and carried her name so far; and I wanted a woman out of the + ordinary now. I even reasoned this way, thinking like lightning, as I + knelt over Jim between the big back wheels of the waggon. + </p> + <p> + I had an old racing mare that I used as a riding hack, following the team. + In a minute I had her saddled and bridled; I tied the end of a half-full + chaff-bag, shook the chaff into each end and dumped it on to the pommel as + a cushion or buffer for Jim; I wrapped him in a blanket, and scrambled + into the saddle with him. + </p> + <p> + The next minute we were stumbling down the steep bank, clattering and + splashing over the crossing, and struggling up the opposite bank to the + level. The mare, as I told you, was an old racer, but broken-winded—she + must have run without wind after the first half mile. She had the old + racing instinct in her strong, and whenever I rode in company I’d have to + pull her hard else she’d race the other horse or burst. She ran low fore + and aft, and was the easiest horse I ever rode. She ran like wheels on + rails, with a bit of a tremble now and then—like a railway carriage—when + she settled down to it. + </p> + <p> + The chaff-bag had slipped off, in the creek I suppose, and I let the + bridle-rein go and held Jim up to me like a baby the whole way. Let the + strongest man, who isn’t used to it, hold a baby in one position for five + minutes—and Jim was fairly heavy. But I never felt the ache in my + arms that night—it must have gone before I was in a fit state of + mind to feel it. And at home I’d often growled about being asked to hold + the baby for a few minutes. I could never brood comfortably and nurse a + baby at the same time. It was a ghostly moonlight night. There’s no timber + in the world so ghostly as the Australian Bush in moonlight—or just + about daybreak. The all-shaped patches of moonlight falling between + ragged, twisted boughs; the ghostly blue-white bark of the ‘white-box’ + trees; a dead naked white ring-barked tree, or dead white stump starting + out here and there, and the ragged patches of shade and light on the road + that made anything, from the shape of a spotted bullock to a naked corpse + laid out stark. Roads and tracks through the Bush made by moonlight—every + one seeming straighter and clearer than the real one: you have to trust to + your horse then. Sometimes the naked white trunk of a red stringy-bark + tree, where a sheet of bark had been taken off, would start out like a + ghost from the dark Bush. And dew or frost glistening on these things, + according to the season. Now and again a great grey kangaroo, that had + been feeding on a green patch down by the road, would start with a + ‘thump-thump’, and away up the siding. + </p> + <p> + The Bush seemed full of ghosts that night—all going my way—and + being left behind by the mare. Once I stopped to look at Jim: I just sat + back and the mare ‘propped’—she’d been a stock-horse, and was used + to ‘cutting-out’. I felt Jim’s hands and forehead; he was in a burning + fever. I bent forward, and the old mare settled down to it again. I kept + saying out loud—and Mary and me often laughed about it (afterwards): + ‘He’s limp yet!—Jim’s limp yet!’ (the words seemed jerked out of me + by sheer fright)—‘He’s limp yet!’ till the mare’s feet took it up. + Then, just when I thought she was doing her best and racing her hardest, + she suddenly started forward, like a cable tram gliding along on its own + and the grip put on suddenly. It was just what she’d do when I’d be riding + alone and a strange horse drew up from behind—the old racing + instinct. I FELT the thing too! I felt as if a strange horse WAS there! + And then—the words just jerked out of me by sheer funk—I + started saying, ‘Death is riding to-night!... Death is racing to-night!... + Death is riding to-night!’ till the hoofs took that up. And I believe the + old mare felt the black horse at her side and was going to beat him or + break her heart. + </p> + <p> + I was mad with anxiety and fright: I remember I kept saying, ‘I’ll be + kinder to Mary after this! I’ll take more notice of Jim!’ and the rest of + it. + </p> + <p> + I don’t know how the old mare got up the last ‘pinch’. She must have + slackened pace, but I never noticed it: I just held Jim up to me and + gripped the saddle with my knees—I remember the saddle jerked from + the desperate jumps of her till I thought the girth would go. We topped + the gap and were going down into a gully they called Dead Man’s Hollow, + and there, at the back of a ghostly clearing that opened from the road + where there were some black-soil springs, was a long, low, oblong + weatherboard-and-shingle building, with blind, broken windows in the + gable-ends, and a wide steep verandah roof slanting down almost to the + level of the window-sills—there was something sinister about it, I + thought—like the hat of a jail-bird slouched over his eyes. The + place looked both deserted and haunted. I saw no light, but that was + because of the moonlight outside. The mare turned in at the corner of the + clearing to take a short cut to the shanty, and, as she struggled across + some marshy ground, my heart kept jerking out the words, ‘It’s deserted! + They’ve gone away! It’s deserted!’ The mare went round to the back and + pulled up between the back door and a big bark-and-slab kitchen. Some one + shouted from inside— + </p> + <p> + ‘Who’s there?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s me. Joe Wilson. I want your sister-in-law—I’ve got the boy—he’s + sick and dying!’ + </p> + <p> + Brighten came out, pulling up his moleskins. ‘What boy?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here, take him,’ I shouted, ‘and let me get down.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked Brighten, and he seemed to hang back. + And just as I made to get my leg over the saddle, Jim’s head went back + over my arm, he stiffened, and I saw his eyeballs turned up and glistening + in the moonlight. + </p> + <p> + I felt cold all over then and sick in the stomach—but CLEAR-HEADED + in a way: strange, wasn’t it? I don’t know why I didn’t get down and rush + into the kitchen to get a bath ready. I only felt as if the worst had + come, and I wished it were over and gone. I even thought of Mary and the + funeral. + </p> + <p> + Then a woman ran out of the house—a big, hard-looking woman. She had + on a wrapper of some sort, and her feet were bare. She laid her hand on + Jim, looked at his face, and then snatched him from me and ran into the + kitchen—and me down and after her. As great good luck would have it, + they had some dirty clothes on to boil in a kerosene tin—dish-cloths + or something. + </p> + <p> + Brighten’s sister-in-law dragged a tub out from under the table, wrenched + the bucket off the hook, and dumped in the water, dish-cloths and all, + snatched a can of cold water from a corner, dashed that in, and felt the + water with her hand—holding Jim up to her hip all the time—and + I won’t say how he looked. She stood him in the tub and started dashing + water over him, tearing off his clothes between the splashes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here, that tin of mustard—there on the shelf!’ she shouted to me. + </p> + <p> + She knocked the lid off the tin on the edge of the tub, and went on + splashing and spanking Jim. + </p> + <p> + It seemed an eternity. And I? Why, I never thought clearer in my life. I + felt cold-blooded—I felt as if I’d like an excuse to go outside till + it was all over. I thought of Mary and the funeral—and wished that + that was past. All this in a flash, as it were. I felt that it would be a + great relief, and only wished the funeral was months past. I felt—well, + altogether selfish. I only thought for myself. + </p> + <p> + Brighten’s sister-in-law splashed and spanked him hard—hard enough + to break his back I thought, and—after about half an hour it seemed—the + end came: Jim’s limbs relaxed, he slipped down into the tub, and the + pupils of his eyes came down. They seemed dull and expressionless, like + the eyes of a new baby, but he was back for the world again. + </p> + <p> + I dropped on the stool by the table. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s all over now. I wasn’t going to let him + die.’ I was only thinking, ‘Well it’s over now, but it will come on again. + I wish it was over for good. I’m tired of it.’ + </p> + <p> + She called to her sister, Mrs Brighten, a washed-out, helpless little fool + of a woman, who’d been running in and out and whimpering all the time— + </p> + <p> + ‘Here, Jessie! bring the new white blanket off my bed. And you, Brighten, + take some of that wood off the fire, and stuff something in that hole + there to stop the draught.’ + </p> + <p> + Brighten—he was a nuggety little hairy man with no expression to be + seen for whiskers—had been running in with sticks and back logs from + the wood-heap. He took the wood out, stuffed up the crack, and went inside + and brought out a black bottle—got a cup from the shelf, and put + both down near my elbow. + </p> + <p> + Mrs Brighten started to get some supper or breakfast, or whatever it was, + ready. She had a clean cloth, and set the table tidily. I noticed that all + the tins were polished bright (old coffee- and mustard-tins and the like, + that they used instead of sugar-basins and tea-caddies and salt-cellars), + and the kitchen was kept as clean as possible. She was all right at little + things. I knew a haggard, worked-out Bushwoman who put her whole soul—or + all she’d got left—into polishing old tins till they dazzled your + eyes. + </p> + <p> + I didn’t feel inclined for corned beef and damper, and post-and-rail tea. + So I sat and squinted, when I thought she wasn’t looking, at Brighten’s + sister-in-law. She was a big woman, her hands and feet were big, but + well-shaped and all in proportion—they fitted her. She was a + handsome woman—about forty I should think. She had a square chin, + and a straight thin-lipped mouth—straight save for a hint of a turn + down at the corners, which I fancied (and I have strange fancies) had been + a sign of weakness in the days before she grew hard. There was no sign of + weakness now. She had hard grey eyes and blue-black hair. She hadn’t + spoken yet. She didn’t ask me how the boy took ill or I got there, or who + or what I was—at least not until the next evening at tea-time. + </p> + <p> + She sat upright with Jim wrapped in the blanket and laid across her knees, + with one hand under his neck and the other laid lightly on him, and she + just rocked him gently. + </p> + <p> + She sat looking hard and straight before her, just as I’ve seen a tired + needlewoman sit with her work in her lap, and look away back into the + past. And Jim might have been the work in her lap, for all she seemed to + think of him. Now and then she knitted her forehead and blinked. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she glanced round and said—in a tone as if I was her + husband and she didn’t think much of me— + </p> + <p> + ‘Why don’t you eat something?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Beg pardon?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Eat something!’ + </p> + <p> + I drank some tea, and sneaked another look at her. I was beginning to feel + more natural, and wanted Jim again, now that the colour was coming back + into his face, and he didn’t look like an unnaturally stiff and staring + corpse. I felt a lump rising, and wanted to thank her. I sneaked another + look at her. + </p> + <p> + She was staring straight before her,—I never saw a woman’s face + change so suddenly—I never saw a woman’s eyes so haggard and + hopeless. Then her great chest heaved twice, I heard her draw a long + shuddering breath, like a knocked-out horse, and two great tears dropped + from her wide open eyes down her cheeks like rain-drops on a face of + stone. And in the firelight they seemed tinged with blood. + </p> + <p> + I looked away quick, feeling full up myself. And presently (I hadn’t seen + her look round) she said— + </p> + <p> + ‘Go to bed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Beg pardon?’ (Her face was the same as before the tears.) + </p> + <p> + ‘Go to bed. There’s a bed made for you inside on the sofa.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But—the team—I must——’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The team. I left it at the camp. I must look to it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! Well, Brighten will ride down and bring it up in the morning—or + send the half-caste. Now you go to bed, and get a good rest. The boy will + be all right. I’ll see to that.’ + </p> + <p> + I went out—it was a relief to get out—and looked to the mare. + Brighten had got her some corn* and chaff in a candle-box, but she + couldn’t eat yet. She just stood or hung resting one hind-leg and then the + other, with her nose over the box—and she sobbed. I put my arms + round her neck and my face down on her ragged mane, and cried for the + second time since I was a boy. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * Maize or Indian corn—wheat is never called corn in + Australia.— +</pre> + <p> + As I started to go in I heard Brighten’s sister-in-law say, suddenly and + sharply— + </p> + <p> + ‘Take THAT away, Jessie.’ + </p> + <p> + And presently I saw Mrs Brighten go into the house with the black bottle. + </p> + <p> + The moon had gone behind the range. I stood for a minute between the house + and the kitchen and peeped in through the kitchen window. + </p> + <p> + She had moved away from the fire and sat near the table. She bent over Jim + and held him up close to her and rocked herself to and fro. + </p> + <p> + I went to bed and slept till the next afternoon. I woke just in time to + hear the tail-end of a conversation between Jim and Brighten’s + sister-in-law. He was asking her out to our place and she promising to + come. + </p> + <p> + ‘And now,’ says Jim, ‘I want to go home to “muffer” in “The Same Ol’ + Fling”.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What?’ + </p> + <p> + Jim repeated. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! “The Same Old Thing”,—the waggon.’ + </p> + <p> + The rest of the afternoon I poked round the gullies with old Brighten, + looking at some ‘indications’ (of the existence of gold) he had found. It + was no use trying to ‘pump’ him concerning his sister-in-law; Brighten was + an ‘old hand’, and had learned in the old Bush-ranging and cattle-stealing + days to know nothing about other people’s business. And, by the way, I + noticed then that the more you talk and listen to a bad character, the + more you lose your dislike for him. + </p> + <p> + I never saw such a change in a woman as in Brighten’s sister-in-law that + evening. She was bright and jolly, and seemed at least ten years younger. + She bustled round and helped her sister to get tea ready. She rooted out + some old china that Mrs Brighten had stowed away somewhere, and set the + table as I seldom saw it set out there. She propped Jim up with pillows, + and laughed and played with him like a great girl. She described Sydney + and Sydney life as I’d never heard it described before; and she knew as + much about the Bush and old digging days as I did. She kept old Brighten + and me listening and laughing till nearly midnight. And she seemed quick + to understand everything when I talked. If she wanted to explain anything + that we hadn’t seen, she wouldn’t say that it was ‘like a—like a’—and + hesitate (you know what I mean); she’d hit the right thing on the head at + once. A squatter with a very round, flaming red face and a white cork hat + had gone by in the afternoon: she said it was ‘like a mushroom on the + rising moon.’ She gave me a lot of good hints about children. + </p> + <p> + But she was quiet again next morning. I harnessed up, and she dressed Jim + and gave him his breakfast, and made a comfortable place for him on the + load with the ‘possum rug and a spare pillow. She got up on the wheel to + do it herself. Then was the awkward time. I’d half start to speak to her, + and then turn away and go fixing up round the horses, and then make + another false start to say good-bye. At last she took Jim up in her arms + and kissed him, and lifted him on the wheel; but he put his arms tight + round her neck, and kissed her—a thing Jim seldom did with anybody, + except his mother, for he wasn’t what you’d call an affectionate child,—he’d + never more than offer his cheek to me, in his old-fashioned way. I’d got + up the other side of the load to take him from her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here, take him,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + I saw his mouth twitching as I lifted him. Jim seldom cried nowadays—no + matter how much he was hurt. I gained some time fixing Jim comfortable. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’d better make a start,’ she said. ‘You want to get home early with + that boy.’ + </p> + <p> + I got down and went round to where she stood. I held out my hand and tried + to speak, but my voice went like an ungreased waggon wheel, and I gave it + up, and only squeezed her hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s all right,’ she said; then tears came into her eyes, and she + suddenly put her hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. ‘You be + off—you’re only a boy yourself. Take care of that boy; be kind to + your wife, and take care of yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you come to see us?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Some day,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + I started the horses, and looked round once more. She was looking up at + Jim, who was waving his hand to her from the top of the load. And I saw + that haggard, hungry, hopeless look come into her eyes in spite of the + tears. + </p> + <p> + I smoothed over that story and shortened it a lot, when I told it to Mary—I + didn’t want to upset her. But, some time after I brought Jim home from + Gulgong, and while I was at home with the team for a few days, nothing + would suit Mary but she must go over to Brighten’s shanty and see + Brighten’s sister-in-law. So James drove her over one morning in the + spring-cart: it was a long way, and they stayed at Brighten’s overnight + and didn’t get back till late the next afternoon. I’d got the place in a + pig-muck, as Mary said, ‘doing for’ myself, and I was having a snooze on + the sofa when they got back. The first thing I remember was some one + stroking my head and kissing me, and I heard Mary saying, ‘My poor boy! My + poor old boy!’ + </p> + <p> + I sat up with a jerk. I thought that Jim had gone off again. But it seems + that Mary was only referring to me. Then she started to pull grey hairs + out of my head and put ‘em in an empty match-box—to see how many + she’d get. She used to do this when she felt a bit soft. I don’t know what + she said to Brighten’s sister-in-law or what Brighten’s sister-in-law said + to her, but Mary was extra gentle for the next few days. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ‘Water Them Geraniums’. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I. A Lonely Track. + </h2> + <p> + The time Mary and I shifted out into the Bush from Gulgong to ‘settle on + the land’ at Lahey’s Creek. + </p> + <p> + I’d sold the two tip-drays that I used for tank-sinking and dam-making, + and I took the traps out in the waggon on top of a small load of rations + and horse-feed that I was taking to a sheep-station out that way. Mary + drove out in the spring-cart. You remember we left little Jim with his + aunt in Gulgong till we got settled down. I’d sent James (Mary’s brother) + out the day before, on horseback, with two or three cows and some heifers + and steers and calves we had, and I’d told him to clean up a bit, and make + the hut as bright and cheerful as possible before Mary came. + </p> + <p> + We hadn’t much in the way of furniture. There was the four-poster cedar + bedstead that I bought before we were married, and Mary was rather proud + of it: it had ‘turned’ posts and joints that bolted together. There was a + plain hardwood table, that Mary called her ‘ironing-table’, upside down on + top of the load, with the bedding and blankets between the legs; there + were four of those common black kitchen-chairs—with apples painted + on the hard board backs—that we used for the parlour; there was a + cheap batten sofa with arms at the ends and turned rails between the + uprights of the arms (we were a little proud of the turned rails); and + there was the camp-oven, and the three-legged pot, and pans and buckets, + stuck about the load and hanging under the tail-board of the waggon. + </p> + <p> + There was the little Wilcox & Gibb’s sewing-machine—my present + to Mary when we were married (and what a present, looking back to it!). + There was a cheap little rocking-chair, and a looking-glass and some + pictures that were presents from Mary’s friends and sister. She had her + mantel-shelf ornaments and crockery and nick-nacks packed away, in the + linen and old clothes, in a big tub made of half a cask, and a box that + had been Jim’s cradle. The live stock was a cat in one box, and in another + an old rooster, and three hens that formed cliques, two against one, turn + about, as three of the same sex will do all over the world. I had my old + cattle-dog, and of course a pup on the load—I always had a pup that + I gave away, or sold and didn’t get paid for, or had ‘touched’ (stolen) as + soon as it was old enough. James had his three spidery, sneaking, + thieving, cold-blooded kangaroo-dogs with him. I was taking out three + months’ provisions in the way of ration-sugar, tea, flour, and potatoes, + &c. + </p> + <p> + I started early, and Mary caught up to me at Ryan’s Crossing on Sandy + Creek, where we boiled the billy and had some dinner. + </p> + <p> + Mary bustled about the camp and admired the scenery and talked too much, + for her, and was extra cheerful, and kept her face turned from me as much + as possible. I soon saw what was the matter. She’d been crying to herself + coming along the road. I thought it was all on account of leaving little + Jim behind for the first time. She told me that she couldn’t make up her + mind till the last moment to leave him, and that, a mile or two along the + road, she’d have turned back for him, only that she knew her sister would + laugh at her. She was always terribly anxious about the children. + </p> + <p> + We cheered each other up, and Mary drove with me the rest of the way to + the creek, along the lonely branch track, across native-apple-tree flats. + It was a dreary, hopeless track. There was no horizon, nothing but the + rough ashen trunks of the gnarled and stunted trees in all directions, + little or no undergrowth, and the ground, save for the coarse, brownish + tufts of dead grass, as bare as the road, for it was a dry season: there + had been no rain for months, and I wondered what I should do with the + cattle if there wasn’t more grass on the creek. + </p> + <p> + In this sort of country a stranger might travel for miles without seeming + to have moved, for all the difference there is in the scenery. The new + tracks were ‘blazed’—that is, slices of bark cut off from both sides + of trees, within sight of each other, in a line, to mark the track until + the horses and wheel-marks made it plain. A smart Bushman, with a sharp + tomahawk, can blaze a track as he rides. But a Bushman a little used to + the country soon picks out differences amongst the trees, half + unconsciously as it were, and so finds his way about. + </p> + <p> + Mary and I didn’t talk much along this track—we couldn’t have heard + each other very well, anyway, for the ‘clock-clock’ of the waggon and the + rattle of the cart over the hard lumpy ground. And I suppose we both began + to feel pretty dismal as the shadows lengthened. I’d noticed lately that + Mary and I had got out of the habit of talking to each other—noticed + it in a vague sort of way that irritated me (as vague things will irritate + one) when I thought of it. But then I thought, ‘It won’t last long—I’ll + make life brighter for her by-and-by.’ + </p> + <p> + As we went along—and the track seemed endless—I got brooding, + of course, back into the past. And I feel now, when it’s too late, that + Mary must have been thinking that way too. I thought of my early boyhood, + of the hard life of ‘grubbin’’ and ‘milkin’’ and ‘fencin’’ and ‘ploughin’’ + and ‘ring-barkin’’, &c., and all for nothing. The few months at the + little bark-school, with a teacher who couldn’t spell. The cursed ambition + or craving that tortured my soul as a boy—ambition or craving for—I + didn’t know what for! For something better and brighter, anyhow. And I + made the life harder by reading at night. + </p> + <p> + It all passed before me as I followed on in the waggon, behind Mary in the + spring-cart. I thought of these old things more than I thought of her. She + had tried to help me to better things. And I tried too—I had the + energy of half-a-dozen men when I saw a road clear before me, but shied at + the first check. Then I brooded, or dreamed of making a home—that + one might call a home—for Mary—some day. Ah, well!—— + </p> + <p> + And what was Mary thinking about, along the lonely, changeless miles? I + never thought of that. Of her kind, careless, gentleman father, perhaps. + Of her girlhood. Of her homes—not the huts and camps she lived in + with me. Of our future?—she used to plan a lot, and talk a good deal + of our future—but not lately. These things didn’t strike me at the + time—I was so deep in my own brooding. Did she think now—did + she begin to feel now that she had made a great mistake and thrown away + her life, but must make the best of it? This might have roused me, had I + thought of it. But whenever I thought Mary was getting indifferent towards + me, I’d think, ‘I’ll soon win her back. We’ll be sweethearts again—when + things brighten up a bit.’ + </p> + <p> + It’s an awful thing to me, now I look back to it, to think how far apart + we had grown, what strangers we were to each other. It seems, now, as + though we had been sweethearts long years before, and had parted, and had + never really met since. + </p> + <p> + The sun was going down when Mary called out— + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s our place, Joe!’ + </p> + <p> + She hadn’t seen it before, and somehow it came new and with a shock to me, + who had been out here several times. Ahead, through the trees to the + right, was a dark green clump of the oaks standing out of the creek, + darker for the dead grey grass and blue-grey bush on the barren ridge in + the background. Across the creek (it was only a deep, narrow gutter—a + water-course with a chain of water-holes after rain), across on the other + bank, stood the hut, on a narrow flat between the spur and the creek, and + a little higher than this side. The land was much better than on our old + selection, and there was good soil along the creek on both sides: I + expected a rush of selectors out here soon. A few acres round the hut was + cleared and fenced in by a light two-rail fence of timber split from logs + and saplings. The man who took up this selection left it because his wife + died here. + </p> + <p> + It was a small oblong hut built of split slabs, and he had roofed it with + shingles which he split in spare times. There was no verandah, but I built + one later on. At the end of the house was a big slab-and-bark shed, bigger + than the hut itself, with a kitchen, a skillion for tools, harness, and + horse-feed, and a spare bedroom partitioned off with sheets of bark and + old chaff-bags. The house itself was floored roughly, with cracks between + the boards; there were cracks between the slabs all round—though + he’d nailed strips of tin, from old kerosene-tins, over some of them; the + partitioned-off bedroom was lined with old chaff-bags with newspapers + pasted over them for wall-paper. There was no ceiling, calico or + otherwise, and we could see the round pine rafters and battens, and the + under ends of the shingles. But ceilings make a hut hot and harbour + insects and reptiles—snakes sometimes. There was one small glass + window in the ‘dining-room’ with three panes and a sheet of greased paper, + and the rest were rough wooden shutters. There was a pretty good cow-yard + and calf-pen, and—that was about all. There was no dam or tank (I + made one later on); there was a water-cask, with the hoops falling off and + the staves gaping, at the corner of the house, and spouting, made of + lengths of bent tin, ran round under the eaves. Water from a new shingle + roof is wine-red for a year or two, and water from a stringy-bark roof is + like tan-water for years. In dry weather the selector had got his house + water from a cask sunk in the gravel at the bottom of the deepest + water-hole in the creek. And the longer the drought lasted, the farther he + had to go down the creek for his water, with a cask on a cart, and take + his cows to drink, if he had any. Four, five, six, or seven miles—even + ten miles to water is nothing in some places. + </p> + <p> + James hadn’t found himself called upon to do more than milk old ‘Spot’ + (the grandmother cow of our mob), pen the calf at night, make a fire in + the kitchen, and sweep out the house with a bough. He helped me unharness + and water and feed the horses, and then started to get the furniture off + the waggon and into the house. James wasn’t lazy—so long as one + thing didn’t last too long; but he was too uncomfortably practical and + matter-of-fact for me. Mary and I had some tea in the kitchen. The kitchen + was permanently furnished with a table of split slabs, adzed smooth on + top, and supported by four stakes driven into the ground, a three-legged + stool and a block of wood, and two long stools made of half-round slabs + (sapling trunks split in halves) with auger-holes bored in the round side + and sticks stuck into them for legs. The floor was of clay; the chimney of + slabs and tin; the fireplace was about eight feet wide, lined with clay, + and with a blackened pole across, with sooty chains and wire hooks on it + for the pots. + </p> + <p> + Mary didn’t seem able to eat. She sat on the three-legged stool near the + fire, though it was warm weather, and kept her face turned from me. Mary + was still pretty, but not the little dumpling she had been: she was + thinner now. She had big dark hazel eyes that shone a little too much when + she was pleased or excited. I thought at times that there was something + very German about her expression; also something aristocratic about the + turn of her nose, which nipped in at the nostrils when she spoke. There + was nothing aristocratic about me. Mary was German in figure and walk. I + used sometimes to call her ‘Little Duchy’ and ‘Pigeon Toes’. She had a + will of her own, as shown sometimes by the obstinate knit in her forehead + between the eyes. + </p> + <p> + Mary sat still by the fire, and presently I saw her chin tremble. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it, Mary?’ + </p> + <p> + She turned her face farther from me. I felt tired, disappointed, and + irritated—suffering from a reaction. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, what is it, Mary?’ I asked; ‘I’m sick of this sort of thing. Haven’t + you got everything you wanted? You’ve had your own way. What’s the matter + with you now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You know very well, Joe.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I DON’T know,’ I said. I knew too well. + </p> + <p> + She said nothing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Mary,’ I said, putting my hand on her shoulder, ‘don’t go on + like that; tell me what’s the matter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s only this,’ she said suddenly, ‘I can’t stand this life here; it + will kill me!’ + </p> + <p> + I had a pannikin of tea in my hand, and I banged it down on the table. + </p> + <p> + ‘This is more than a man can stand!’ I shouted. ‘You know very well that + it was you that dragged me out here. You run me on to this! Why weren’t + you content to stay in Gulgong?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what sort of a place was Gulgong, Joe?’ asked Mary quietly. + </p> + <p> + (I thought even then in a flash what sort of a place Gulgong was. A + wretched remnant of a town on an abandoned goldfield. One street, each + side of the dusty main road; three or four one-storey square brick + cottages with hip roofs of galvanised iron that glared in the heat—four + rooms and a passage—the police-station, bank-manager and + schoolmaster’s cottages, &c. Half-a-dozen tumble-down weather-board + shanties—the three pubs., the two stores, and the post-office. The + town tailing off into weather-board boxes with tin tops, and old bark huts—relics + of the digging days—propped up by many rotting poles. The men, when + at home, mostly asleep or droning over their pipes or hanging about the + verandah posts of the pubs., saying, ‘’Ullo, Bill!’ or ‘’Ullo, Jim!’—or + sometimes drunk. The women, mostly hags, who blackened each other’s and + girls’ characters with their tongues, and criticised the aristocracy’s + washing hung out on the line: ‘And the colour of the clothes! Does that + woman wash her clothes at all? or only soak ‘em and hang ‘em out?’—that + was Gulgong.) + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, why didn’t you come to Sydney, as I wanted you to?’ I asked Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘You know very well, Joe,’ said Mary quietly. + </p> + <p> + (I knew very well, but the knowledge only maddened me. I had had an idea + of getting a billet in one of the big wool-stores—I was a fair wool + expert—but Mary was afraid of the drink. I could keep well away from + it so long as I worked hard in the Bush. I had gone to Sydney twice since + I met Mary, once before we were married, and she forgave me when I came + back; and once afterwards. I got a billet there then, and was going to + send for her in a month. After eight weeks she raised the money somehow + and came to Sydney and brought me home. I got pretty low down that time.) + </p> + <p> + ‘But, Mary,’ I said, ‘it would have been different this time. You would + have been with me. I can take a glass now or leave it alone.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As long as you take a glass there is danger,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, what did you want to advise me to come out here for, if you can’t + stand it? Why didn’t you stay where you were?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ she said, ‘why weren’t you more decided?’ + </p> + <p> + I’d sat down, but I jumped to my feet then. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good God!’ I shouted, ‘this is more than any man can stand. I’ll chuck it + all up! I’m damned well sick and tired of the whole thing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So am I, Joe,’ said Mary wearily. + </p> + <p> + We quarrelled badly then—that first hour in our new home. I know now + whose fault it was. + </p> + <p> + I got my hat and went out and started to walk down the creek. I didn’t + feel bitter against Mary—I had spoken too cruelly to her to feel + that way. Looking back, I could see plainly that if I had taken her advice + all through, instead of now and again, things would have been all right + with me. I had come away and left her crying in the hut, and James telling + her, in a brotherly way, that it was all her fault. The trouble was that I + never liked to ‘give in’ or go half-way to make it up—not half-way—it + was all the way or nothing with our natures. + </p> + <p> + ‘If I don’t make a stand now,’ I’d say, ‘I’ll never be master. I gave up + the reins when I got married, and I’ll have to get them back again.’ + </p> + <p> + What women some men are! But the time came, and not many years after, when + I stood by the bed where Mary lay, white and still; and, amongst other + things, I kept saying, ‘I’ll give in, Mary—I’ll give in,’ and then + I’d laugh. They thought that I was raving mad, and took me from the room. + But that time was to come. + </p> + <p> + As I walked down the creek track in the moonlight the question rang in my + ears again, as it had done when I first caught sight of the house that + evening— + </p> + <p> + ‘Why did I bring her here?’ + </p> + <p> + I was not fit to ‘go on the land’. The place was only fit for some stolid + German, or Scotsman, or even Englishman and his wife, who had no ambition + but to bullock and make a farm of the place. I had only drifted here + through carelessness, brooding, and discontent. + </p> + <p> + I walked on and on till I was more than half-way to the only neighbours—a + wretched selector’s family, about four miles down the creek,—and I + thought I’d go on to the house and see if they had any fresh meat. + </p> + <p> + A mile or two farther I saw the loom of the bark hut they lived in, on a + patchy clearing in the scrub, and heard the voice of the selector’s wife—I + had seen her several times: she was a gaunt, haggard Bushwoman, and, I + supposed, the reason why she hadn’t gone mad through hardship and + loneliness was that she hadn’t either the brains or the memory to go + farther than she could see through the trunks of the ‘apple-trees’. + </p> + <p> + ‘You, An-nay!’ (Annie.) + </p> + <p> + ‘Ye-es’ (from somewhere in the gloom). + </p> + <p> + ‘Didn’t I tell yer to water them geraniums!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, didn’t I?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t tell lies or I’ll break yer young back!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I did, I tell yer—the water won’t soak inter the ashes.’ + </p> + <p> + Geraniums were the only flowers I saw grow in the drought out there. I + remembered this woman had a few dirty grey-green leaves behind some sticks + against the bark wall near the door; and in spite of the sticks the fowls + used to get in and scratch beds under the geraniums, and scratch dust over + them, and ashes were thrown there—with an idea of helping the + flower, I suppose; and greasy dish-water, when fresh water was scarce—till + you might as well try to water a dish of fat. + </p> + <p> + Then the woman’s voice again— + </p> + <p> + ‘You, Tom-may!’ (Tommy.) + </p> + <p> + Silence, save for an echo on the ridge. + </p> + <p> + ‘Y-o-u, T-o-m-MAY!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ye-e-s!’ shrill shriek from across the creek. + </p> + <p> + ‘Didn’t I tell you to ride up to them new people and see if they want any + meat or any think?’ in one long screech. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well—I karnt find the horse.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well-find-it-first-think-in-the-morning and. + And-don’t-forgit-to-tell-Mrs-Wi’son-that-mother’ll-be-up-as-soon-as-she-can.’ + </p> + <p> + I didn’t feel like going to the woman’s house that night. I felt—and + the thought came like a whip-stroke on my heart—that this was what + Mary would come to if I left her here. + </p> + <p> + I turned and started to walk home, fast. I’d made up my mind. I’d take + Mary straight back to Gulgong in the morning—I forgot about the load + I had to take to the sheep station. I’d say, ‘Look here, Girlie’ (that’s + what I used to call her), ‘we’ll leave this wretched life; we’ll leave the + Bush for ever! We’ll go to Sydney, and I’ll be a man! and work my way up.’ + And I’d sell waggon, horses, and all, and go. + </p> + <p> + When I got to the hut it was lighted up. Mary had the only kerosene lamp, + a slush lamp, and two tallow candles going. She had got both rooms washed + out—to James’s disgust, for he had to move the furniture and boxes + about. She had a lot of things unpacked on the table; she had laid clean + newspapers on the mantel-shelf—a slab on two pegs over the fireplace—and + put the little wooden clock in the centre and some of the ornaments on + each side, and was tacking a strip of vandyked American oil-cloth round + the rough edge of the slab. + </p> + <p> + ‘How does that look, Joe? We’ll soon get things ship-shape.’ + </p> + <p> + I kissed her, but she had her mouth full of tacks. I went out in the + kitchen, drank a pint of cold tea, and sat down. + </p> + <p> + Somehow I didn’t feel satisfied with the way things had gone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. ‘Past Carin’’. + </h2> + <p> + Next morning things looked a lot brighter. Things always look brighter in + the morning—more so in the Australian Bush, I should think, than in + most other places. It is when the sun goes down on the dark bed of the + lonely Bush, and the sunset flashes like a sea of fire and then fades, and + then glows out again, like a bank of coals, and then burns away to ashes—it + is then that old things come home to one. And strange, new-old things too, + that haunt and depress you terribly, and that you can’t understand. I + often think how, at sunset, the past must come home to new-chum + blacksheep, sent out to Australia and drifted into the Bush. I used to + think that they couldn’t have much brains, or the loneliness would drive + them mad. + </p> + <p> + I’d decided to let James take the team for a trip or two. He could drive + alright; he was a better business man, and no doubt would manage better + than me—as long as the novelty lasted; and I’d stay at home for a + week or so, till Mary got used to the place, or I could get a girl from + somewhere to come and stay with her. The first weeks or few months of + loneliness are the worst, as a rule, I believe, as they say the first + weeks in jail are—I was never there. I know it’s so with tramping or + hard graft*: the first day or two are twice as hard as any of the rest. + But, for my part, I could never get used to loneliness and dulness; the + last days used to be the worst with me: then I’d have to make a move, or + drink. When you’ve been too much and too long alone in a lonely place, you + begin to do queer things and think queer thoughts—provided you have + any imagination at all. You’ll sometimes sit of an evening and watch the + lonely track, by the hour, for a horseman or a cart or some one that’s + never likely to come that way—some one, or a stranger, that you + can’t and don’t really expect to see. I think that most men who have been + alone in the Bush for any length of time—and married couples too—are + more or less mad. With married couples it is generally the husband who is + painfully shy and awkward when strangers come. The woman seems to stand + the loneliness better, and can hold her own with strangers, as a rule. + It’s only afterwards, and looking back, that you see how queer you got. + Shepherds and boundary-riders, who are alone for months, MUST have their + periodical spree, at the nearest shanty, else they’d go raving mad. Drink + is the only break in the awful monotony, and the yearly or half-yearly + spree is the only thing they’ve got to look forward to: it keeps their + minds fixed on something definite ahead. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * ‘Graft’, work. The term is now applied, in Australia, to + all sorts of work, from bullock-driving to writing poetry. +</pre> + <p> + But Mary kept her head pretty well through the first months of loneliness. + WEEKS, rather, I should say, for it wasn’t as bad as it might have been + farther up-country: there was generally some one came of a Sunday + afternoon—a spring-cart with a couple of women, or maybe a family,—or + a lanky shy Bush native or two on lanky shy horses. On a quiet Sunday, + after I’d brought Jim home, Mary would dress him and herself—just + the same as if we were in town—and make me get up on one end and put + on a collar and take her and Jim for a walk along the creek. She said she + wanted to keep me civilised. She tried to make a gentleman of me for + years, but gave it up gradually. + </p> + <p> + Well. It was the first morning on the creek: I was greasing the + waggon-wheels, and James out after the horse, and Mary hanging out + clothes, in an old print dress and a big ugly white hood, when I heard her + being hailed as ‘Hi, missus!’ from the front slip-rails. + </p> + <p> + It was a boy on horseback. He was a light-haired, very much freckled boy + of fourteen or fifteen, with a small head, but with limbs, especially his + bare sun-blotched shanks, that might have belonged to a grown man. He had + a good face and frank grey eyes. An old, nearly black cabbage-tree hat + rested on the butts of his ears, turning them out at right angles from his + head, and rather dirty sprouts they were. He wore a dirty torn Crimean + shirt; and a pair of man’s moleskin trousers rolled up above the knees, + with the wide waistband gathered under a greenhide belt. I noticed, later + on, that, even when he wore trousers short enough for him, he always + rolled ‘em up above the knees when on horseback, for some reason of his + own: to suggest leggings, perhaps, for he had them rolled up in all + weathers, and he wouldn’t have bothered to save them from the sweat of the + horse, even if that horse ever sweated. + </p> + <p> + He was seated astride a three-bushel bag thrown across the ridge-pole of a + big grey horse, with a coffin-shaped head, and built astern something + after the style of a roughly put up hip-roofed box-bark humpy.* His colour + was like old box-bark, too, a dirty bluish-grey; and, one time, when I saw + his rump looming out of the scrub, I really thought it was some old + shepherd’s hut that I hadn’t noticed there before. When he cantered it was + like the humpy starting off on its corner-posts. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * ‘Humpy’, a rough hut. +</pre> + <p> + ‘Are you Mrs Wilson?’ asked the boy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, mother told me to ride acrost and see if you wanted anythink. We + killed lars’ night, and I’ve fetched a piece er cow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Piece of WHAT?’ asked Mary. + </p> + <p> + He grinned, and handed a sugar-bag across the rail with something heavy in + the bottom of it, that nearly jerked Mary’s arm out when she took it. It + was a piece of beef, that looked as if it had been cut off with a + wood-axe, but it was fresh and clean. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I’m so glad!’ cried Mary. She was always impulsive, save to me + sometimes. ‘I was just wondering where we were going to get any fresh + meat. How kind of your mother! Tell her I’m very much obliged to her + indeed.’ And she felt behind her for a poor little purse she had. ‘And now—how + much did your mother say it would be?’ + </p> + <p> + The boy blinked at her, and scratched his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘How much will it be,’ he repeated, puzzled. ‘Oh—how much does it + weigh I-s’pose-yer-mean. Well, it ain’t been weighed at all—we ain’t + got no scales. A butcher does all that sort of think. We just kills it, + and cooks it, and eats it—and goes by guess. What won’t keep we + salts down in the cask. I reckon it weighs about a ton by the weight of it + if yer wanter know. Mother thought that if she sent any more it would go + bad before you could scoff it. I can’t see——’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, yes,’ said Mary, getting confused. ‘But what I want to know is, how + do you manage when you sell it?’ + </p> + <p> + He glared at her, and scratched his head. ‘Sell it? Why, we only goes + halves in a steer with some one, or sells steers to the butcher—or + maybe some meat to a party of fencers or surveyors, or tank-sinkers, or + them sorter people——’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, yes; but what I want to know is, how much am I to send your mother + for this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How much what?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Money, of course, you stupid boy,’ said Mary. ‘You seem a very stupid + boy.’ + </p> + <p> + Then he saw what she was driving at. He began to fling his heels + convulsively against the sides of his horse, jerking his body backward and + forward at the same time, as if to wind up and start some clockwork + machinery inside the horse, that made it go, and seemed to need repairing + or oiling. + </p> + <p> + ‘We ain’t that sorter people, missus,’ he said. ‘We don’t sell meat to new + people that come to settle here.’ Then, jerking his thumb contemptuously + towards the ridges, ‘Go over ter Wall’s if yer wanter buy meat; they sell + meat ter strangers.’ (Wall was the big squatter over the ridges.) + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh!’ said Mary, ‘I’m SO sorry. Thank your mother for me. She IS kind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, that’s nothink. She said to tell yer she’ll be up as soon as she can. + She’d have come up yisterday evening—she thought yer’d feel lonely + comin’ new to a place like this—but she couldn’t git up.’ + </p> + <p> + The machinery inside the old horse showed signs of starting. You almost + heard the wooden joints CREAK as he lurched forward, like an old + propped-up humpy when the rotting props give way; but at the sound of + Mary’s voice he settled back on his foundations again. It must have been a + very poor selection that couldn’t afford a better spare horse than that. + </p> + <p> + ‘Reach me that lump er wood, will yer, missus?’ said the boy, and he + pointed to one of my ‘spreads’ (for the team-chains) that lay inside the + fence. ‘I’ll fling it back agin over the fence when I git this ole cow + started.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But wait a minute—I’ve forgotten your mother’s name,’ said Mary. + </p> + <p> + He grabbed at his thatch impatiently. ‘Me mother—oh!—the old + woman’s name’s Mrs Spicer. (Git up, karnt yer!)’ He twisted himself round, + and brought the stretcher down on one of the horse’s ‘points’ (and he had + many) with a crack that must have jarred his wrist. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you go to school?’ asked Mary. There was a three-days-a-week school + over the ridges at Wall’s station. + </p> + <p> + ‘No!’ he jerked out, keeping his legs going. ‘Me—why I’m going on + fur fifteen. The last teacher at Wall’s finished me. I’m going to + Queensland next month drovin’.’ (Queensland border was over three hundred + miles away.) + </p> + <p> + ‘Finished you? How?’ asked Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘Me edgercation, of course! How do yer expect me to start this horse when + yer keep talkin’?’ + </p> + <p> + He split the ‘spread’ over the horse’s point, threw the pieces over the + fence, and was off, his elbows and legs flinging wildly, and the old + saw-stool lumbering along the road like an old working bullock trying a + canter. That horse wasn’t a trotter. + </p> + <p> + And next month he DID start for Queensland. He was a younger son and a + surplus boy on a wretched, poverty-stricken selection; and as there was + ‘northin’ doin’’ in the district, his father (in a burst of fatherly + kindness, I suppose) made him a present of the old horse and a new pair of + Blucher boots, and I gave him an old saddle and a coat, and he started for + the Never-Never Country. + </p> + <p> + And I’ll bet he got there. But I’m doubtful if the old horse did. + </p> + <p> + Mary gave the boy five shillings, and I don’t think he had anything more + except a clean shirt and an extra pair of white cotton socks. + </p> + <p> + ‘Spicer’s farm’ was a big bark humpy on a patchy clearing in the native + apple-tree scrub. The clearing was fenced in by a light ‘dog-legged’ fence + (a fence of sapling poles resting on forks and X-shaped uprights), and the + dusty ground round the house was almost entirely covered with cattle-dung. + There was no attempt at cultivation when I came to live on the creek; but + there were old furrow-marks amongst the stumps of another shapeless patch + in the scrub near the hut. There was a wretched sapling cow-yard and + calf-pen, and a cow-bail with one sheet of bark over it for shelter. There + was no dairy to be seen, and I suppose the milk was set in one of the two + skillion rooms, or lean-to’s behind the hut,—the other was ‘the + boys’ bedroom’. The Spicers kept a few cows and steers, and had thirty or + forty sheep. Mrs Spicer used to drive down the creek once a-week, in her + rickety old spring-cart, to Cobborah, with butter and eggs. The hut was + nearly as bare inside as it was out—just a frame of ‘round-timber’ + (sapling poles) covered with bark. The furniture was permanent (unless you + rooted it up), like in our kitchen: a rough slab table on stakes driven + into the ground, and seats made the same way. Mary told me afterwards that + the beds in the bag-and-bark partitioned-off room (‘mother’s bedroom’) + were simply poles laid side by side on cross-pieces supported by stakes + driven into the ground, with straw mattresses and some worn-out + bed-clothes. Mrs Spicer had an old patchwork quilt, in rags, and the + remains of a white one, and Mary said it was pitiful to see how these + things would be spread over the beds—to hide them as much as + possible—when she went down there. A packing-case, with something + like an old print skirt draped round it, and a cracked looking-glass + (without a frame) on top, was the dressing-table. There were a couple of + gin-cases for a wardrobe. The boys’ beds were three-bushel bags stretched + between poles fastened to uprights. The floor was the original surface, + tramped hard, worn uneven with much sweeping, and with puddles in rainy + weather where the roof leaked. Mrs Spicer used to stand old tins, dishes, + and buckets under as many of the leaks as she could. The saucepans, + kettles, and boilers were old kerosene-tins and billies. They used + kerosene-tins, too, cut longways in halves, for setting the milk in. The + plates and cups were of tin; there were two or three cups without saucers, + and a crockery plate or two—also two mugs, cracked and without + handles, one with ‘For a Good Boy’ and the other with ‘For a Good Girl’ on + it; but all these were kept on the mantel-shelf for ornament and for + company. They were the only ornaments in the house, save a little wooden + clock that hadn’t gone for years. Mrs Spicer had a superstition that she + had ‘some things packed away from the children.’ + </p> + <p> + The pictures were cut from old copies of the ‘Illustrated Sydney News’ and + pasted on to the bark. I remember this, because I remembered, long ago, + the Spencers, who were our neighbours when I was a boy, had the walls of + their bedroom covered with illustrations of the American Civil War, cut + from illustrated London papers, and I used to ‘sneak’ into ‘mother’s + bedroom’ with Fred Spencer whenever we got the chance, and gloat over the + prints. I gave him a blade of a pocket-knife once, for taking me in there. + </p> + <p> + I saw very little of Spicer. He was a big, dark, dark-haired and whiskered + man. I had an idea that he wasn’t a selector at all, only a ‘dummy’ for + the squatter of the Cobborah run. You see, selectors were allowed to take + up land on runs, or pastoral leases. The squatters kept them off as much + as possible, by all manner of dodges and paltry persecution. The squatter + would get as much freehold as he could afford, ‘select’ as much land as + the law allowed one man to take up, and then employ dummies (dummy + selectors) to take up bits of land that he fancied about his run, and hold + them for him. + </p> + <p> + Spicer seemed gloomy and unsociable. He was seldom at home. He was + generally supposed to be away shearin’, or fencin’, or workin’ on + somebody’s station. It turned out that the last six months he was away it + was on the evidence of a cask of beef and a hide with the brand cut out, + found in his camp on a fencing contract up-country, and which he and his + mates couldn’t account for satisfactorily, while the squatter could. Then + the family lived mostly on bread and honey, or bread and treacle, or bread + and dripping, and tea. Every ounce of butter and every egg was needed for + the market, to keep them in flour, tea, and sugar. Mary found that out, + but couldn’t help them much—except by ‘stuffing’ the children with + bread and meat or bread and jam whenever they came up to our place—for + Mrs Spicer was proud with the pride that lies down in the end and turns + its face to the wall and dies. + </p> + <p> + Once, when Mary asked Annie, the eldest girl at home, if she was hungry, + she denied it—but she looked it. A ragged mite she had with her + explained things. The little fellow said— + </p> + <p> + ‘Mother told Annie not to say we was hungry if yer asked; but if yer give + us anythink to eat, we was to take it an’ say thenk yer, Mrs Wilson.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wouldn’t ‘a’ told yer a lie; but I thought Jimmy would split on me, Mrs + Wilson,’ said Annie. ‘Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson.’ + </p> + <p> + She was not a big woman. She was gaunt and flat-chested, and her face was + ‘burnt to a brick’, as they say out there. She had brown eyes, nearly red, + and a little wild-looking at times, and a sharp face—ground sharp by + hardship—the cheeks drawn in. She had an expression like—well, + like a woman who had been very curious and suspicious at one time, and + wanted to know everybody’s business and hear everything, and had lost all + her curiosity, without losing the expression or the quick suspicious + movements of the head. I don’t suppose you understand. I can’t explain it + any other way. She was not more than forty. + </p> + <p> + I remember the first morning I saw her. I was going up the creek to look + at the selection for the first time, and called at the hut to see if she + had a bit of fresh mutton, as I had none and was sick of ‘corned beef’. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—of—course,’ she said, in a sharp nasty tone, as if to + say, ‘Is there anything more you want while the shop’s open?’ I’d met just + the same sort of woman years before while I was carrying swag between the + shearing-sheds in the awful scrubs out west of the Darling river, so I + didn’t turn on my heels and walk away. I waited for her to speak again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come—inside,’ she said, ‘and sit down. I see you’ve got the waggon + outside. I s’pose your name’s Wilson, ain’t it? You’re thinkin’ about + takin’ on Harry Marshfield’s selection up the creek, so I heard. Wait till + I fry you a chop and boil the billy.’ + </p> + <p> + Her voice sounded, more than anything else, like a voice coming out of a + phonograph—I heard one in Sydney the other day—and not like a + voice coming out of her. But sometimes when she got outside her everyday + life on this selection she spoke in a sort of—in a sort of lost + groping-in-the-dark kind of voice. + </p> + <p> + She didn’t talk much this time—just spoke in a mechanical way of the + drought, and the hard times, ‘an’ butter ‘n’ eggs bein’ down, an’ her + husban’ an’ eldest son bein’ away, an’ that makin’ it so hard for her.’ + </p> + <p> + I don’t know how many children she had. I never got a chance to count + them, for they were nearly all small, and shy as piccaninnies, and used to + run and hide when anybody came. They were mostly nearly as black as + piccaninnies too. She must have averaged a baby a-year for years—and + God only knows how she got over her confinements! Once, they said, she + only had a black gin with her. She had an elder boy and girl, but she + seldom spoke of them. The girl, ‘Liza’, was ‘in service in Sydney.’ I’m + afraid I knew what that meant. The elder son was ‘away’. He had been a bit + of a favourite round there, it seemed. + </p> + <p> + Some one might ask her, ‘How’s your son Jack, Mrs Spicer?’ or, ‘Heard of + Jack lately? and where is he now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, he’s somewheres up country,’ she’d say in the ‘groping’ voice, or + ‘He’s drovin’ in Queenslan’,’ or ‘Shearin’ on the Darlin’ the last time I + heerd from him.’ ‘We ain’t had a line from him since—les’ see—since + Chris’mas ‘fore last.’ + </p> + <p> + And she’d turn her haggard eyes in a helpless, hopeless sort of way + towards the west—towards ‘up-country’ and ‘Out-Back’.* + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * ‘Out-Back’ is always west of the Bushman, no matter how + far out he be. +</pre> + <p> + The eldest girl at home was nine or ten, with a little old face and lines + across her forehead: she had an older expression than her mother. Tommy + went to Queensland, as I told you. The eldest son at home, Bill (older + than Tommy), was ‘a bit wild.’ + </p> + <p> + I’ve passed the place in smothering hot mornings in December, when the + droppings about the cow-yard had crumpled to dust that rose in the warm, + sickly, sunrise wind, and seen that woman at work in the cow-yard, + ‘bailing up’ and leg-roping cows, milking, or hauling at a rope round the + neck of a half-grown calf that was too strong for her (and she was tough + as fencing-wire), or humping great buckets of sour milk to the pigs or the + ‘poddies’ (hand-fed calves) in the pen. I’d get off the horse and give her + a hand sometimes with a young steer, or a cranky old cow that wouldn’t + ‘bail-up’ and threatened her with her horns. She’d say— + </p> + <p> + ‘Thenk yer, Mr Wilson. Do yer think we’re ever goin’ to have any rain?’ + </p> + <p> + I’ve ridden past the place on bitter black rainy mornings in June or July, + and seen her trudging about the yard—that was ankle-deep in black + liquid filth—with an old pair of Blucher boots on, and an old coat + of her husband’s, or maybe a three-bushel bag over her shoulders. I’ve + seen her climbing on the roof by means of the water-cask at the corner, + and trying to stop a leak by shoving a piece of tin in under the bark. And + when I’d fixed the leak— + </p> + <p> + ‘Thenk yer, Mr Wilson. This drop of rain’s a blessin’! Come in and have a + dry at the fire and I’ll make yer a cup of tea.’ And, if I was in a hurry, + ‘Come in, man alive! Come in! and dry yerself a bit till the rain holds + up. Yer can’t go home like this! Yer’ll git yer death o’ cold.’ + </p> + <p> + I’ve even seen her, in the terrible drought, climbing she-oaks and + apple-trees by a makeshift ladder, and awkwardly lopping off boughs to + feed the starving cattle. + </p> + <p> + ‘Jist tryin’ ter keep the milkers alive till the rain comes.’ + </p> + <p> + They said that when the pleuro-pneumonia was in the district and amongst + her cattle she bled and physicked them herself, and fed those that were + down with slices of half-ripe pumpkins (from a crop that had failed). + </p> + <p> + ‘An’, one day,’ she told Mary, ‘there was a big barren heifer (that we + called Queen Elizabeth) that was down with the ploorer. She’d been down + for four days and hadn’t moved, when one mornin’ I dumped some wheaten + chaff—we had a few bags that Spicer brought home—I dumped it + in front of her nose, an’—would yer b’lieve me, Mrs Wilson?—she + stumbled onter her feet an’ chased me all the way to the house! I had to + pick up me skirts an’ run! Wasn’t it redic’lus?’ + </p> + <p> + They had a sense of the ridiculous, most of those poor sun-dried + Bushwomen. I fancy that that helped save them from madness. + </p> + <p> + ‘We lost nearly all our milkers,’ she told Mary. ‘I remember one day Tommy + came running to the house and screamed: ‘Marther! [mother] there’s another + milker down with the ploorer!’ Jist as if it was great news. Well, Mrs + Wilson, I was dead-beat, an’ I giv’ in. I jist sat down to have a good + cry, and felt for my han’kerchief—it WAS a rag of a han’kerchief, + full of holes (all me others was in the wash). Without seein’ what I was + doin’ I put me finger through one hole in the han’kerchief an’ me thumb + through the other, and poked me fingers into me eyes, instead of wipin’ + them. Then I had to laugh.’ + </p> + <p> + There’s a story that once, when the Bush, or rather grass, fires were out + all along the creek on Spicer’s side, Wall’s station hands were up above + our place, trying to keep the fire back from the boundary, and towards + evening one of the men happened to think of the Spicers: they saw smoke + down that way. Spicer was away from home, and they had a small crop of + wheat, nearly ripe, on the selection. + </p> + <p> + ‘My God! that poor devil of a woman will be burnt out, if she ain’t + already!’ shouted young Billy Wall. ‘Come along, three or four of you + chaps’—(it was shearing-time, and there were plenty of men on the + station). + </p> + <p> + They raced down the creek to Spicer’s, and were just in time to save the + wheat. She had her sleeves tucked up, and was beating out the burning + grass with a bough. She’d been at it for an hour, and was as black as a + gin, they said. She only said when they’d turned the fire: ‘Thenk yer! + Wait an’ I’ll make some tea.’ + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + After tea the first Sunday she came to see us, Mary asked— + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you feel lonely, Mrs Spicer, when your husband goes away?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well—no, Mrs Wilson,’ she said in the groping sort of voice. ‘I + uster, once. I remember, when we lived on the Cudgeegong river—we + lived in a brick house then—the first time Spicer had to go away + from home I nearly fretted my eyes out. And he was only goin’ shearin’ for + a month. I muster bin a fool; but then we were only jist married a little + while. He’s been away drovin’ in Queenslan’ as long as eighteen months at + a time since then. But’ (her voice seemed to grope in the dark more than + ever) ‘I don’t mind,—I somehow seem to have got past carin’. Besides—besides, + Spicer was a very different man then to what he is now. He’s got so moody + and gloomy at home, he hardly ever speaks.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary sat silent for a minute thinking. Then Mrs Spicer roused herself— + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about! You mustn’t take any notice of + me, Mrs Wilson,—I don’t often go on like this. I do believe I’m + gittin’ a bit ratty at times. It must be the heat and the dulness.’ + </p> + <p> + But once or twice afterwards she referred to a time ‘when Spicer was a + different man to what he was now.’ + </p> + <p> + I walked home with her a piece along the creek. She said nothing for a + long time, and seemed to be thinking in a puzzled way. Then she said + suddenly— + </p> + <p> + ‘What-did-you-bring-her-here-for? She’s only a girl.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg pardon, Mrs Spicer.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about! I b’lieve I’m gittin’ ratty. You + mustn’t take any notice of me, Mr Wilson.’ + </p> + <p> + She wasn’t much company for Mary; and often, when she had a child with + her, she’d start taking notice of the baby while Mary was talking, which + used to exasperate Mary. But poor Mrs Spicer couldn’t help it, and she + seemed to hear all the same. + </p> + <p> + Her great trouble was that she ‘couldn’t git no reg’lar schoolin’ for the + children.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I learns ‘em at home as much as I can. But I don’t git a minute to call + me own; an’ I’m ginerally that dead-beat at night that I’m fit for + nothink.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary had some of the children up now and then later on, and taught them a + little. When she first offered to do so, Mrs Spicer laid hold of the + handiest youngster and said— + </p> + <p> + ‘There—do you hear that? Mrs Wilson is goin’ to teach yer, an’ it’s + more than yer deserve!’ (the youngster had been ‘cryin’’ over something). + ‘Now, go up an’ say “Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson.” And if yer ain’t good, and + don’t do as she tells yer, I’ll break every bone in yer young body!’ + </p> + <p> + The poor little devil stammered something, and escaped. + </p> + <p> + The children were sent by turns over to Wall’s to Sunday-school. When + Tommy was at home he had a new pair of elastic-side boots, and there was + no end of rows about them in the family—for the mother made him lend + them to his sister Annie, to go to Sunday-school in, in her turn. There + were only about three pairs of anyway decent boots in the family, and + these were saved for great occasions. The children were always as clean + and tidy as possible when they came to our place. + </p> + <p> + And I think the saddest and most pathetic sight on the face of God’s earth + is the children of very poor people made to appear well: the broken + worn-out boots polished or greased, the blackened (inked) pieces of string + for laces; the clean patched pinafores over the wretched threadbare + frocks. Behind the little row of children hand-in-hand—and no matter + where they are—I always see the worn face of the mother. + </p> + <p> + Towards the end of the first year on the selection our little girl came. + I’d sent Mary to Gulgong for four months that time, and when she came back + with the baby Mrs Spicer used to come up pretty often. She came up several + times when Mary was ill, to lend a hand. She wouldn’t sit down and condole + with Mary, or waste her time asking questions, or talking about the time + when she was ill herself. She’d take off her hat—a shapeless little + lump of black straw she wore for visiting—give her hair a quick + brush back with the palms of her hands, roll up her sleeves, and set to + work to ‘tidy up’. She seemed to take most pleasure in sorting out our + children’s clothes, and dressing them. Perhaps she used to dress her own + like that in the days when Spicer was a different man from what he was + now. She seemed interested in the fashion-plates of some women’s journals + we had, and used to study them with an interest that puzzled me, for she + was not likely to go in for fashion. She never talked of her early + girlhood; but Mary, from some things she noticed, was inclined to think + that Mrs Spicer had been fairly well brought up. For instance, Dr + Balanfantie, from Cudgeegong, came out to see Wall’s wife, and drove up + the creek to our place on his way back to see how Mary and the baby were + getting on. Mary got out some crockery and some table-napkins that she had + packed away for occasions like this; and she said that the way Mrs Spicer + handled the things, and helped set the table (though she did it in a + mechanical sort of way), convinced her that she had been used to + table-napkins at one time in her life. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes, after a long pause in the conversation, Mrs Spicer would say + suddenly— + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll come up next week, Mrs Wilson.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, Mrs Spicer?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because the visits doesn’t do me any good. I git the dismals afterwards.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, Mrs Spicer? What on earth do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh,-I-don’t-know-what-I’m-talkin’-about. You mustn’t take any notice of + me.’ And she’d put on her hat, kiss the children—and Mary too, + sometimes, as if she mistook her for a child—and go. + </p> + <p> + Mary thought her a little mad at times. But I seemed to understand. + </p> + <p> + Once, when Mrs Spicer was sick, Mary went down to her, and down again next + day. As she was coming away the second time, Mrs Spicer said— + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish you wouldn’t come down any more till I’m on me feet, Mrs Wilson. + The children can do for me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, Mrs Spicer?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, the place is in such a muck, and it hurts me.’ + </p> + <p> + We were the aristocrats of Lahey’s Creek. Whenever we drove down on Sunday + afternoon to see Mrs Spicer, and as soon as we got near enough for them to + hear the rattle of the cart, we’d see the children running to the house as + fast as they could split, and hear them screaming— + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, marther! Here comes Mr and Mrs Wilson in their spring-cart.’ + </p> + <p> + And we’d see her bustle round, and two or three fowls fly out the front + door, and she’d lay hold of a broom (made of a bound bunch of + ‘broom-stuff’—coarse reedy grass or bush from the ridges—with + a stick stuck in it) and flick out the floor, with a flick or two round in + front of the door perhaps. The floor nearly always needed at least one + flick of the broom on account of the fowls. Or she’d catch a youngster and + scrub his face with a wet end of a cloudy towel, or twist the towel round + her finger and dig out his ears—as if she was anxious to have him + hear every word that was going to be said. + </p> + <p> + No matter what state the house would be in she’d always say, ‘I was jist + expectin’ yer, Mrs Wilson.’ And she was original in that, anyway. + </p> + <p> + She had an old patched and darned white table-cloth that she used to + spread on the table when we were there, as a matter of course (‘The others + is in the wash, so you must excuse this, Mrs Wilson’), but I saw by the + eyes of the children that the cloth was rather a wonderful thing to them. + ‘I must really git some more knives an’ forks next time I’m in Cobborah,’ + she’d say. ‘The children break an’ lose ‘em till I’m ashamed to ask + Christians ter sit down ter the table.’ + </p> + <p> + She had many Bush yarns, some of them very funny, some of them rather + ghastly, but all interesting, and with a grim sort of humour about them. + But the effect was often spoilt by her screaming at the children to ‘Drive + out them fowls, karnt yer,’ or ‘Take yer maulies [hands] outer the sugar,’ + or ‘Don’t touch Mrs Wilson’s baby with them dirty maulies,’ or ‘Don’t + stand starin’ at Mrs Wilson with yer mouth an’ ears in that vulgar way.’ + </p> + <p> + Poor woman! she seemed everlastingly nagging at the children. It was a + habit, but they didn’t seem to mind. Most Bushwomen get the nagging habit. + I remember one, who had the prettiest, dearest, sweetest, most willing, + and affectionate little girl I think I ever saw, and she nagged that child + from daylight till dark—and after it. Taking it all round, I think + that the nagging habit in a mother is often worse on ordinary children, + and more deadly on sensitive youngsters, than the drinking habit in a + father. + </p> + <p> + One of the yarns Mrs Spicer told us was about a squatter she knew who used + to go wrong in his head every now and again, and try to commit suicide. + Once, when the station-hand, who was watching him, had his eye off him for + a minute, he hanged himself to a beam in the stable. The men ran in and + found him hanging and kicking. ‘They let him hang for a while,’ said Mrs + Spicer, ‘till he went black in the face and stopped kicking. Then they cut + him down and threw a bucket of water over him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why! what on earth did they let the man hang for?’ asked Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘To give him a good bellyful of it: they thought it would cure him of + tryin’ to hang himself again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, that’s the coolest thing I ever heard of,’ said Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s jist what the magistrate said, Mrs Wilson,’ said Mrs Spicer. + </p> + <p> + ‘One morning,’ said Mrs Spicer, ‘Spicer had gone off on his horse + somewhere, and I was alone with the children, when a man came to the door + and said— + </p> + <p> + ‘“For God’s sake, woman, give me a drink!” + </p> + <p> + ‘Lord only knows where he came from! He was dressed like a new chum—his + clothes was good, but he looked as if he’d been sleepin’ in them in the + Bush for a month. He was very shaky. I had some coffee that mornin’, so I + gave him some in a pint pot; he drank it, and then he stood on his head + till he tumbled over, and then he stood up on his feet and said, “Thenk + yer, mum.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I was so surprised that I didn’t know what to say, so I jist said, “Would + you like some more coffee?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yes, thenk yer,” he said—“about two quarts.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I nearly filled the pint pot, and he drank it and stood on his head as + long as he could, and when he got right end up he said, “Thenk yer, mum—it’s + a fine day,” and then he walked off. He had two saddle-straps in his + hands.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, what did he stand on his head for?’ asked Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘To wash it up and down, I suppose, to get twice as much taste of the + coffee. He had no hat. I sent Tommy across to Wall’s to tell them that + there was a man wanderin’ about the Bush in the horrors of drink, and to + get some one to ride for the police. But they was too late, for he hanged + himself that night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘O Lord!’ cried Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, right close to here, jist down the creek where the track to Wall’s + branches off. Tommy found him while he was out after the cows. Hangin’ to + the branch of a tree with the two saddle-straps.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary stared at her, speechless. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tommy came home yellin’ with fright. I sent him over to Wall’s at once. + After breakfast, the minute my eyes was off them, the children slipped + away and went down there. They came back screamin’ at the tops of their + voices. I did give it to them. I reckon they won’t want ter see a dead + body again in a hurry. Every time I’d mention it they’d huddle together, + or ketch hold of me skirts and howl. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yer’ll go agen when I tell yer not to,” I’d say. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh no, mother,” they’d howl. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yer wanted ter see a man hangin’,” I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh, don’t, mother! Don’t talk about it.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yer wouldn’t be satisfied till yer see it,” I’d say; “yer had to see it + or burst. Yer satisfied now, ain’t yer?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh, don’t, mother!” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yer run all the way there, I s’pose?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Don’t, mother!” + </p> + <p> + ‘“But yer run faster back, didn’t yer?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh, don’t, mother.” + </p> + <p> + ‘But,’ said Mrs Spicer, in conclusion, ‘I’d been down to see it myself + before they was up.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And ain’t you afraid to live alone here, after all these horrible + things?’ asked Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, no; I don’t mind. I seem to have got past carin’ for anythink now. + I felt it a little when Tommy went away—the first time I felt + anythink for years. But I’m over that now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Haven’t you got any friends in the district, Mrs Spicer?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes. There’s me married sister near Cobborah, and a married brother + near Dubbo; he’s got a station. They wanted to take me an’ the children + between them, or take some of the younger children. But I couldn’t bring + my mind to break up the home. I want to keep the children together as much + as possible. There’s enough of them gone, God knows. But it’s a comfort to + know that there’s some one to see to them if anythink happens to me.’ + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + One day—I was on my way home with the team that day—Annie + Spicer came running up the creek in terrible trouble. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Mrs Wilson! something terribl’s happened at home! A trooper’ (mounted + policeman—they called them ‘mounted troopers’ out there), ‘a + trooper’s come and took Billy!’ Billy was the eldest son at home. + </p> + <p> + ‘What?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s true, Mrs Wilson.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What for? What did the policeman say?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He—he—he said, “I—I’m very sorry, Mrs Spicer; but—I—I + want William.”’ + </p> + <p> + It turned out that William was wanted on account of a horse missed from + Wall’s station and sold down-country. + </p> + <p> + ‘An’ mother took on awful,’ sobbed Annie; ‘an’ now she’ll only sit + stock-still an’ stare in front of her, and won’t take no notice of any of + us. Oh! it’s awful, Mrs Wilson. The policeman said he’d tell Aunt Emma’ + (Mrs Spicer’s sister at Cobborah), ‘and send her out. But I had to come to + you, an’ I’ve run all the way.’ + </p> + <p> + James put the horse to the cart and drove Mary down. + </p> + <p> + Mary told me all about it when I came home. + </p> + <p> + ‘I found her just as Annie said; but she broke down and cried in my arms. + Oh, Joe! it was awful! She didn’t cry like a woman. I heard a man at + Haviland cry at his brother’s funeral, and it was just like that. She came + round a bit after a while. Her sister’s with her now.... Oh, Joe! you must + take me away from the Bush.’ + </p> + <p> + Later on Mary said— + </p> + <p> + ‘How the oaks are sighing to-night, Joe!’ + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Next morning I rode across to Wall’s station and tackled the old man; but + he was a hard man, and wouldn’t listen to me—in fact, he ordered me + off the station. I was a selector, and that was enough for him. But young + Billy Wall rode after me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Joe!’ he said, ‘it’s a blanky shame. All for the sake of a + horse! And as if that poor devil of a woman hasn’t got enough to put up + with already! I wouldn’t do it for twenty horses. I’LL tackle the boss, + and if he won’t listen to me, I’ll walk off the run for the last time, if + I have to carry my swag.’ + </p> + <p> + Billy Wall managed it. The charge was withdrawn, and we got young Billy + Spicer off up-country. + </p> + <p> + But poor Mrs Spicer was never the same after that. She seldom came up to + our place unless Mary dragged her, so to speak; and then she would talk of + nothing but her last trouble, till her visits were painful to look forward + to. + </p> + <p> + ‘If it only could have been kep’ quiet—for the sake of the other + children; they are all I think of now. I tried to bring ‘em all up decent, + but I s’pose it was my fault, somehow. It’s the disgrace that’s killin’ me—I + can’t bear it.’ + </p> + <p> + I was at home one Sunday with Mary and a jolly Bush-girl named Maggie + Charlsworth, who rode over sometimes from Wall’s station (I must tell you + about her some other time; James was ‘shook after her’), and we got + talkin’ about Mrs Spicer. Maggie was very warm about old Wall. + </p> + <p> + ‘I expected Mrs Spicer up to-day,’ said Mary. ‘She seems better lately.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why!’ cried Maggie Charlsworth, ‘if that ain’t Annie coming running up + along the creek. Something’s the matter!’ + </p> + <p> + We all jumped up and ran out. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it, Annie?’ cried Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Mrs Wilson! Mother’s asleep, and we can’t wake her!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s—it’s the truth, Mrs Wilson.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How long has she been asleep?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Since lars’ night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My God!’ cried Mary, ‘SINCE LAST NIGHT?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Mrs Wilson, not all the time; she woke wonst, about daylight this + mornin’. She called me and said she didn’t feel well, and I’d have to + manage the milkin’.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Was that all she said?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. She said not to go for you; and she said to feed the pigs and calves; + and she said to be sure and water them geraniums.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary wanted to go, but I wouldn’t let her. James and I saddled our horses + and rode down the creek. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Mrs Spicer looked very little different from what she did when I last saw + her alive. It was some time before we could believe that she was dead. But + she was ‘past carin’’ right enough. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Double Buggy at Lahey’s Creek. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I. Spuds, and a Woman’s Obstinacy. + </h2> + <p> + Ever since we were married it had been Mary’s great ambition to have a + buggy. The house or furniture didn’t matter so much—out there in the + Bush where we were—but, where there were no railways or coaches, and + the roads were long, and mostly hot and dusty, a buggy was the great + thing. I had a few pounds when we were married, and was going to get one + then; but new buggies went high, and another party got hold of a + second-hand one that I’d had my eye on, so Mary thought it over and at + last she said, ‘Never mind the buggy, Joe; get a sewing-machine and I’ll + be satisfied. I’ll want the machine more than the buggy, for a while. Wait + till we’re better off.’ + </p> + <p> + After that, whenever I took a contract—to put up a fence or + wool-shed, or sink a dam or something—Mary would say, ‘You ought to + knock a buggy out of this job, Joe;’ but something always turned up—bad + weather or sickness. Once I cut my foot with the adze and was laid up; + and, another time, a dam I was making was washed away by a flood before I + finished it. Then Mary would say, ‘Ah, well—never mind, Joe. Wait + till we are better off.’ But she felt it hard the time I built a wool-shed + and didn’t get paid for it, for we’d as good as settled about another + second-hand buggy then. + </p> + <p> + I always had a fancy for carpentering, and was handy with tools. I made a + spring-cart—body and wheels—in spare time, out of colonial + hardwood, and got Little the blacksmith to do the ironwork; I painted the + cart myself. It wasn’t much lighter than one of the tip-drays I had, but + it WAS a spring-cart, and Mary pretended to be satisfied with it: anyway, + I didn’t hear any more of the buggy for a while. + </p> + <p> + I sold that cart, for fourteen pounds, to a Chinese gardener who wanted a + strong cart to carry his vegetables round through the Bush. It was just + before our first youngster came: I told Mary that I wanted the money in + case of extra expense—and she didn’t fret much at losing that cart. + But the fact was, that I was going to make another try for a buggy, as a + present for Mary when the child was born. I thought of getting the + turn-out while she was laid up, keeping it dark from her till she was on + her feet again, and then showing her the buggy standing in the shed. But + she had a bad time, and I had to have the doctor regularly, and get a + proper nurse, and a lot of things extra; so the buggy idea was knocked on + the head. I was set on it, too: I’d thought of how, when Mary was up and + getting strong, I’d say one morning, ‘Go round and have a look in the + shed, Mary; I’ve got a few fowls for you,’ or something like that—and + follow her round to watch her eyes when she saw the buggy. I never told + Mary about that—it wouldn’t have done any good. + </p> + <p> + Later on I got some good timber—mostly scraps that were given to me—and + made a light body for a spring-cart. Galletly, the coach-builder at + Cudgeegong, had got a dozen pairs of American hickory wheels up from + Sydney, for light spring-carts, and he let me have a pair for cost price + and carriage. I got him to iron the cart, and he put it through the + paint-shop for nothing. He sent it out, too, at the tail of Tom Tarrant’s + big van—to increase the surprise. We were swells then for a while; I + heard no more of a buggy until after we’d been settled at Lahey’s Creek + for a couple of years. + </p> + <p> + I told you how I went into the carrying line, and took up a selection at + Lahey’s Creek—for a run for the horses and to grow a bit of feed—and + shifted Mary and little Jim out there from Gulgong, with Mary’s young + scamp of a brother James to keep them company while I was on the road. The + first year I did well enough carrying, but I never cared for it—it + was too slow; and, besides, I was always anxious when I was away from + home. The game was right enough for a single man—or a married one + whose wife had got the nagging habit (as many Bushwomen have—God + help ‘em!), and who wanted peace and quietness sometimes. Besides, other + small carriers started (seeing me getting on); and Tom Tarrant, the + coach-driver at Cudgeegong, had another heavy spring-van built, and put it + on the roads, and he took a lot of the light stuff. + </p> + <p> + The second year I made a rise—out of ‘spuds’, of all the things in + the world. It was Mary’s idea. Down at the lower end of our selection—Mary + called it ‘the run’—was a shallow watercourse called Snake’s Creek, + dry most of the year, except for a muddy water-hole or two; and, just + above the junction, where it ran into Lahey’s Creek, was a low piece of + good black-soil flat, on our side—about three acres. The flat was + fairly clear when I came to the selection—save for a few logs that + had been washed up there in some big ‘old man’ flood, way back in + black-fellows’ times; and one day, when I had a spell at home, I got the + horses and trace-chains and dragged the logs together—those that + wouldn’t split for fencing timber—and burnt them off. I had a notion + to get the flat ploughed and make a lucern-paddock of it. There was a good + water-hole, under a clump of she-oak in the bend, and Mary used to take + her stools and tubs and boiler down there in the spring-cart in hot + weather, and wash the clothes under the shade of the trees—it was + cooler, and saved carrying water to the house. And one evening after she’d + done the washing she said to me— + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Joe; the farmers out here never seem to get a new idea: they + don’t seem to me ever to try and find out beforehand what the market is + going to be like—they just go on farming the same old way and + putting in the same old crops year after year. They sow wheat, and, if it + comes on anything like the thing, they reap and thresh it; if it doesn’t, + they mow it for hay—and some of ‘em don’t have the brains to do that + in time. Now, I was looking at that bit of flat you cleared, and it struck + me that it wouldn’t be a half bad idea to get a bag of seed-potatoes, and + have the land ploughed—old Corny George would do it cheap—and + get them put in at once. Potatoes have been dear all round for the last + couple of years.’ + </p> + <p> + I told her she was talking nonsense, that the ground was no good for + potatoes, and the whole district was too dry. ‘Everybody I know has tried + it, one time or another, and made nothing of it,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘All the more reason why you should try it, Joe,’ said Mary. ‘Just try one + crop. It might rain for weeks, and then you’ll be sorry you didn’t take my + advice.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I tell you the ground is not potato-ground,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you know? You haven’t sown any there yet.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I’ve turned up the surface and looked at it. It’s not rich enough, + and too dry, I tell you. You need swampy, boggy ground for potatoes. Do + you think I don’t know land when I see it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you haven’t TRIED to grow potatoes there yet, Joe. How do you know——’ + </p> + <p> + I didn’t listen to any more. Mary was obstinate when she got an idea into + her head. It was no use arguing with her. All the time I’d be talking + she’d just knit her forehead and go on thinking straight ahead, on the + track she’d started,—just as if I wasn’t there,—and it used to + make me mad. She’d keep driving at me till I took her advice or lost my + temper,—I did both at the same time, mostly. + </p> + <p> + I took my pipe and went out to smoke and cool down. + </p> + <p> + A couple of days after the potato breeze, I started with the team down to + Cudgeegong for a load of fencing-wire I had to bring out; and after I’d + kissed Mary good-bye, she said— + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Joe, if you bring out a bag of seed-potatoes, James and I will + slice them, and old Corny George down the creek would bring his plough up + in the dray and plough the ground for very little. We could put the + potatoes in ourselves if the ground were only ploughed.’ + </p> + <p> + I thought she’d forgotten all about it. There was no time to argue—I’d + be sure to lose my temper, and then I’d either have to waste an hour + comforting Mary or go off in a ‘huff’, as the women call it, and be + miserable for the trip. So I said I’d see about it. She gave me another + hug and a kiss. ‘Don’t forget, Joe,’ she said as I started. ‘Think it over + on the road.’ I reckon she had the best of it that time. + </p> + <p> + About five miles along, just as I turned into the main road, I heard some + one galloping after me, and I saw young James on his hack. I got a start, + for I thought that something had gone wrong at home. I remember, the first + day I left Mary on the creek, for the first five or six miles I was + half-a-dozen times on the point of turning back—only I thought she’d + laugh at me. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it, James?’ I shouted, before he came up—but I saw he was + grinning. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mary says to tell you not to forget to bring a hoe out with you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You clear off home!’ I said, ‘or I’ll lay the whip about your young hide; + and don’t come riding after me again as if the run was on fire.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, you needn’t get shirty with me!’ he said. ‘*I* don’t want to have + anything to do with a hoe.’ And he rode off. + </p> + <p> + I DID get thinking about those potatoes, though I hadn’t meant to. I knew + of an independent man in that district who’d made his money out of a crop + of potatoes; but that was away back in the roaring ‘Fifties—‘54—when + spuds went up to twenty-eight shillings a hundredweight (in Sydney), on + account of the gold rush. We might get good rain now, and, anyway, it + wouldn’t cost much to put the potatoes in. If they came on well, it would + be a few pounds in my pocket; if the crop was a failure, I’d have a better + show with Mary next time she was struck by an idea outside housekeeping, + and have something to grumble about when I felt grumpy. + </p> + <p> + I got a couple of bags of potatoes—we could use those that were left + over; and I got a small iron plough and a harrow that Little the + blacksmith had lying in his yard and let me have cheap—only about a + pound more than I told Mary I gave for them. When I took advice, I + generally made the mistake of taking more than was offered, or adding + notions of my own. It was vanity, I suppose. If the crop came on well I + could claim the plough-and-harrow part of the idea, anyway. (It didn’t + strike me that if the crop failed Mary would have the plough and harrow + against me, for old Corny would plough the ground for ten or fifteen + shillings.) Anyway, I’d want a plough and harrow later on, and I might as + well get it now; it would give James something to do. + </p> + <p> + I came out by the western road, by Guntawang, and up the creek home; and + the first thing I saw was old Corny George ploughing the flat. And Mary + was down on the bank superintending. She’d got James with the trace-chains + and the spare horses, and had made him clear off every stick and bush + where another furrow might be squeezed in. Old Corny looked pretty grumpy + on it—he’d broken all his ploughshares but one, in the roots; and + James didn’t look much brighter. Mary had an old felt hat and a new pair + of ‘lastic-side boots of mine on, and the boots were covered with clay, + for she’d been down hustling James to get a rotten old stump out of the + way by the time Corny came round with his next furrow. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought I’d make the boots easy for you, Joe,’ said Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s all right, Mary,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to growl.’ Those boots were + a bone of contention between us; but she generally got them off before I + got home. + </p> + <p> + Her face fell a little when she saw the plough and harrow in the waggon, + but I said that would be all right—we’d want a plough anyway. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought you wanted old Corny to plough the ground,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I never said so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But when I sent Jim after you about the hoe to put the spuds in, you + didn’t say you wouldn’t bring it,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + I had a few days at home, and entered into the spirit of the thing. When + Corny was done, James and I cross-ploughed the land, and got a stump or + two, a big log, and some scrub out of the way at the upper end and added + nearly an acre, and ploughed that. James was all right at most Bushwork: + he’d bullock so long as the novelty lasted; he liked ploughing or fencing, + or any graft he could make a show at. He didn’t care for grubbing out + stumps, or splitting posts and rails. We sliced the potatoes of an evening—and + there was trouble between Mary and James over cutting through the ‘eyes’. + There was no time for the hoe—and besides it wasn’t a novelty to + James—so I just ran furrows and they dropped the spuds in behind me, + and I turned another furrow over them, and ran the harrow over the ground. + I think I hilled those spuds, too, with furrows—or a crop of Indian + corn I put in later on. + </p> + <p> + It rained heavens-hard for over a week: we had regular showers all + through, and it was the finest crop of potatoes ever seen in the district. + I believe at first Mary used to slip down at daybreak to see if the + potatoes were up; and she’d write to me about them, on the road. I forget + how many bags I got; but the few who had grown potatoes in the district + sent theirs to Sydney, and spuds went up to twelve and fifteen shillings a + hundredweight in that district. I made a few quid out of mine—and + saved carriage too, for I could take them out on the waggon. Then Mary + began to hear (through James) of a buggy that some one had for sale cheap, + or a dogcart that somebody else wanted to get rid of—and let me know + about it, in an offhand way. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. Joe Wilson’s Luck. + </h2> + <p> + There was good grass on the selection all the year. I’d picked up a small + lot—about twenty head—of half-starved steers for next to + nothing, and turned them on the run; they came on wonderfully, and my + brother-in-law (Mary’s sister’s husband), who was running a butchery at + Gulgong, gave me a good price for them. His carts ran out twenty or thirty + miles, to little bits of gold-rushes that were going on at th’ Home Rule, + Happy Valley, Guntawang, Tallawang, and Cooyal, and those places round + there, and he was doing well. + </p> + <p> + Mary had heard of a light American waggonette, when the steers went—a + tray-body arrangement, and she thought she’d do with that. ‘It would be + better than the buggy, Joe,’ she said—‘there’d be more room for the + children, and, besides, I could take butter and eggs to Gulgong, or + Cobborah, when we get a few more cows.’ Then James heard of a small flock + of sheep that a selector—who was about starved off his selection out + Talbragar way—wanted to get rid of. James reckoned he could get them + for less than half-a-crown a-head. We’d had a heavy shower of rain, that + came over the ranges and didn’t seem to go beyond our boundaries. Mary + said, ‘It’s a pity to see all that grass going to waste, Joe. Better get + those sheep and try your luck with them. Leave some money with me, and + I’ll send James over for them. Never mind about the buggy—we’ll get + that when we’re on our feet.’ + </p> + <p> + So James rode across to Talbragar and drove a hard bargain with that + unfortunate selector, and brought the sheep home. There were about two + hundred, wethers and ewes, and they were young and looked a good breed + too, but so poor they could scarcely travel; they soon picked up, though. + The drought was blazing all round and Out-Back, and I think that my corner + of the ridges was the only place where there was any grass to speak of. We + had another shower or two, and the grass held out. Chaps began to talk of + ‘Joe Wilson’s luck’. + </p> + <p> + I would have liked to shear those sheep; but I hadn’t time to get a shed + or anything ready—along towards Christmas there was a bit of a boom + in the carrying line. Wethers in wool were going as high as thirteen to + fifteen shillings at the Homebush yards at Sydney, so I arranged to truck + the sheep down from the river by rail, with another small lot that was + going, and I started James off with them. He took the west road, and down + Guntawang way a big farmer who saw James with the sheep (and who was + speculating, or adding to his stock, or took a fancy to the wool) offered + James as much for them as he reckoned I’d get in Sydney, after paying the + carriage and the agents and the auctioneer. James put the sheep in a + paddock and rode back to me. He was all there where riding was concerned. + I told him to let the sheep go. James made a Greener shot-gun, and got his + saddle done up, out of that job. + </p> + <p> + I took up a couple more forty-acre blocks—one in James’s name, to + encourage him with the fencing. There was a good slice of land in an angle + between the range and the creek, farther down, which everybody thought + belonged to Wall, the squatter, but Mary got an idea, and went to the + local land office and found out that it was ‘unoccupied Crown land’, and + so I took it up on pastoral lease, and got a few more sheep—I’d + saved some of the best-looking ewes from the last lot. + </p> + <p> + One evening—I was going down next day for a load of fencing-wire for + myself—Mary said,— + </p> + <p> + ‘Joe! do you know that the Matthews have got a new double buggy?’ + </p> + <p> + The Matthews were a big family of cockatoos, along up the main road, and I + didn’t think much of them. The sons were all ‘bad-eggs’, though the old + woman and girls were right enough. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, what of that?’ I said. ‘They’re up to their neck in debt, and + camping like black-fellows in a big bark humpy. They do well to go + flashing round in a double buggy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But that isn’t what I was going to say,’ said Mary. ‘They want to sell + their old single buggy, James says. I’m sure you could get it for six or + seven pounds; and you could have it done up.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish James to the devil!’ I said. ‘Can’t he find anything better to do + than ride round after cock-and-bull yarns about buggies?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ said Mary, ‘it was James who got the steers and the sheep.’ + </p> + <p> + Well, one word led to another, and we said things we didn’t mean—but + couldn’t forget in a hurry. I remember I said something about Mary always + dragging me back just when I was getting my head above water and + struggling to make a home for her and the children; and that hurt her, and + she spoke of the ‘homes’ she’d had since she was married. And that cut me + deep. + </p> + <p> + It was about the worst quarrel we had. When she began to cry I got my hat + and went out and walked up and down by the creek. I hated anything that + looked like injustice—I was so sensitive about it that it made me + unjust sometimes. I tried to think I was right, but I couldn’t—it + wouldn’t have made me feel any better if I could have thought so. I got + thinking of Mary’s first year on the selection and the life she’d had + since we were married. + </p> + <p> + When I went in she’d cried herself to sleep. I bent over and, ‘Mary,’ I + whispered. + </p> + <p> + She seemed to wake up. + </p> + <p> + ‘Joe—Joe!’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it Mary?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m pretty well sure that old Spot’s calf isn’t in the pen. Make James go + at once!’ + </p> + <p> + Old Spot’s last calf was two years old now; so Mary was talking in her + sleep, and dreaming she was back in her first year. + </p> + <p> + We both laughed when I told her about it afterwards; but I didn’t feel + like laughing just then. + </p> + <p> + Later on in the night she called out in her sleep,— + </p> + <p> + ‘Joe—Joe! Put that buggy in the shed, or the sun will blister the + varnish!’ + </p> + <p> + I wish I could say that that was the last time I ever spoke unkindly to + Mary. + </p> + <p> + Next morning I got up early and fried the bacon and made the tea, and took + Mary’s breakfast in to her—like I used to do, sometimes, when we + were first married. She didn’t say anything—just pulled my head down + and kissed me. + </p> + <p> + When I was ready to start Mary said,— + </p> + <p> + ‘You’d better take the spring-cart in behind the dray and get the tyres + cut and set. They’re ready to drop off, and James has been wedging them up + till he’s tired of it. The last time I was out with the children I had to + knock one of them back with a stone: there’ll be an accident yet.’ + </p> + <p> + So I lashed the shafts of the cart under the tail of the waggon, and mean + and ridiculous enough the cart looked, going along that way. It suggested + a man stooping along handcuffed, with his arms held out and down in front + of him. + </p> + <p> + It was dull weather, and the scrubs looked extra dreary and endless—and + I got thinking of old things. Everything was going all right with me, but + that didn’t keep me from brooding sometimes—trying to hatch out + stones, like an old hen we had at home. I think, taking it all round, I + used to be happier when I was mostly hard-up—and more generous. When + I had ten pounds I was more likely to listen to a chap who said, ‘Lend me + a pound-note, Joe,’ than when I had fifty; THEN I fought shy of careless + chaps—and lost mates that I wanted afterwards—and got the name + of being mean. When I got a good cheque I’d be as miserable as a miser + over the first ten pounds I spent; but when I got down to the last I’d buy + things for the house. And now that I was getting on, I hated to spend a + pound on anything. But then, the farther I got away from poverty the + greater the fear I had of it—and, besides, there was always before + us all the thought of the terrible drought, with blazing runs as bare and + dusty as the road, and dead stock rotting every yard, all along the barren + creeks. + </p> + <p> + I had a long yarn with Mary’s sister and her husband that night in + Gulgong, and it brightened me up. I had a fancy that that sort of a + brother-in-law made a better mate than a nearer one; Tom Tarrant had one, + and he said it was sympathy. But while we were yarning I couldn’t help + thinking of Mary, out there in the hut on the Creek, with no one to talk + to but the children, or James, who was sulky at home, or Black Mary or + Black Jimmy (our black boy’s father and mother), who weren’t + oversentimental. Or maybe a selector’s wife (the nearest was five miles + away), who could talk only of two or three things—‘lambin’’ and + ‘shearin’’ and ‘cookin’ for the men’, and what she said to her old man, + and what he said to her—and her own ailments—over and over + again. + </p> + <p> + It’s a wonder it didn’t drive Mary mad!—I know I could never listen + to that woman more than an hour. Mary’s sister said,— + </p> + <p> + ‘Now if Mary had a comfortable buggy, she could drive in with the children + oftener. Then she wouldn’t feel the loneliness so much.’ + </p> + <p> + I said ‘Good night’ then and turned in. There was no getting away from + that buggy. Whenever Mary’s sister started hinting about a buggy, I + reckoned it was a put-up job between them. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III. The Ghost of Mary’s Sacrifice. + </h2> + <p> + When I got to Gudgeegong I stopped at Galletly’s coach-shop to leave the + cart. The Galletlys were good fellows: there were two brothers—one + was a saddler and harness-maker. Big brown-bearded men—the biggest + men in the district, ‘twas said. + </p> + <p> + Their old man had died lately and left them some money; they had men, and + only worked in their shops when they felt inclined, or there was a special + work to do; they were both first-class tradesmen. I went into the + painter’s shop to have a look at a double buggy that Galletly had built + for a man who couldn’t pay cash for it when it was finished—and + Galletly wouldn’t trust him. + </p> + <p> + There it stood, behind a calico screen that the coach-painters used to + keep out the dust when they were varnishing. It was a first-class piece of + work—pole, shafts, cushions, whip, lamps, and all complete. If you + only wanted to drive one horse you could take out the pole and put in the + shafts, and there you were. There was a tilt over the front seat; if you + only wanted the buggy to carry two, you could fold down the back seat, and + there you had a handsome, roomy, single buggy. It would go near fifty + pounds. + </p> + <p> + While I was looking at it, Bill Galletly came in, and slapped me on the + back. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, there’s a chance for you, Joe!’ he said. ‘I saw you rubbing your + head round that buggy the last time you were in. You wouldn’t get a better + one in the colonies, and you won’t see another like it in the district + again in a hurry—for it doesn’t pay to build ‘em. Now you’re a + full-blown squatter, and it’s time you took little Mary for a fly round in + her own buggy now and then, instead of having her stuck out there in the + scrub, or jolting through the dust in a cart like some old Mother + Flourbag.’ + </p> + <p> + He called her ‘little Mary’ because the Galletly family had known her when + she was a girl. + </p> + <p> + I rubbed my head and looked at the buggy again. It was a great temptation. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Joe,’ said Bill Galletly in a quieter tone. ‘I’ll tell you + what I’ll do. I’ll let YOU have the buggy. You can take it out and send + along a bit of a cheque when you feel you can manage it, and the rest + later on,—a year will do, or even two years. You’ve had a hard pull, + and I’m not likely to be hard up for money in a hurry.’ + </p> + <p> + They were good fellows the Galletlys, but they knew their men. I happened + to know that Bill Galletly wouldn’t let the man he built the buggy for + take it out of the shop without cash down, though he was a big-bug round + there. But that didn’t make it easier for me. + </p> + <p> + Just then Robert Galletly came into the shop. He was rather quieter than + his brother, but the two were very much alike. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Bob,’ said Bill; ‘here’s a chance for you to get rid of your + harness. Joe Wilson’s going to take that buggy off my hands.’ + </p> + <p> + Bob Galletly put his foot up on a saw-stool, took one hand out of his + pockets, rested his elbow on his knee and his chin on the palm of his + hand, and bunched up his big beard with his fingers, as he always did when + he was thinking. Presently he took his foot down, put his hand back in his + pocket, and said to me, ‘Well, Joe, I’ve got a double set of harness made + for the man who ordered that damned buggy, and if you like I’ll let you + have it. I suppose when Bill there has squeezed all he can out of you I’ll + stand a show of getting something. He’s a regular Shylock, he is.’ + </p> + <p> + I pushed my hat forward and rubbed the back of my head and stared at the + buggy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come across to the Royal, Joe,’ said Bob. + </p> + <p> + But I knew that a beer would settle the business, so I said I’d get the + wool up to the station first and think it over, and have a drink when I + came back. + </p> + <p> + I thought it over on the way to the station, but it didn’t seem good + enough. I wanted to get some more sheep, and there was the new run to be + fenced in, and the instalments on the selections. I wanted lots of things + that I couldn’t well do without. Then, again, the farther I got away from + debt and hard-upedness the greater the horror I had of it. I had two + horses that would do; but I’d have to get another later on, and altogether + the buggy would run me nearer a hundred than fifty pounds. Supposing a dry + season threw me back with that buggy on my hands. Besides, I wanted a + spell. If I got the buggy it would only mean an extra turn of hard graft + for me. No, I’d take Mary for a trip to Sydney, and she’d have to be + satisfied with that. + </p> + <p> + I’d got it settled, and was just turning in through the big white gates to + the goods-shed when young Black, the squatter, dashed past the station in + his big new waggonette, with his wife and a driver and a lot of + portmanteaus and rugs and things. They were going to do the grand in + Sydney over Christmas. Now it was young Black who was so shook after Mary + when she was in service with the Blacks before the old man died, and if I + hadn’t come along—and if girls never cared for vagabonds—Mary + would have been mistress of Haviland homestead, with servants to wait on + her; and she was far better fitted for it than the one that was there. She + would have been going to Sydney every holiday and putting up at the old + Royal, with every comfort that a woman could ask for, and seeing a play + every night. And I’d have been knocking around amongst the big stations + Out-Back, or maybe drinking myself to death at the shanties. + </p> + <p> + The Blacks didn’t see me as I went by, ragged and dusty, and with an old, + nearly black, cabbage-tree hat drawn over my eyes. I didn’t care a damn + for them, or any one else, at most times, but I had moods when I felt + things. + </p> + <p> + One of Black’s big wool teams was just coming away from the shed, and the + driver, a big, dark, rough fellow, with some foreign blood in him, didn’t + seem inclined to wheel his team an inch out of the middle of the road. I + stopped my horses and waited. He looked at me and I looked at him—hard. + Then he wheeled off, scowling, and swearing at his horses. I’d given him a + hiding, six or seven years before, and he hadn’t forgotten it. And I felt + then as if I wouldn’t mind trying to give some one a hiding. + </p> + <p> + The goods clerk must have thought that Joe Wilson was pretty grumpy that + day. I was thinking of Mary, out there in the lonely hut on a barren creek + in the Bush—for it was little better—with no one to speak to + except a haggard, worn-out Bushwoman or two, that came to see her on + Sunday. I thought of the hardships she went through in the first year—that + I haven’t told you about yet; of the time she was ill, and I away, and no + one to understand; of the time she was alone with James and Jim sick; and + of the loneliness she fought through out there. I thought of Mary, outside + in the blazing heat, with an old print dress and a felt hat, and a pair of + ‘lastic-siders of mine on, doing the work of a station manager as well as + that of a housewife and mother. And her cheeks were getting thin, and her + colour was going: I thought of the gaunt, brick-brown, saw-file voiced, + hopeless and spiritless Bushwomen I knew—and some of them not much + older than Mary. + </p> + <p> + When I went back down into the town, I had a drink with Bill Galletly at + the Royal, and that settled the buggy; then Bob shouted,* and I took the + harness. Then I shouted, to wet the bargain. When I was going, Bob said, + ‘Send in that young scamp of a brother of Mary’s with the horses: if the + collars don’t fit I’ll fix up a pair of makeshifts, and alter the others.’ + I thought they both gripped my hand harder than usual, but that might have + been the beer. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * ‘Shout’, to buy a round of drinks.—A. L., 1997. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV. The Buggy Comes Home. + </h2> + <p> + I ‘whipped the cat’ a bit, the first twenty miles or so, but then, I + thought, what did it matter? What was the use of grinding to save money + until we were too old to enjoy it. If we had to go down in the world + again, we might as well fall out of a buggy as out of a dray—there’d + be some talk about it, anyway, and perhaps a little sympathy. When Mary + had the buggy she wouldn’t be tied down so much to that wretched hole in + the Bush; and the Sydney trips needn’t be off either. I could drive down + to Wallerawang on the main line, where Mary had some people, and leave the + buggy and horses there, and take the train to Sydney; or go right on, by + the old coach-road, over the Blue Mountains: it would be a grand drive. I + thought best to tell Mary’s sister at Gulgong about the buggy; I told her + I’d keep it dark from Mary till the buggy came home. She entered into the + spirit of the thing, and said she’d give the world to be able to go out + with the buggy, if only to see Mary open her eyes when she saw it; but she + couldn’t go, on account of a new baby she had. I was rather glad she + couldn’t, for it would spoil the surprise a little, I thought. I wanted + that all to myself. + </p> + <p> + I got home about sunset next day, and, after tea, when I’d finished + telling Mary all the news, and a few lies as to why I didn’t bring the + cart back, and one or two other things, I sat with James, out on a log of + the wood-heap, where we generally had our smokes and interviews, and told + him all about the buggy. He whistled, then he said— + </p> + <p> + ‘But what do you want to make it such a Bushranging business for? Why + can’t you tell Mary now? It will cheer her up. She’s been pretty miserable + since you’ve been away this trip.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I want it to be a surprise,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I’ve got nothing to say against a surprise, out in a hole like + this; but it ‘ud take a lot to surprise me. What am I to say to Mary about + taking the two horses in? I’ll only want one to bring the cart out, and + she’s sure to ask.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell her you’re going to get yours shod.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But he had a set of slippers only the other day. She knows as much about + horses as we do. I don’t mind telling a lie so long as a chap has only got + to tell a straight lie and be done with it. But Mary asks so many + questions.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, drive the other horse up the creek early, and pick him up as you + go.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. And she’ll want to know what I want with two bridles. But I’ll fix + her—YOU needn’t worry.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And, James,’ I said, ‘get a chamois leather and sponge—we’ll want + ‘em anyway—and you might give the buggy a wash down in the creek, + coming home. It’s sure to be covered with dust.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh!—orlright.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And if you can, time yourself to get here in the cool of the evening, or + just about sunset.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What for?’ + </p> + <p> + I’d thought it would be better to have the buggy there in the cool of the + evening, when Mary would have time to get excited and get over it—better + than in the blazing hot morning, when the sun rose as hot as at noon, and + we’d have the long broiling day before us. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you want me to come at sunset for?’ asked James. ‘Do you want me + to camp out in the scrub and turn up like a blooming sundowner?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh well,’ I said, ‘get here at midnight if you like.’ + </p> + <p> + We didn’t say anything for a while—just sat and puffed at our pipes. + Then I said,— + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, what are you thinking about?’ + </p> + <p> + I’m thinking it’s time you got a new hat, the sun seems to get in through + your old one too much,’ and he got out of my reach and went to see about + penning the calves. Before we turned in he said,— + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, what am I to get out of the job, Joe?’ + </p> + <p> + He had his eye on a double-barrel gun that Franca the gunsmith in + Cudgeegong had—one barrel shot, and the other rifle; so I said,— + </p> + <p> + ‘How much does Franca want for that gun?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Five-ten; but I think he’d take my single barrel off it. Anyway, I can + squeeze a couple of quid out of Phil Lambert for the single barrel.’ (Phil + was his bosom chum.) + </p> + <p> + ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Make the best bargain you can.’ + </p> + <p> + He got his own breakfast and made an early start next morning, to get + clear of any instructions or messages that Mary might have forgotten to + give him overnight. He took his gun with him. + </p> + <p> + I’d always thought that a man was a fool who couldn’t keep a secret from + his wife—that there was something womanish about him. I found out. + Those three days waiting for the buggy were about the longest I ever spent + in my life. It made me scotty with every one and everything; and poor Mary + had to suffer for it. I put in the time patching up the harness and + mending the stockyard and the roof, and, the third morning, I rode up the + ridges to look for trees for fencing-timber. I remember I hurried home + that afternoon because I thought the buggy might get there before me. + </p> + <p> + At tea-time I got Mary on to the buggy business. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s the good of a single buggy to you, Mary?’ I asked. ‘There’s only + room for two, and what are you going to do with the children when we go + out together?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We can put them on the floor at our feet, like other people do. I can + always fold up a blanket or ‘possum rug for them to sit on.’ + </p> + <p> + But she didn’t take half so much interest in buggy talk as she would have + taken at any other time, when I didn’t want her to. Women are aggravating + that way. But the poor girl was tired and not very well, and both the + children were cross. She did look knocked up. + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll give the buggy a rest, Joe,’ she said. (I thought I heard it coming + then.) ‘It seems as far off as ever. I don’t know why you want to harp on + it to-day. Now, don’t look so cross, Joe—I didn’t mean to hurt you. + We’ll wait until we can get a double buggy, since you’re so set on it. + There’ll be plenty of time when we’re better off.’ + </p> + <p> + After tea, when the youngsters were in bed, and she’d washed up, we sat + outside on the edge of the verandah floor, Mary sewing, and I smoking and + watching the track up the creek. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why don’t you talk, Joe?’ asked Mary. ‘You scarcely ever speak to me now: + it’s like drawing blood out of a stone to get a word from you. What makes + you so cross, Joe?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I’ve got nothing to say.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you should find something. Think of me—it’s very miserable for + me. Have you anything on your mind? Is there any new trouble? Better tell + me, no matter what it is, and not go worrying and brooding and making both + our lives miserable. If you never tell one anything, how can you expect me + to understand?’ + </p> + <p> + I said there was nothing the matter. + </p> + <p> + ‘But there must be, to make you so unbearable. Have you been drinking, Joe—or + gambling?’ + </p> + <p> + I asked her what she’d accuse me of next. + </p> + <p> + ‘And another thing I want to speak to you about,’ she went on. ‘Now, don’t + knit up your forehead like that, Joe, and get impatient——’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, what is it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish you wouldn’t swear in the hearing of the children. Now, little Jim + to-day, he was trying to fix his little go-cart and it wouldn’t run right, + and—and——’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, what did he say?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He—he’ (she seemed a little hysterical, trying not to laugh)—‘he + said “damn it!”’ + </p> + <p> + I had to laugh. Mary tried to keep serious, but it was no use. + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind, old woman,’ I said, putting an arm round her, for her mouth + was trembling, and she was crying more than laughing. ‘It won’t be always + like this. Just wait till we’re a bit better off.’ + </p> + <p> + Just then a black boy we had (I must tell you about him some other time) + came sidling along by the wall, as if he were afraid somebody was going to + hit him—poor little devil! I never did. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it, Harry?’ said Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘Buggy comin’, I bin thinkit.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where?’ + </p> + <p> + He pointed up the creek. + </p> + <p> + ‘Sure it’s a buggy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, missus.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How many horses?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘One—two.’ + </p> + <p> + We knew that he could hear and see things long before we could. Mary went + and perched on the wood-heap, and shaded her eyes—though the sun had + gone—and peered through between the eternal grey trunks of the + stunted trees on the flat across the creek. Presently she jumped down and + came running in. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s some one coming in a buggy, Joe!’ she cried, excitedly. ‘And both + my white table-cloths are rough dry. Harry! put two flat-irons down to the + fire, quick, and put on some more wood. It’s lucky I kept those new sheets + packed away. Get up out of that, Joe! What are you sitting grinning like + that for? Go and get on another shirt. Hurry—Why! It’s only James—by + himself.’ + </p> + <p> + She stared at me, and I sat there, grinning like a fool. + </p> + <p> + ‘Joe!’ she said, ‘whose buggy is that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I suppose it’s yours,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + She caught her breath, and stared at the buggy and then at me again. James + drove down out of sight into the crossing, and came up close to the house. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Joe! what have you done?’ cried Mary. ‘Why, it’s a new double buggy!’ + Then she rushed at me and hugged my head. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Joe? + You poor old boy!—and I’ve been nagging at you all day!’ and she + hugged me again. + </p> + <p> + James got down and started taking the horses out—as if it was an + everyday occurrence. I saw the double-barrel gun sticking out from under + the seat. He’d stopped to wash the buggy, and I suppose that’s what made + him grumpy. Mary stood on the verandah, with her eyes twice as big as + usual, and breathing hard—taking the buggy in. + </p> + <p> + James skimmed the harness off, and the horses shook themselves and went + down to the dam for a drink. ‘You’d better look under the seats,’ growled + James, as he took his gun out with great care. + </p> + <p> + Mary dived for the buggy. There was a dozen of lemonade and ginger-beer in + a candle-box from Galletly—James said that Galletly’s men had a + gallon of beer, and they cheered him, James (I suppose he meant they + cheered the buggy), as he drove off; there was a ‘little bit of a ham’ + from Pat Murphy, the storekeeper at Home Rule, that he’d ‘cured himself’—it + was the biggest I ever saw; there were three loaves of baker’s bread, a + cake, and a dozen yards of something ‘to make up for the children’, from + Aunt Gertrude at Gulgong; there was a fresh-water cod, that long Dave + Regan had caught the night before in the Macquarie river, and sent out + packed in salt in a box; there was a holland suit for the black boy, with + red braid to trim it; and there was a jar of preserved ginger, and some + lollies (sweets) (‘for the lil’ boy’), and a rum-looking Chinese doll and + a rattle (‘for lil’ girl’) from Sun Tong Lee, our storekeeper at Gulgong—James + was chummy with Sun Tong Lee, and got his powder and shot and caps there + on tick when he was short of money. And James said that the people would + have loaded the buggy with ‘rubbish’ if he’d waited. They all seemed glad + to see Joe Wilson getting on—and these things did me good. + </p> + <p> + We got the things inside, and I don’t think either of us knew what we were + saying or doing for the next half-hour. Then James put his head in and + said, in a very injured tone,— + </p> + <p> + ‘What about my tea? I ain’t had anything to speak of since I left + Cudgeegong. I want some grub.’ + </p> + <p> + Then Mary pulled herself together. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ll have your tea directly,’ she said. ‘Pick up that harness at once, + and hang it on the pegs in the skillion; and you, Joe, back that buggy + under the end of the verandah, the dew will be on it presently—and + we’ll put wet bags up in front of it to-morrow, to keep the sun off. And + James will have to go back to Cudgeegong for the cart,—we can’t have + that buggy to knock about in.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All right,’ said James—‘anything! Only get me some grub.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary fried the fish, in case it wouldn’t keep till the morning, and rubbed + over the tablecloths, now the irons were hot—James growling all the + time—and got out some crockery she had packed away that had belonged + to her mother, and set the table in a style that made James uncomfortable. + </p> + <p> + ‘I want some grub—not a blooming banquet!’ he said. And he growled a + lot because Mary wanted him to eat his fish without a knife, ‘and that + sort of Tommy-rot.’ When he’d finished he took his gun, and the black boy, + and the dogs, and went out ‘possum-shooting. + </p> + <p> + When we were alone Mary climbed into the buggy to try the seat, and made + me get up alongside her. We hadn’t had such a comfortable seat for years; + but we soon got down, in case any one came by, for we began to feel like a + pair of fools up there. + </p> + <p> + Then we sat, side by side, on the edge of the verandah, and talked more + than we’d done for years—and there was a good deal of ‘Do you + remember?’ in it—and I think we got to understand each other better + that night. + </p> + <p> + And at last Mary said, ‘Do you know, Joe, why, I feel to-night just—just + like I did the day we were married.’ + </p> + <p> + And somehow I had that strange, shy sort of feeling too. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Writer Wants to Say a Word. + </h2> + <p> + In writing the first sketch of the Joe Wilson series, which happened to be + ‘Brighten’s Sister-in-law’, I had an idea of making Joe Wilson a strong + character. Whether he is or not, the reader must judge. It seems to me + that the man’s natural sentimental selfishness, good-nature, ‘softness’, + or weakness—call it which you like—developed as I wrote on. + </p> + <p> + I know Joe Wilson very well. He has been through deep trouble since the + day he brought the double buggy to Lahey’s Creek. I met him in Sydney the + other day. Tall and straight yet—rather straighter than he had been—dressed + in a comfortable, serviceable sac suit of ‘saddle-tweed’, and wearing a + new sugar-loaf, cabbage-tree hat, he looked over the hurrying street + people calmly as though they were sheep of which he was not in charge, and + which were not likely to get ‘boxed’ with his. Not the worst way in which + to regard the world. + </p> + <p> + He talked deliberately and quietly in all that roar and rush. He is a + young man yet, comparatively speaking, but it would take little Mary a + long while now to pick the grey hairs out of his head, and the process + would leave him pretty bald. + </p> + <p> + In two or three short sketches in another book I hope to complete the + story of his life. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Part II. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Golden Graveyard. + </h2> + <p> + Mother Middleton was an awful woman, an ‘old hand’ (transported convict) + some said. The prefix ‘mother’ in Australia mostly means ‘old hag’, and is + applied in that sense. In early boyhood we understood, from old diggers, + that Mother Middleton—in common with most other ‘old hands’—had + been sent out for ‘knocking a donkey off a hen-roost.’ We had never seen a + donkey. She drank like a fish and swore like a trooper when the spirit + moved her; she went on periodical sprees, and swore on most occasions. + There was a fearsome yarn, which impressed us greatly as boys, to the + effect that once, in her best (or worst) days, she had pulled a mounted + policeman off his horse, and half-killed him with a heavy pick-handle, + which she used for poking down clothes in her boiler. She said that he had + insulted her. + </p> + <p> + She could still knock down a tree and cut a load of firewood with any + Bushman; she was square and muscular, with arms like a navvy’s; she had + often worked shifts, below and on top, with her husband, when he’d be + putting down a prospecting shaft without a mate, as he often had to do—because + of her mainly. Old diggers said that it was lovely to see how she’d spin + up a heavy green-hide bucket full of clay and ‘tailings’, and land and + empty it with a twist of her wrist. Most men were afraid of her, and few + diggers’ wives were strong-minded enough to seek a second row with Mother + Middleton. Her voice could be heard right across Golden Gully and Specimen + Flat, whether raised in argument or in friendly greeting. She came to the + old Pipeclay diggings with the ‘rough crowd’ (mostly Irish), and when the + old and new Pipeclays were worked out, she went with the rush to Gulgong + (about the last of the great alluvial or ‘poor-man’s’ goldfields) and came + back to Pipeclay when the Log Paddock goldfield ‘broke out’, adjacent to + the old fields, and so helped prove the truth of the old digger’s saying, + that no matter how thoroughly ground has been worked, there is always room + for a new Ballarat. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy Middleton died at Log Paddock, and was buried, about the last, in + the little old cemetery—appertaining to the old farming town on the + river, about four miles away—which adjoined the district racecourse, + in the Bush, on the far edge of Specimen Flat. She conducted the funeral. + Some said she made the coffin, and there were alleged jokes to the effect + that her tongue had provided the corpse; but this, I think, was unfair and + cruel, for she loved Jimmy Middleton in her awful way, and was, for all I + ever heard to the contrary, a good wife to him. She then lived in a hut in + Log Paddock, on a little money in the bank, and did sewing and washing for + single diggers. + </p> + <p> + I remember hearing her one morning in neighbourly conversation, carried on + across the gully, with a selector, Peter Olsen, who was hopelessly slaving + to farm a dusty patch in the scrub. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why don’t you chuck up that dust-hole and go up country and settle on + good land, Peter Olsen? You’re only slaving your stomach out here.’ (She + didn’t say stomach.) + </p> + <p> + *Peter Olsen* (mild-whiskered little man, afraid of his wife). ‘But then + you know my wife is so delicate, Mrs Middleton. I wouldn’t like to take + her out in the Bush.’ + </p> + <p> + *Mrs Middleton*. ‘Delicate, be damned! she’s only shamming!’ (at her + loudest.) ‘Why don’t you kick her off the bed and the book out of her + hand, and make her go to work? She’s as delicate as I am. Are you a man, + Peter Olsen, or a——?’ + </p> + <p> + This for the edification of the wife and of all within half a mile. + </p> + <p> + Long Paddock was ‘petering’. There were a few claims still being worked + down at the lowest end, where big, red-and-white waste-heaps of clay and + gravel, rising above the blue-grey gum-bushes, advertised deep sinking; + and little, yellow, clay-stained streams, running towards the creek over + the drought-parched surface, told of trouble with the water below—time + lost in baling and extra expense in timbering. And diggers came up with + their flannels and moleskins yellow and heavy, and dripping with wet + ‘mullock’. + </p> + <p> + Most of the diggers had gone to other fields, but there were a few + prospecting, in parties and singly, out on the flats and amongst the + ridges round Pipeclay. Sinking holes in search of a new Ballarat. + </p> + <p> + Dave Regan—lanky, easy-going Bush native; Jim Bently—a bit of + a ‘Flash Jack’; and Andy Page—a character like what ‘Kit’ (in the + ‘Old Curiosity Shop’) might have been after a voyage to Australia and some + Colonial experience. These three were mates from habit and not necessity, + for it was all shallow sinking where they worked. They were poking down + pot-holes in the scrub in the vicinity of the racecourse, where the + sinking was from ten to fifteen feet. + </p> + <p> + Dave had theories—‘ideers’ or ‘notions’ he called them; Jim Bently + laid claim to none—he ran by sight, not scent, like a kangaroo-dog. + Andy Page—by the way, great admirer and faithful retainer of Dave + Regan—was simple and trusting, but, on critical occasions, he was + apt to be obstinately, uncomfortably, exasperatingly truthful, honest, and + he had reverence for higher things. + </p> + <p> + Dave thought hard all one quiet drowsy Sunday afternoon, and next morning + he, as head of the party, started to sink a hole as close to the cemetery + fence as he dared. It was a nice quiet spot in the thick scrub, about + three panels along the fence from the farthest corner post from the road. + They bottomed here at nine feet, and found encouraging indications. They + ‘drove’ (tunnelled) inwards at right angles to the fence, and at a point + immediately beneath it they were ‘making tucker’; a few feet farther and + they were making wages. The old alluvial bottom sloped gently that way. + The bottom here, by the way, was shelving, brownish, rotten rock. + </p> + <p> + Just inside the cemetery fence, and at right angles to Dave’s drive, lay + the shell containing all that was left of the late fiercely lamented James + Middleton, with older graves close at each end. A grave was supposed to be + six feet deep, and local gravediggers had been conscientious. The old + alluvial bottom sloped from nine to fifteen feet here. + </p> + <p> + Dave worked the ground all round from the bottom of his shaft, timbering—i.e., + putting in a sapling prop—here and there where he worked wide; but + the ‘payable dirt’ ran in under the cemetery, and in no other direction. + </p> + <p> + Dave, Jim, and Andy held a consultation in camp over their pipes after + tea, as a result of which Andy next morning rolled up his swag, + sorrowfully but firmly shook hands with Dave and Jim, and started to tramp + Out-Back to look for work on a sheep-station. + </p> + <p> + This was Dave’s theory—drawn from a little experience and many long + yarns with old diggers:— + </p> + <p> + He had bottomed on a slope to an old original water-course, covered with + clay and gravel from the hills by centuries of rains to the depth of from + nine or ten to twenty feet; he had bottomed on a gutter running into the + bed of the old buried creek, and carrying patches and streaks of ‘wash’ or + gold-bearing dirt. If he went on he might strike it rich at any stroke of + his pick; he might strike the rich ‘lead’ which was supposed to exist + round there. (There was always supposed to be a rich lead round there + somewhere. ‘There’s gold in them ridges yet—if a man can only git at + it,’ says the toothless old relic of the Roaring Days.) + </p> + <p> + Dave might strike a ledge, ‘pocket’, or ‘pot-hole’ holding wash rich with + gold. He had prospected on the opposite side of the cemetery, found no + gold, and the bottom sloping upwards towards the graveyard. He had + prospected at the back of the cemetery, found a few ‘colours’, and the + bottom sloping downwards towards the point under the cemetery towards + which all indications were now leading him. He had sunk shafts across the + road opposite the cemetery frontage and found the sinking twenty feet and + not a colour of gold. Probably the whole of the ground under the cemetery + was rich—maybe the richest in the district. The old gravediggers had + not been gold-diggers—besides, the graves, being six feet, would, + none of them, have touched the alluvial bottom. There was nothing strange + in the fact that none of the crowd of experienced diggers who rushed the + district had thought of the cemetery and racecourse. Old brick chimneys + and houses, the clay for the bricks of which had been taken from sites of + subsequent goldfields, had been put through the crushing-mill in + subsequent years and had yielded ‘payable gold’. Fossicking Chinamen were + said to have been the first to detect a case of this kind. + </p> + <p> + Dave reckoned to strike the ‘lead’, or a shelf or ledge with a good streak + of wash lying along it, at a point about forty feet within the cemetery. + But a theory in alluvial gold-mining was much like a theory in gambling, + in some respects. The theory might be right enough, but old volcanic + disturbances—‘the shrinkage of the earth’s surface,’ and that sort + of old thing—upset everything. You might follow good gold along a + ledge, just under the grass, till it suddenly broke off and the + continuation might be a hundred feet or so under your nose. + </p> + <p> + Had the ‘ground’ in the cemetery been ‘open’ Dave would have gone to the + point under which he expected the gold to lie, sunk a shaft there, and + worked the ground. It would have been the quickest and easiest way—it + would have saved the labour and the time lost in dragging heavy buckets of + dirt along a low lengthy drive to the shaft outside the fence. But it was + very doubtful if the Government could have been moved to open the cemetery + even on the strongest evidence of the existence of a rich goldfield under + it, and backed by the influence of a number of diggers and their backers—which + last was what Dave wished for least of all. He wanted, above all things, + to keep the thing shady. Then, again, the old clannish local spirit of the + old farming town, rooted in years way back of the goldfields, would have + been too strong for the Government, or even a rush of wild diggers. + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll work this thing on the strict Q.T.,’ said Dave. + </p> + <p> + He and Jim had a consultation by the camp fire outside their tent. Jim + grumbled, in conclusion,— + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, then, best go under Jimmy Middleton. It’s the shortest and + straightest, and Jimmy’s the freshest, anyway.’ + </p> + <p> + Then there was another trouble. How were they to account for the size of + the waste-heap of clay on the surface which would be the result of such an + extraordinary length of drive or tunnel for shallow sinkings? Dave had an + idea of carrying some of the dirt away by night and putting it down a + deserted shaft close by; but that would double the labour, and might lead + to detection sooner than anything else. There were boys ‘possum-hunting on + those flats every night. Then Dave got an idea. + </p> + <p> + There was supposed to exist—and it has since been proved—another, + a second gold-bearing alluvial bottom on that field, and several had tried + for it. One, the town watchmaker, had sunk all his money in ‘duffers’, + trying for the second bottom. It was supposed to exist at a depth of from + eighty to a hundred feet—on solid rock, I suppose. This watchmaker, + an Italian, would put men on to sink, and superintend in person, and + whenever he came to a little ‘colour’-showing shelf, or false bottom, + thirty or forty feet down—he’d go rooting round and spoil the shaft, + and then start to sink another. It was extraordinary that he hadn’t the + sense to sink straight down, thoroughly test the second bottom, and if he + found no gold there, to fill the shaft up to the other bottoms, or build + platforms at the proper level and then explore them. He was living in a + lunatic asylum the last time I heard of him. And the last time I heard + from that field, they were boring the ground like a sieve, with the latest + machinery, to find the best place to put down a deep shaft, and finding + gold from the second bottom on the bore. But I’m right off the line again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Old Pinter’, Ballarat digger—his theory on second and other bottoms + ran as follows:— + </p> + <p> + ‘Ye see, THIS here grass surface—this here surface with trees an’ + grass on it, that we’re livin’ on, has got nothin’ to do with us. This + here bottom in the shaller sinkin’s that we’re workin’ on is the slope to + the bed of the NEW crick that was on the surface about the time that men + was missin’ links. The false bottoms, thirty or forty feet down, kin be + said to have been on the surface about the time that men was monkeys. The + SECON’ bottom—eighty or a hundred feet down—was on the surface + about the time when men was frogs. Now——’ + </p> + <p> + But it’s with the missing-link surface we have to do, and had the friends + of the local departed known what Dave and Jim were up to they would have + regarded them as something lower than missing-links. + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll give out we’re tryin’ for the second bottom,’ said Dave Regan. + ‘We’ll have to rig a fan for air, anyhow, and you don’t want air in + shallow sinkings.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And some one will come poking round, and look down the hole and see the + bottom,’ said Jim Bently. + </p> + <p> + ‘We must keep ‘em away,’ said Dave. ‘Tar the bottom, or cover it with + tarred canvas, to make it black. Then they won’t see it. There’s not many + diggers left, and the rest are going; they’re chucking up the claims in + Log Paddock. Besides, I could get drunk and pick rows with the rest and + they wouldn’t come near me. The farmers ain’t in love with us diggers, so + they won’t bother us. No man has a right to come poking round another + man’s claim: it ain’t ettykit—I’ll root up that old ettykit and + stand to it—it’s rather worn out now, but that’s no matter. We’ll + shift the tent down near the claim and see that no one comes nosing round + on Sunday. They’ll think we’re only some more second-bottom lunatics, like + Francea [the mining watchmaker]. We’re going to get our fortune out from + under that old graveyard, Jim. You leave it all to me till you’re born + again with brains.’ + </p> + <p> + Dave’s schemes were always elaborate, and that was why they so often came + to the ground. He logged up his windlass platform a little higher, bent + about eighty feet of rope to the bole of the windlass, which was a new + one, and thereafter, whenever a suspicious-looking party (that is to say, + a digger) hove in sight, Dave would let down about forty feet of rope and + then wind, with simulated exertion, until the slack was taken up and the + rope lifted the bucket from the shallow bottom. + </p> + <p> + ‘It would look better to have a whip-pole and a horse, but we can’t afford + them just yet,’ said Dave. + </p> + <p> + But I’m a little behind. They drove straight in under the cemetery, + finding good wash all the way. The edge of Jimmy Middleton’s box appeared + in the top corner of the ‘face’ (the working end) of the drive. They went + under the butt-end of the grave. They shoved up the end of the shell with + a prop, to prevent the possibility of an accident which might disturb the + mound above; they puddled—i.e., rammed—stiff clay up round the + edges to keep the loose earth from dribbling down; and having given the + bottom of the coffin a good coat of tar, they got over, or rather under, + an unpleasant matter. + </p> + <p> + Jim Bently smoked and burnt paper during his shift below, and grumbled a + good deal. ‘Blowed if I ever thought I’d be rooting for gold down among + the blanky dead men,’ he said. But the dirt panned out better every dish + they washed, and Dave worked the ‘wash’ out right and left as they drove. + </p> + <p> + But, one fine morning, who should come along but the very last man whom + Dave wished to see round there—‘Old Pinter’ (James Poynton), + Californian and Victorian digger of the old school. He’d been prospecting + down the creek, carried his pick over his shoulder—threaded through + the eye in the heft of his big-bladed, short-handled shovel that hung + behind—and his gold-dish under his arm. + </p> + <p> + I mightn’t get a chance again to explain what a gold-dish and what + gold-washing is. A gold washing-dish is a flat dish—nearer the shape + of a bedroom bath-tub than anything else I have seen in England, or the + dish we used for setting milk—I don’t know whether the same is used + here: the gold-dish measures, say, eighteen inches across the top. You get + it full of wash dirt, squat down at a convenient place at the edge of the + water-hole, where there is a rest for the dish in the water just below its + own depth. You sink the dish and let the clay and gravel soak a while, + then you work and rub it up with your hands, and as the clay dissolves, + dish it off as muddy water or mullock. You are careful to wash the pebbles + in case there is any gold sticking to them. And so till all the muddy or + clayey matter is gone, and there is nothing but clean gravel in the bottom + of the dish. You work this off carefully, turning the dish about this way + and that and swishing the water round in it. It requires some practice. + The gold keeps to the bottom of the dish, by its own weight. At last there + is only a little half-moon of sand or fine gravel in the bottom lower edge + of the dish—you work the dish slanting from you. Presently the gold, + if there was any in the dirt, appears in ‘colours’, grains, or little + nuggets along the base of the half-moon of sand. The more gold there is in + the dirt, or the coarser the gold is, the sooner it appears. A practised + digger can work off the last speck of gravel, without losing a ‘colour’, + by just working the water round and off in the dish. Also a careful digger + could throw a handful of gold in a tub of dirt, and, washing it off in + dishfuls, recover practically every colour. + </p> + <p> + The gold-washing ‘cradle’ is a box, shaped something like a boot, and the + size of a travelling trunk, with rockers on, like a baby’s cradle, and a + stick up behind for a handle; on top, where you’ll put your foot into the + boot, is a tray with a perforated iron bottom; the clay and gravel is + thrown on the tray, water thrown on it, and the cradle rocked smartly. The + finer gravel and the mullock goes through and down over a sloping board + covered with blanket, and with ledges on it to catch the gold. The dish + was mostly used for prospecting; large quantities of wash dirt was put + through the horse-power ‘puddling-machine’, which there isn’t room to + describe here. + </p> + <p> + ‘’Ello, Dave!’ said Pinter, after looking with mild surprise at the size + of Dave’s waste-heap. ‘Tryin’ for the second bottom?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Dave, guttural. + </p> + <p> + Pinter dropped his tools with a clatter at the foot of the waste-heap and + scratched under his ear like an old cockatoo, which bird he resembled. + Then he went to the windlass, and resting his hands on his knees, he + peered down, while Dave stood by helpless and hopeless. + </p> + <p> + Pinter straightened himself, blinking like an owl, and looked carelessly + over the graveyard. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tryin’ for a secon’ bottom,’ he reflected absently. ‘Eh, Dave?’ + </p> + <p> + Dave only stood and looked black. + </p> + <p> + Pinter tilted back his head and scratched the roots of his chin-feathers, + which stuck out all round like a dirty, ragged fan held horizontally. + </p> + <p> + ‘Kullers is safe,’ reflected Pinter. + </p> + <p> + ‘All right?’ snapped Dave. ‘I suppose we must let him into it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Kullers’ was a big American buck nigger, and had been Pinter’s mate for + some time—Pinter was a man of odd mates; and what Pinter meant was + that Kullers was safe to hold his tongue. + </p> + <p> + Next morning Pinter and his coloured mate appeared on the ground early, + Pinter with some tools and the nigger with a windlass-bole on his + shoulders. Pinter chose a spot about three panels or thirty feet along the + other fence, the back fence of the cemetery, and started his hole. He lost + no time for the sake of appearances, he sunk his shaft and started to + drive straight for the point under the cemetery for which Dave was making; + he gave out that he had bottomed on good ‘indications’ running in the + other direction, and would work the ground outside the fence. Meanwhile + Dave rigged a fan—partly for the sake of appearances, but mainly + because his and Jim’s lively imaginations made the air in the drive worse + than it really was. A ‘fan’ is a thing like a paddle-wheel rigged in a + box, about the size of a cradle, and something the shape of a shoe, but + rounded over the top. There is a small grooved wheel on the axle of the + fan outside, and an endless line, like a clothes-line, is carried over + this wheel and a groove in the edge of a high light wooden driving-wheel + rigged between two uprights in the rear and with a handle to turn. That’s + how the thing is driven. A wind-chute, like an endless pillow-slip, made + of calico, with the mouth tacked over the open toe of the fan-box, and the + end taken down the shaft and along the drive—this carries the fresh + air into the workings. + </p> + <p> + Dave was working the ground on each side as he went, when one morning a + thought struck him that should have struck him the day Pinter went to + work. He felt mad that it hadn’t struck him sooner. + </p> + <p> + Pinter and Kullers had also shifted their tent down into a nice quiet + place in the Bush close handy; so, early next Sunday morning, while Pinter + and Kullers were asleep, Dave posted Jim Bently to watch their tent, and + whistle an alarm if they stirred, and then dropped down into Pinter’s hole + and saw at a glance what he was up to. + </p> + <p> + After that Dave lost no time: he drove straight on, encouraged by the + thuds of Pinter’s and Kullers’ picks drawing nearer. They would strike his + tunnel at right angles. Both parties worked long hours, only knocking off + to fry a bit of steak in the pan, boil the billy, and throw themselves + dressed on their bunks to get a few hours’ sleep. Pinter had practical + experience and a line clear of graves, and he made good time. The two + parties now found it more comfortable to be not on speaking terms. + Individually they grew furtive, and began to feel criminal like—at + least Dave and Jim did. They’d start if a horse stumbled through the Bush, + and expected to see a mounted policeman ride up at any moment and hear him + ask questions. They had driven about thirty-five feet when, one Saturday + afternoon, the strain became too great, and Dave and Jim got drunk. The + spree lasted over Sunday, and on Monday morning they felt too shaky to + come to work and had more drink. On Monday afternoon, Kullers, whose shift + it was below, stuck his pick through the face of his drive into the wall + of Dave’s, about four feet from the end of it: the clay flaked away, + leaving a hole as big as a wash-hand basin. They knocked off for the day + and decided to let the other party take the offensive. + </p> + <p> + Tuesday morning Dave and Jim came to work, still feeling shaky. Jim went + below, crawled along the drive, lit his candle, and stuck it in the spiked + iron socket and the spike in the wall of the drive, quite close to the + hole, without noticing either the hole or the increased freshness in the + air. He started picking away at the ‘face’ and scraping the clay back from + under his feet, and didn’t hear Kullers come to work. Kullers came in + softly and decided to try a bit of cheerful bluff. He stuck his great + round black face through the hole, the whites of his eyes rolling horribly + in the candle-light, and said, with a deep guffaw— + </p> + <p> + ‘’Ullo! you dar’?’ + </p> + <p> + No bandicoot ever went into his hole with the dogs after him quicker than + Jim came out of his. He scrambled up the shaft by the foot-holes, and sat + on the edge of the waste-heap, looking very pale. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Dave. ‘Have you seen a ghost?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve seen the—the devil!’ gasped Jim. ‘I’m—I’m done with this + here ghoul business.’ + </p> + <p> + The parties got on speaking terms again. Dave was very warm, but Jim’s + language was worse. Pinter scratched his chin-feathers reflectively till + the other party cooled. There was no appealing to the Commissioner for + goldfields; they were outside all law, whether of the goldfields or + otherwise—so they did the only thing possible and sensible, they + joined forces and became ‘Poynton, Regan, & Party’. They agreed to + work the ground from the separate shafts, and decided to go ahead, + irrespective of appearances, and get as much dirt out and cradled as + possible before the inevitable exposure came along. They found plenty of + ‘payable dirt’, and soon the drive ended in a cluster of roomy chambers. + They timbered up many coffins of various ages, burnt tarred canvas and + brown paper, and kept the fan going. Outside they paid the storekeeper + with difficulty and talked of hard times. + </p> + <p> + But one fine sunny morning, after about a week of partnership, they got a + bad scare. Jim and Kullers were below, getting out dirt for all they were + worth, and Pinter and Dave at their windlasses, when who should march down + from the cemetery gate but Mother Middleton herself. She was a hard woman + to look at. She still wore the old-fashioned crinoline and her hair in a + greasy net; and on this as on most other sober occasions, she wore the + expression of a rough Irish navvy who has just enough drink to make him + nasty and is looking out for an excuse for a row. She had a stride like a + grenadier. A digger had once measured her step by her footprints in the + mud where she had stepped across a gutter: it measured three feet from toe + to heel. + </p> + <p> + She marched to the grave of Jimmy Middleton, laid a dingy bunch of flowers + thereon, with the gesture of an angry man banging his fist down on the + table, turned on her heel, and marched out. The diggers were dirt beneath + her feet. Presently they heard her drive on in her spring-cart on her way + into town, and they drew breaths of relief. + </p> + <p> + It was afternoon. Dave and Pinter were feeling tired, and were just + deciding to knock off work for that day when they heard a scuffling in the + direction of the different shafts, and both Jim and Kullers dropped down + and bundled in in a great hurry. Jim chuckled in a silly way, as if there + was something funny, and Kullers guffawed in sympathy. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s up now?’ demanded Dave apprehensively. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mother Middleton,’ said Jim; ‘she’s blind mad drunk, and she’s got a + bottle in one hand and a new pitchfork in the other, that she’s bringing + out for some one.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How the hell did she drop to it?’ exclaimed Pinter. + </p> + <p> + ‘Dunno,’ said Jim. ‘Anyway she’s coming for us. Listen to her!’ + </p> + <p> + They didn’t have to listen hard. The language which came down the shaft—they + weren’t sure which one—and along the drives was enough to scare up + the dead and make them take to the Bush. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why didn’t you fools make off into the Bush and give us a chance, instead + of giving her a lead here?’ asked Dave. + </p> + <p> + Jim and Kullers began to wish they had done so. + </p> + <p> + Mrs Middleton began to throw stones down the shaft—it was Pinter’s—and + they, even the oldest and most anxious, began to grin in spite of + themselves, for they knew she couldn’t hurt them from the surface, and + that, though she had been a working digger herself, she couldn’t fill both + shafts before the fumes of liquor overtook her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wonder which shaf’ she’ll come down,’ asked Kullers in a tone befitting + the place and occasion. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’d better go and watch your shaft, Pinter,’ said Dave, ‘and Jim and + I’ll watch mine.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I—I won’t,’ said Pinter hurriedly. ‘I’m—I’m a modest man.’ + </p> + <p> + Then they heard a clang in the direction of Pinter’s shaft. + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s thrown her bottle down,’ said Dave. + </p> + <p> + Jim crawled along the drive a piece, urged by curiosity, and returned + hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s broke the pitchfork off short, to use in the drive, and I believe + she’s coming down.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Her crinoline’ll handicap her,’ said Pinter vacantly, ‘that’s a comfort.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s took it off!’ said Dave excitedly; and peering along Pinter’s + drive, they saw first an elastic-sided boot, then a red-striped stocking, + then a section of scarlet petticoat. + </p> + <p> + ‘Lemme out!’ roared Pinter, lurching forward and making a swimming motion + with his hands in the direction of Dave’s drive. Kullers was already gone, + and Jim well on the way. Dave, lanky and awkward, scrambled up the shaft + last. Mrs Middleton made good time, considering she had the darkness to + face and didn’t know the workings, and when Dave reached the top he had a + tear in the leg of his moleskins, and the blood ran from a nasty scratch. + But he didn’t wait to argue over the price of a new pair of trousers. He + made off through the Bush in the direction of an encouraging whistle + thrown back by Jim. + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s too drunk to get her story listened to to-night,’ said Dave. ‘But + to-morrow she’ll bring the neighbourhood down on us.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And she’s enough, without the neighbourhood,’ reflected Pinter. + </p> + <p> + Some time after dark they returned cautiously, reconnoitred their camp, + and after hiding in a hollow log such things as they couldn’t carry, they + rolled up their tents like the Arabs, and silently stole away. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Chinaman’s Ghost. + </h2> + <p> + ‘Simple as striking matches,’ said Dave Regan, Bushman; ‘but it gave me + the biggest scare I ever had—except, perhaps, the time I stumbled in + the dark into a six-feet digger’s hole, which might have been eighty feet + deep for all I knew when I was falling. (There was an eighty-feet shaft + left open close by.) + </p> + <p> + ‘It was the night of the day after the Queen’s birthday. I was sinking a + shaft with Jim Bently and Andy Page on the old Redclay goldfield, and we + camped in a tent on the creek. Jim and me went to some races that was held + at Peter Anderson’s pub., about four miles across the ridges, on Queen’s + birthday. Andy was a quiet sort of chap, a teetotaller, and we’d disgusted + him the last time he was out for a holiday with us, so he stayed at home + and washed and mended his clothes, and read an arithmetic book. (He used + to keep the accounts, and it took him most of his spare time.) + </p> + <p> + ‘Jim and me had a pretty high time. We all got pretty tight after the + races, and I wanted to fight Jim, or Jim wanted to fight me—I don’t + remember which. We were old chums, and we nearly always wanted to fight + each other when we got a bit on, and we’d fight if we weren’t stopped. I + remember once Jim got maudlin drunk and begged and prayed of me to fight + him, as if he was praying for his life. Tom Tarrant, the coach-driver, + used to say that Jim and me must be related, else we wouldn’t hate each + other so much when we were tight and truthful. + </p> + <p> + ‘Anyway, this day, Jim got the sulks, and caught his horse and went home + early in the evening. My dog went home with him too; I must have been + carrying on pretty bad to disgust the dog. + </p> + <p> + ‘Next evening I got disgusted with myself, and started to walk home. I’d + lost my hat, so Peter Anderson lent me an old one of his, that he’d worn + on Ballarat he said: it was a hard, straw, flat, broad-brimmed affair, and + fitted my headache pretty tight. Peter gave me a small flask of whisky to + help me home. I had to go across some flats and up a long dark gully + called Murderer’s Gully, and over a gap called Dead Man’s Gap, and down + the ridge and gullies to Redclay Creek. The lonely flats were covered with + blue-grey gum bush, and looked ghostly enough in the moonlight, and I was + pretty shaky, but I had a pull at the flask and a mouthful of water at a + creek and felt right enough. I began to whistle, and then to sing: I never + used to sing unless I thought I was a couple of miles out of earshot of + any one. + </p> + <p> + ‘Murderer’s Gully was deep and pretty dark most times, and of course it + was haunted. Women and children wouldn’t go through it after dark; and + even me, when I’d grown up, I’d hold my back pretty holler, and whistle, + and walk quick going along there at night-time. We’re all afraid of + ghosts, but we won’t let on. + </p> + <p> + ‘Some one had skinned a dead calf during the day and left it on the track, + and it gave me a jump, I promise you. It looked like two corpses laid out + naked. I finished the whisky and started up over the gap. All of a sudden + a great ‘old man’ kangaroo went across the track with a thud-thud, and up + the siding, and that startled me. Then the naked, white glistening trunk + of a stringy-bark tree, where some one had stripped off a sheet of bark, + started out from a bend in the track in a shaft of moonlight, and that + gave me a jerk. I was pretty shaky before I started. There was a + Chinaman’s grave close by the track on the top of the gap. An old chow had + lived in a hut there for many years, and fossicked on the old diggings, + and one day he was found dead in the hut, and the Government gave some one + a pound to bury him. When I was a nipper we reckoned that his ghost + haunted the gap, and cursed in Chinese because the bones hadn’t been sent + home to China. It was a lonely, ghostly place enough. + </p> + <p> + ‘It had been a smotheringly hot day and very close coming across the flats + and up the gully—not a breath of air; but now as I got higher I saw + signs of the thunderstorm we’d expected all day, and felt the breath of a + warm breeze on my face. When I got into the top of the gap the first thing + I saw was something white amongst the dark bushes over the spot where the + Chinaman’s grave was, and I stood staring at it with both eyes. It moved + out of the shadow presently, and I saw that it was a white bullock, and I + felt relieved. I’d hardly felt relieved when, all at once, there came a + “pat-pat-pat” of running feet close behind me! I jumped round quick, but + there was nothing there, and while I stood staring all ways for Sunday, + there came a “pat-pat”, then a pause, and then “pat-pat-pat-pat” behind me + again: it was like some one dodging and running off that time. I started + to walk down the track pretty fast, but hadn’t gone a dozen yards when + “pat-pat-pat”, it was close behind me again. I jerked my eyes over my + shoulder but kept my legs going. There was nothing behind, but I fancied I + saw something slip into the Bush to the right. It must have been the + moonlight on the moving boughs; there was a good breeze blowing now. I got + down to a more level track, and was making across a spur to the main road, + when “pat-pat!” “pat-pat-pat, pat-pat-pat!” it was after me again. Then I + began to run—and it began to run too! “pat-pat-pat” after me all the + time. I hadn’t time to look round. Over the spur and down the siding and + across the flat to the road I went as fast as I could split my legs apart. + I had a scared idea that I was getting a touch of the “jim-jams”, and that + frightened me more than any outside ghost could have done. I stumbled a + few times, and saved myself, but, just before I reached the road, I fell + slithering on to my hands on the grass and gravel. I thought I’d broken + both my wrists. I stayed for a moment on my hands and knees, quaking and + listening, squinting round like a great gohana; I couldn’t hear nor see + anything. I picked myself up, and had hardly got on one end, when + “pat-pat!” it was after me again. I must have run a mile and a half + altogether that night. It was still about three-quarters of a mile to the + camp, and I ran till my heart beat in my head and my lungs choked up in my + throat. I saw our tent-fire and took off my hat to run faster. The + footsteps stopped, then something about the hat touched my fingers, and I + stared at it—and the thing dawned on me. I hadn’t noticed at Peter + Anderson’s—my head was too swimmy to notice anything. It was an old + hat of the style that the first diggers used to wear, with a couple of + loose ribbon ends, three or four inches long, from the band behind. As + long as I walked quietly through the gully, and there was no wind, the + tails didn’t flap, but when I got up into the breeze, they flapped or were + still according to how the wind lifted them or pressed them down flat on + the brim. And when I ran they tapped all the time; and the hat being tight + on my head, the tapping of the ribbon ends against the straw sounded loud + of course. + </p> + <p> + ‘I sat down on a log for a while to get some of my wind back and cool + down, and then I went to the camp as quietly as I could, and had a long + drink of water. + </p> + <p> + ‘“You seem to be a bit winded, Dave,” said Jim Bently, “and mighty + thirsty. Did the Chinaman’s ghost chase you?” + </p> + <p> + ‘I told him not to talk rot, and went into the tent, and lay down on my + bunk, and had a good rest.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Loaded Dog. + </h2> + <p> + Dave Regan, Jim Bently, and Andy Page were sinking a shaft at Stony Creek + in search of a rich gold quartz reef which was supposed to exist in the + vicinity. There is always a rich reef supposed to exist in the vicinity; + the only questions are whether it is ten feet or hundreds beneath the + surface, and in which direction. They had struck some pretty solid rock, + also water which kept them baling. They used the old-fashioned + blasting-powder and time-fuse. They’d make a sausage or cartridge of + blasting-powder in a skin of strong calico or canvas, the mouth sewn and + bound round the end of the fuse; they’d dip the cartridge in melted tallow + to make it water-tight, get the drill-hole as dry as possible, drop in the + cartridge with some dry dust, and wad and ram with stiff clay and broken + brick. Then they’d light the fuse and get out of the hole and wait. The + result was usually an ugly pot-hole in the bottom of the shaft and half a + barrow-load of broken rock. + </p> + <p> + There was plenty of fish in the creek, fresh-water bream, cod, cat-fish, + and tailers. The party were fond of fish, and Andy and Dave of fishing. + Andy would fish for three hours at a stretch if encouraged by a ‘nibble’ + or a ‘bite’ now and then—say once in twenty minutes. The butcher was + always willing to give meat in exchange for fish when they caught more + than they could eat; but now it was winter, and these fish wouldn’t bite. + However, the creek was low, just a chain of muddy water-holes, from the + hole with a few bucketfuls in it to the sizable pool with an average depth + of six or seven feet, and they could get fish by baling out the smaller + holes or muddying up the water in the larger ones till the fish rose to + the surface. There was the cat-fish, with spikes growing out of the sides + of its head, and if you got pricked you’d know it, as Dave said. Andy took + off his boots, tucked up his trousers, and went into a hole one day to + stir up the mud with his feet, and he knew it. Dave scooped one out with + his hand and got pricked, and he knew it too; his arm swelled, and the + pain throbbed up into his shoulder, and down into his stomach too, he + said, like a toothache he had once, and kept him awake for two nights—only + the toothache pain had a ‘burred edge’, Dave said. + </p> + <p> + Dave got an idea. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not blow the fish up in the big water-hole with a cartridge?’ he + said. ‘I’ll try it.’ + </p> + <p> + He thought the thing out and Andy Page worked it out. Andy usually put + Dave’s theories into practice if they were practicable, or bore the blame + for the failure and the chaffing of his mates if they weren’t. + </p> + <p> + He made a cartridge about three times the size of those they used in the + rock. Jim Bently said it was big enough to blow the bottom out of the + river. The inner skin was of stout calico; Andy stuck the end of a + six-foot piece of fuse well down in the powder and bound the mouth of the + bag firmly to it with whipcord. The idea was to sink the cartridge in the + water with the open end of the fuse attached to a float on the surface, + ready for lighting. Andy dipped the cartridge in melted bees’-wax to make + it water-tight. ‘We’ll have to leave it some time before we light it,’ + said Dave, ‘to give the fish time to get over their scare when we put it + in, and come nosing round again; so we’ll want it well water-tight.’ + </p> + <p> + Round the cartridge Andy, at Dave’s suggestion, bound a strip of sail + canvas—that they used for making water-bags—to increase the + force of the explosion, and round that he pasted layers of stiff brown + paper—on the plan of the sort of fireworks we called ‘gun-crackers’. + He let the paper dry in the sun, then he sewed a covering of two + thicknesses of canvas over it, and bound the thing from end to end with + stout fishing-line. Dave’s schemes were elaborate, and he often worked his + inventions out to nothing. The cartridge was rigid and solid enough now—a + formidable bomb; but Andy and Dave wanted to be sure. Andy sewed on + another layer of canvas, dipped the cartridge in melted tallow, twisted a + length of fencing-wire round it as an afterthought, dipped it in tallow + again, and stood it carefully against a tent-peg, where he’d know where to + find it, and wound the fuse loosely round it. Then he went to the + camp-fire to try some potatoes which were boiling in their jackets in a + billy, and to see about frying some chops for dinner. Dave and Jim were at + work in the claim that morning. + </p> + <p> + They had a big black young retriever dog—or rather an overgrown pup, + a big, foolish, four-footed mate, who was always slobbering round them and + lashing their legs with his heavy tail that swung round like a stock-whip. + Most of his head was usually a red, idiotic, slobbering grin of + appreciation of his own silliness. He seemed to take life, the world, his + two-legged mates, and his own instinct as a huge joke. He’d retrieve + anything: he carted back most of the camp rubbish that Andy threw away. + They had a cat that died in hot weather, and Andy threw it a good distance + away in the scrub; and early one morning the dog found the cat, after it + had been dead a week or so, and carried it back to camp, and laid it just + inside the tent-flaps, where it could best make its presence known when + the mates should rise and begin to sniff suspiciously in the sickly + smothering atmosphere of the summer sunrise. He used to retrieve them when + they went in swimming; he’d jump in after them, and take their hands in + his mouth, and try to swim out with them, and scratch their naked bodies + with his paws. They loved him for his good-heartedness and his + foolishness, but when they wished to enjoy a swim they had to tie him up + in camp. + </p> + <p> + He watched Andy with great interest all the morning making the cartridge, + and hindered him considerably, trying to help; but about noon he went off + to the claim to see how Dave and Jim were getting on, and to come home to + dinner with them. Andy saw them coming, and put a panful of mutton-chops + on the fire. Andy was cook to-day; Dave and Jim stood with their backs to + the fire, as Bushmen do in all weathers, waiting till dinner should be + ready. The retriever went nosing round after something he seemed to have + missed. + </p> + <p> + Andy’s brain still worked on the cartridge; his eye was caught by the + glare of an empty kerosene-tin lying in the bushes, and it struck him that + it wouldn’t be a bad idea to sink the cartridge packed with clay, sand, or + stones in the tin, to increase the force of the explosion. He may have + been all out, from a scientific point of view, but the notion looked all + right to him. Jim Bently, by the way, wasn’t interested in their ‘damned + silliness’. Andy noticed an empty treacle-tin—the sort with the + little tin neck or spout soldered on to the top for the convenience of + pouring out the treacle—and it struck him that this would have made + the best kind of cartridge-case: he would only have had to pour in the + powder, stick the fuse in through the neck, and cork and seal it with + bees’-wax. He was turning to suggest this to Dave, when Dave glanced over + his shoulder to see how the chops were doing—and bolted. He + explained afterwards that he thought he heard the pan spluttering extra, + and looked to see if the chops were burning. Jim Bently looked behind and + bolted after Dave. Andy stood stock-still, staring after them. + </p> + <p> + ‘Run, Andy! run!’ they shouted back at him. ‘Run!!! Look behind you, you + fool!’ Andy turned slowly and looked, and there, close behind him, was the + retriever with the cartridge in his mouth—wedged into his broadest + and silliest grin. And that wasn’t all. The dog had come round the fire to + Andy, and the loose end of the fuse had trailed and waggled over the + burning sticks into the blaze; Andy had slit and nicked the firing end of + the fuse well, and now it was hissing and spitting properly. + </p> + <p> + Andy’s legs started with a jolt; his legs started before his brain did, + and he made after Dave and Jim. And the dog followed Andy. + </p> + <p> + Dave and Jim were good runners—Jim the best—for a short + distance; Andy was slow and heavy, but he had the strength and the wind + and could last. The dog leapt and capered round him, delighted as a dog + could be to find his mates, as he thought, on for a frolic. Dave and Jim + kept shouting back, ‘Don’t foller us! don’t foller us, you coloured fool!’ + but Andy kept on, no matter how they dodged. They could never explain, any + more than the dog, why they followed each other, but so they ran, Dave + keeping in Jim’s track in all its turnings, Andy after Dave, and the dog + circling round Andy—the live fuse swishing in all directions and + hissing and spluttering and stinking. Jim yelling to Dave not to follow + him, Dave shouting to Andy to go in another direction—to ‘spread + out’, and Andy roaring at the dog to go home. Then Andy’s brain began to + work, stimulated by the crisis: he tried to get a running kick at the dog, + but the dog dodged; he snatched up sticks and stones and threw them at the + dog and ran on again. The retriever saw that he’d made a mistake about + Andy, and left him and bounded after Dave. Dave, who had the presence of + mind to think that the fuse’s time wasn’t up yet, made a dive and a grab + for the dog, caught him by the tail, and as he swung round snatched the + cartridge out of his mouth and flung it as far as he could: the dog + immediately bounded after it and retrieved it. Dave roared and cursed at + the dog, who seeing that Dave was offended, left him and went after Jim, + who was well ahead. Jim swung to a sapling and went up it like a native + bear; it was a young sapling, and Jim couldn’t safely get more than ten or + twelve feet from the ground. The dog laid the cartridge, as carefully as + if it was a kitten, at the foot of the sapling, and capered and leaped and + whooped joyously round under Jim. The big pup reckoned that this was part + of the lark—he was all right now—it was Jim who was out for a + spree. The fuse sounded as if it were going a mile a minute. Jim tried to + climb higher and the sapling bent and cracked. Jim fell on his feet and + ran. The dog swooped on the cartridge and followed. It all took but a very + few moments. Jim ran to a digger’s hole, about ten feet deep, and dropped + down into it—landing on soft mud—and was safe. The dog grinned + sardonically down on him, over the edge, for a moment, as if he thought it + would be a good lark to drop the cartridge down on Jim. + </p> + <p> + ‘Go away, Tommy,’ said Jim feebly, ‘go away.’ + </p> + <p> + The dog bounded off after Dave, who was the only one in sight now; Andy + had dropped behind a log, where he lay flat on his face, having suddenly + remembered a picture of the Russo-Turkish war with a circle of Turks lying + flat on their faces (as if they were ashamed) round a newly-arrived shell. + </p> + <p> + There was a small hotel or shanty on the creek, on the main road, not far + from the claim. Dave was desperate, the time flew much faster in his + stimulated imagination than it did in reality, so he made for the shanty. + There were several casual Bushmen on the verandah and in the bar; Dave + rushed into the bar, banging the door to behind him. ‘My dog!’ he gasped, + in reply to the astonished stare of the publican, ‘the blanky retriever—he’s + got a live cartridge in his mouth——’ + </p> + <p> + The retriever, finding the front door shut against him, had bounded round + and in by the back way, and now stood smiling in the doorway leading from + the passage, the cartridge still in his 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. + </p> + <p> + The Bushmen ran round corners, and some shut themselves in the stable. + There was a new weather-board and corrugated-iron kitchen and wash-house + on piles in the back-yard, with some women washing clothes inside. Dave + and the publican bundled in there and shut the door—the publican + cursing Dave and calling him a crimson fool, in hurried tones, and wanting + to know what the hell he came here for. + </p> + <p> + The retriever went in under the kitchen, amongst the piles, but, luckily + for those inside, there was a vicious yellow mongrel cattle-dog sulking + and nursing his nastiness under there—a sneaking, fighting, thieving + canine, whom neighbours had tried for years to shoot or poison. Tommy saw + his danger—he’d had experience from this dog—and started out + and across the yard, still sticking to the cartridge. Half-way across the + yard the yellow dog caught him and nipped him. Tommy dropped the + cartridge, gave one terrified yell, and took to the Bush. The yellow dog + followed him to the fence and then ran back to see what he had dropped. + </p> + <p> + Nearly a dozen other dogs came from round all the corners and under the + buildings—spidery, thievish, cold-blooded kangaroo-dogs, mongrel + sheep- and cattle-dogs, vicious black and yellow dogs—that slip + after you in the dark, nip your heels, and vanish without explaining—and + yapping, yelping small fry. They kept at a respectable distance round the + nasty yellow dog, for it was dangerous to go near him when he thought he + had found something which might be good for a dog to eat. He sniffed at + the cartridge twice, and was just taking a third cautious sniff when—— + </p> + <p> + It was very good blasting powder—a new brand that Dave had recently + got up from Sydney; and the cartridge had been excellently well made. Andy + was very patient and painstaking in all he did, and nearly as handy as the + average sailor with needles, twine, canvas, and rope. + </p> + <p> + Bushmen say that that kitchen jumped off its piles and on again. When the + smoke and dust cleared away, the remains of the nasty yellow dog were + lying against the paling fence of the yard looking as if he had been + kicked into a fire by a horse and afterwards rolled in the dust under a + barrow, and finally thrown against the fence from a distance. Several + saddle-horses, which had been ‘hanging-up’ round the verandah, were + galloping wildly down the road in clouds of dust, with broken bridle-reins + flying; and from a circle round the outskirts, from every point of the + compass in the scrub, came the yelping of dogs. Two of them went home, to + the place where they were born, thirty miles away, and reached it the same + night and stayed there; it was not till towards evening that the rest came + back cautiously to make inquiries. One was trying to walk on two legs, and + most of ‘em looked more or less singed; and a little, singed, + stumpy-tailed dog, who had been in the habit of hopping the back half of + him along on one leg, had reason to be glad that he’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 for years afterwards, who couldn’t stand the + smell of a gun being cleaned. He it was who had taken an interest, only + second to that of the yellow dog, in the cartridge. Bushmen said that it + was amusing to slip up on his blind side and stick a dirty ramrod under + his nose: he wouldn’t wait to bring his solitary eye to bear—he’d + take to the Bush and stay out all night. + </p> + <p> + For half an hour or so after the explosion there were several Bushmen + round behind the stable who crouched, doubled up, against the wall, or + rolled gently on the dust, trying to laugh without shrieking. There were + two white women in hysterics at the house, and a half-caste rushing + aimlessly round with a dipper of cold water. The publican was holding his + wife tight and begging her between her squawks, to ‘hold up for my sake, + Mary, or I’ll lam the life out of ye.’ + </p> + <p> + Dave decided to apologise later on, ‘when things had settled a bit,’ and + went back to camp. And the dog that had done it all, ‘Tommy’, the great, + idiotic mongrel retriever, came slobbering round Dave and lashing his legs + with his tail, and trotted home after him, smiling his broadest, longest, + and reddest smile of amiability, and apparently satisfied for one + afternoon with the fun he’d had. + </p> + <p> + Andy chained the dog up securely, and cooked some more chops, while Dave + went to help Jim out of the hole. + </p> + <p> + And most of this is why, for years afterwards, lanky, easy-going Bushmen, + riding lazily past Dave’s camp, would cry, in a lazy drawl and with just a + hint of the nasal twang— + </p> + <p> + ‘’El-lo, Da-a-ve! How’s the fishin’ getting on, Da-a-ve?’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Poisonous Jimmy Gets Left. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I. Dave Regan’s Yarn. + </h2> + <p> + ‘When we got tired of digging about Mudgee-Budgee, and getting no gold,’ + said Dave Regan, Bushman, ‘me and my mate, Jim Bently, decided to take a + turn at droving; so we went with Bob Baker, the drover, overland with a + big mob of cattle, way up into Northern Queensland. + </p> + <p> + ‘We couldn’t get a job on the home track, and we spent most of our money, + like a pair of fools, at a pub. at a town way up over the border, where + they had a flash barmaid from Brisbane. We sold our pack-horses and + pack-saddles, and rode out of that town with our swags on our + riding-horses in front of us. We had another spree at another place, and + by the time we got near New South Wales we were pretty well stumped. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just the other side of Mulgatown, near the border, we came on a big mob + of cattle in a paddock, and a party of drovers camped on the creek. They + had brought the cattle down from the north and were going no farther with + them; their boss had ridden on into Mulgatown to get the cheques to pay + them off, and they were waiting for him. + </p> + <p> + ‘“And Poisonous Jimmy is waiting for us,” said one of them. + </p> + <p> + ‘Poisonous Jimmy kept a shanty a piece along the road from their camp + towards Mulgatown. He was called “Poisonous Jimmy” perhaps on account of + his liquor, or perhaps because he had a job of poisoning dingoes on a + station in the Bogan scrubs at one time. He was a sharp publican. He had a + girl, and they said that whenever a shearing-shed cut-out on his side and + he saw the shearers coming along the road, he’d say to the girl, “Run and + get your best frock on, Mary! Here’s the shearers comin’.” And if a + chequeman wouldn’t drink he’d try to get him into his bar and shout for + him till he was too drunk to keep his hands out of his pockets. + </p> + <p> + ‘“But he won’t get us,” said another of the drovers. “I’m going to ride + straight into Mulgatown and send my money home by the post as soon as I + get it.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“You’ve always said that, Jack,” said the first drover. + </p> + <p> + ‘We yarned a while, and had some tea, and then me and Jim got on our + horses and rode on. We were burned to bricks and ragged and dusty and + parched up enough, and so were our horses. We only had a few shillings to + carry us four or five hundred miles home, but it was mighty hot and dusty, + and we felt that we must have a drink at the shanty. This was west of the + sixpenny-line at that time—all drinks were a shilling along here. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just before we reached the shanty I got an idea. + </p> + <p> + ‘“We’ll plant our swags in the scrub,” I said to Jim. + </p> + <p> + ‘“What for?” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Never mind—you’ll see,” I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘So we unstrapped our swags and hid them in the mulga scrub by the side of + the road; then we rode on to the shanty, got down, and hung our horses to + the verandah posts. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Poisonous” came out at once, with a smile on him that would have made + anybody home-sick. + </p> + <p> + ‘He was a short nuggety man, and could use his hands, they said; he looked + as if he’d be a nasty, vicious, cool customer in a fight—he wasn’t + the sort of man you’d care to try and swindle a second time. He had a + monkey shave when he shaved, but now it was all frill and stubble—like + a bush fence round a stubble-field. He had a broken nose, and a cunning, + sharp, suspicious eye that squinted, and a cold stony eye that seemed + fixed. If you didn’t know him well you might talk to him for five minutes, + looking at him in the cold stony eye, and then discover that it was the + sharp cunning little eye that was watching you all the time. It was awful + embarrassing. It must have made him awkward to deal with in a fight. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Good day, mates,” he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Good day,” we said. + </p> + <p> + ‘“It’s hot.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“It’s hot.” + </p> + <p> + ‘We went into the bar, and Poisonous got behind the counter. + </p> + <p> + ‘“What are you going to have?” he asked, rubbing up his glasses with a + rag. + </p> + <p> + ‘We had two long-beers. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Never mind that,” said Poisonous, seeing me put my hand in my pocket; + “it’s my shout. I don’t suppose your boss is back yet? I saw him go in to + Mulgatown this morning.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“No, he ain’t back,” I said; “I wish he was. We’re getting tired of + waiting for him. We’ll give him another hour, and then some of us will + have to ride in to see whether he’s got on the boose, and get hold of him + if he has.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“I suppose you’re waiting for your cheques?” he said, turning to fix some + bottles on the shelf. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yes,” I said, “we are;” and I winked at Jim, and Jim winked back as + solemn as an owl. + </p> + <p> + ‘Poisonous asked us all about the trip, and how long we’d been on the + track, and what sort of a boss we had, dropping the questions offhand now + an’ then, as for the sake of conversation. We could see that he was trying + to get at the size of our supposed cheques, so we answered accordingly. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Have another drink,” he said, and he filled the pewters up again. “It’s + up to me,” and he set to work boring out the glasses with his rag, as if + he was short-handed and the bar was crowded with customers, and screwing + up his face into what I suppose he considered an innocent or unconscious + expression. The girl began to sidle in and out with a smart frock and a + see-you-after-dark smirk on. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Have you had dinner?” she asked. We could have done with a good meal, + but it was too risky—the drovers’ boss might come along while we + were at dinner and get into conversation with Poisonous. So we said we’d + had dinner. + </p> + <p> + ‘Poisonous filled our pewters again in an offhand way. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I wish the boss would come,” said Jim with a yawn. “I want to get into + Mulgatown to-night, and I want to get some shirts and things before I go + in. I ain’t got a decent rag to me back. I don’t suppose there’s ten bob + amongst the lot of us.” + </p> + <p> + ‘There was a general store back on the creek, near the drovers’ camp. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh, go to the store and get what you want,” said Poisonous, taking a + sovereign from the till and tossing it on to the counter. “You can fix it + up with me when your boss comes. Bring your mates along.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Thank you,” said Jim, taking up the sovereign carelessly and dropping it + into his pocket. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Well, Jim,” I said, “suppose we get back to camp and see how the chaps + are getting on?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“All right,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Tell them to come down and get a drink,” said Poisonous; “or, wait, you + can take some beer along to them if you like,” and he gave us half a + gallon of beer in a billy-can. He knew what the first drink meant with + Bushmen back from a long dry trip. + </p> + <p> + ‘We got on our horses, I holding the billy very carefully, and rode back + to where our swags were. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I say,” said Jim, when we’d strapped the swags to the saddles, “suppose + we take the beer back to those chaps: it’s meant for them, and it’s only a + fair thing, anyway—we’ve got as much as we can hold till we get into + Mulgatown.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“It might get them into a row,” I said, “and they seem decent chaps. + Let’s hang the billy on a twig, and that old swagman that’s coming along + will think there’s angels in the Bush.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oh! what’s a row?” said Jim. “They can take care of themselves; they’ll + have the beer anyway and a lark with Poisonous when they take the can back + and it comes to explanations. I’ll ride back to them.” + </p> + <p> + ‘So Jim rode back to the drovers’ camp with the beer, and when he came + back to me he said that the drovers seemed surprised, but they drank good + luck to him. + </p> + <p> + ‘We rode round through the mulga behind the shanty and came out on the + road again on the Mulgatown side: we only stayed at Mulgatown to buy some + tucker and tobacco, then we pushed on and camped for the night about seven + miles on the safe side of the town.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. Told by One of the Other Drovers. + </h2> + <p> + ‘Talkin’ o’ Poisonous Jimmy, I can tell you a yarn about him. We’d brought + a mob of cattle down for a squatter the other side of Mulgatown. We camped + about seven miles the other side of the town, waitin’ for the station + hands to come and take charge of the stock, while the boss rode on into + town to draw our money. Some of us was goin’ back, though in the end we + all went into Mulgatown and had a boose up with the boss. But while we was + waitin’ there come along two fellers that had been drovin’ up north. They + yarned a while, an’ then went on to Poisonous Jimmy’s place, an’ in about + an hour one on ‘em come ridin’ back with a can of beer that he said + Poisonous had sent for us. We all knew Jimmy’s little games—the beer + was a bait to get us on the drunk at his place; but we drunk the beer, and + reckoned to have a lark with him afterwards. When the boss come back, an’ + the station hands to take the bullocks, we started into Mulgatown. We + stopped outside Poisonous’s place an’ handed the can to the girl that was + grinnin’ on the verandah. Poisonous come out with a grin on him like a + parson with a broken nose. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Good day, boys!” he says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Good day, Poisonous,” we says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“It’s hot,” he says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“It’s blanky hot,” I says. + </p> + <p> + ‘He seemed to expect us to get down. “Where are you off to?” he says. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Mulgatown,” I says. “It will be cooler there,” and we sung out, + “So-long, Poisonous!” and rode on. + </p> + <p> + ‘He stood starin’ for a minute; then he started shoutin’, “Hi! hi there!” + after us, but we took no notice, an’ rode on. When we looked back last he + was runnin’ into the scrub with a bridle in his hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘We jogged along easily till we got within a mile of Mulgatown, when we + heard somebody gallopin’ after us, an’ lookin’ back we saw it was + Poisonous. + </p> + <p> + ‘He was too mad and too winded to speak at first, so he rode along with us + a bit gasping: then he burst out. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Where’s them other two carnal blanks?” he shouted. + </p> + <p> + ‘“What other two?” I asked. “We’re all here. What’s the matter with you + anyway?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“All here!” he yelled. “You’re a lurid liar! What the flamin’ sheol do + you mean by swiggin’ my beer an’ flingin’ the coloured can in me face? + without as much as thank yer! D’yer think I’m a flamin’——!” + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, but Poisonous Jimmy was wild. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Well, we’ll pay for your dirty beer,” says one of the chaps, puttin’ his + hand in his pocket. “We didn’t want yer slush. It tasted as if it had been + used before.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Pay for it!” yelled Jimmy. “I’ll——well take it out of one of + yer bleedin’ hides!” + </p> + <p> + ‘We stopped at once, and I got down an’ obliged Jimmy for a few rounds. He + was a nasty customer to fight; he could use his hands, and was cool as a + cucumber as soon as he took his coat off: besides, he had one squirmy + little business eye, and a big wall-eye, an’, even if you knowed him well, + you couldn’t help watchin’ the stony eye—it was no good watchin’ his + eyes, you had to watch his hands, and he might have managed me if the boss + hadn’t stopped the fight. The boss was a big, quiet-voiced man, that + didn’t swear. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Now, look here, Myles,” said the boss (Jimmy’s name was Myles)—“Now, + look here, Myles,” sez the boss, “what’s all this about?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“What’s all this about?” says Jimmy, gettin’ excited agen. “Why, two + fellers that belonged to your party come along to my place an’ put up + half-a-dozen drinks, an’ borrered a sovereign, an’ got a can o’ beer on + the strength of their cheques. They sez they was waitin’ for you—an’ + I want my crimson money out o’ some one!” + </p> + <p> + ‘“What was they like?” asks the boss. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Like?” shouted Poisonous, swearin’ all the time. “One was a blanky long, + sandy, sawny feller, and the other was a short, slim feller with black + hair. Your blanky men knows all about them because they had the blanky + billy o’ beer.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Now, what’s this all about, you chaps?” sez the boss to us. + </p> + <p> + ‘So we told him as much as we knowed about them two fellers. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve heard men swear that could swear in a rough shearin’-shed, but I + never heard a man swear like Poisonous Jimmy when he saw how he’d been + left. It was enough to split stumps. He said he wanted to see those + fellers, just once, before he died. + </p> + <p> + ‘He rode with us into Mulgatown, got mad drunk, an’ started out along the + road with a tomahawk after the long sandy feller and the slim dark feller; + but two mounted police went after him an’ fetched him back. He said he + only wanted justice; he said he only wanted to stun them two fellers till + he could give ‘em in charge. + </p> + <p> + ‘They fined him ten bob.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Ghostly Door. + </h2> + <h3> + Told by one of Dave’s mates. + </h3> + <p> + Dave and I were tramping on a lonely Bush track in New Zealand, making for + a sawmill where we expected to get work, and we were caught in one of + those three-days’ gales, with rain and hail in it and cold enough to cut + off a man’s legs. Camping out was not to be thought of, so we just tramped + on in silence, with the stinging pain coming between our shoulder-blades—from + cold, weariness, and the weight of our swags—and our boots, full of + water, going splosh, splosh, splosh along the track. We were settled to it—to + drag on like wet, weary, muddy working bullocks till we came to somewhere—when, + just before darkness settled down, we saw the loom of a humpy of some sort + on the slope of a tussock hill, back from the road, and we made for it, + without holding a consultation. + </p> + <p> + It was a two-roomed hut built of waste timber from a sawmill, and was + either a deserted settler’s home or a hut attached to an abandoned sawmill + round there somewhere. The windows were boarded up. We dumped our swags + under the little verandah and banged at the door, to make sure; then Dave + pulled a couple of boards off a window and looked in: there was light + enough to see that the place was empty. Dave pulled off some more boards, + put his arm in through a broken pane, clicked the catch back, and then + pushed up the window and got in. I handed in the swags to him. The room + was very draughty; the wind came in through the broken window and the + cracks between the slabs, so we tried the partitioned-off room—the + bedroom—and that was better. It had been lined with chaff-bags, and + there were two stretchers left by some timber-getters or other Bush + contractors who’d camped there last; and there were a box and a couple of + three-legged stools. + </p> + <p> + We carried the remnant of the wood-heap inside, made a fire, and put the + billy on. We unrolled our swags and spread the blankets on the stretchers; + and then we stripped and hung our clothes about the fire to dry. There was + plenty in our tucker-bags, so we had a good feed. I hadn’t shaved for + days, and Dave had a coarse red beard with a twist in it like an ill-used + fibre brush—a beard that got redder the longer it grew; he had a + hooked nose, and his hair stood straight up (I never saw a man so + easy-going about the expression and so scared about the head), and he was + very tall, with long, thin, hairy legs. We must have looked a weird pair + as we sat there, naked, on the low three-legged stools, with the billy and + the tucker on the box between us, and ate our bread and meat with + clasp-knives. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ says Dave, ‘but this is the “whare” * where the + murder was that we heard about along the road. I suppose if any one was to + come along now and look in he’d get scared.’ Then after a while he looked + down at the flooring-boards close to my feet, and scratched his ear, and + said, ‘That looks very much like a blood-stain under your stool, doesn’t + it, Jim?’ + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * ‘Whare’, ‘whorrie’, Maori name for house. +</pre> + <p> + I shifted my feet and presently moved the stool farther away from the fire—it + was too hot. + </p> + <p> + I wouldn’t have liked to camp there by myself, but I don’t think Dave + would have minded—he’d knocked round too much in the Australian Bush + to mind anything much, or to be surprised at anything; besides, he was + more than half murdered once by a man who said afterwards that he’d + mistook him for some one else: he must have been a very short-sighted + murderer. + </p> + <p> + Presently we put tobacco, matches, and bits of candle we had, on the two + stools by the heads of our bunks, turned in, and filled up and smoked + comfortably, dropping in a lazy word now and again about nothing in + particular. Once I happened to look across at Dave, and saw him sitting up + a bit and watching the door. The door opened very slowly, wide, and a + black cat walked in, looked first at me, then at Dave, and walked out + again; and the door closed behind it. + </p> + <p> + Dave scratched his ear. ‘That’s rum,’ he said. ‘I could have sworn I + fastened that door. They must have left the cat behind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It looks like it,’ I said. ‘Neither of us has been on the boose lately.’ + </p> + <p> + He got out of bed and up on his long hairy spindle-shanks. + </p> + <p> + The door had the ordinary, common black oblong lock with a brass knob. + Dave tried the latch and found it fast; he turned the knob, opened the + door, and called, ‘Puss—puss—puss!’ but the cat wouldn’t come. + He shut the door, tried the knob to see that the catch had caught, and got + into bed again. + </p> + <p> + He’d scarcely settled down when the door opened slowly, the black cat + walked in, stared hard at Dave, and suddenly turned and darted out as the + door closed smartly. + </p> + <p> + I looked at Dave and he looked at me—hard; then he scratched the + back of his head. I never saw a man look so puzzled in the face and scared + about the head. + </p> + <p> + He got out of bed very cautiously, took a stick of firewood in his hand, + sneaked up to the door, and snatched it open. There was no one there. Dave + took the candle and went into the next room, but couldn’t see the cat. He + came back and sat down by the fire and meowed, and presently the cat + answered him and came in from somewhere—she’d been outside the + window, I suppose; he kept on meowing and she sidled up and rubbed against + his hairy shin. Dave could generally bring a cat that way. He had a + weakness for cats. I’d seen him kick a dog, and hammer a horse—brutally, + I thought—but I never saw him hurt a cat or let any one else do it. + Dave was good to cats: if a cat had a family where Dave was round, he’d + see her all right and comfortable, and only drown a fair surplus. He said + once to me, ‘I can understand a man kicking a dog, or hammering a horse + when it plays up, but I can’t understand a man hurting a cat.’ + </p> + <p> + He gave this cat something to eat. Then he went and held the light close + to the lock of the door, but could see nothing wrong with it. He found a + key on the mantel-shelf and locked the door. He got into bed again, and + the cat jumped up and curled down at the foot and started her old drum + going, like shot in a sieve. Dave bent down and patted her, to tell her + he’d meant no harm when he stretched out his legs, and then he settled + down again. + </p> + <p> + We had some books of the ‘Deadwood Dick’ school. Dave was reading ‘The + Grisly Ghost of the Haunted Gulch’, and I had ‘The Dismembered Hand’, or + ‘The Disembowelled Corpse’, or some such names. They were first-class + preparation for a ghost. + </p> + <p> + I was reading away, and getting drowsy, when I noticed a movement and saw + Dave’s frightened head rising, with the terrified shadow of it on the + wall. He was staring at the door, over his book, with both eyes. And that + door was opening again—slowly—and Dave had locked it! I never + felt anything so creepy: the foot of my bunk was behind the door, and I + drew up my feet as it came open; it opened wide, and stood so. We waited, + for five minutes it seemed, hearing each other breathe, watching for the + door to close; then Dave got out, very gingerly, and up on one end, and + went to the door like a cat on wet bricks. + </p> + <p> + ‘You shot the bolt OUTSIDE the catch,’ I said, as he caught hold of the + door—like one grabs a craw-fish. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll swear I didn’t,’ said Dave. But he’d already turned the key a couple + of times, so he couldn’t be sure. He shut and locked the door again. ‘Now, + get out and see for yourself,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + I got out, and tried the door a couple of times and found it all right. + Then we both tried, and agreed that it was locked. + </p> + <p> + I got back into bed, and Dave was about half in when a thought struck him. + He got the heaviest piece of firewood and stood it against the door. + </p> + <p> + ‘What are you doing that for?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘If there’s a broken-down burglar camped round here, and trying any of his + funny business, we’ll hear him if he tries to come in while we’re asleep,’ + says Dave. Then he got back into bed. We composed our nerves with the + ‘Haunted Gulch’ and ‘The Disembowelled Corpse’, and after a while I heard + Dave snore, and was just dropping off when the stick fell from the door + against my big toe and then to the ground with tremendous clatter. I + snatched up my feet and sat up with a jerk, and so did Dave—the cat + went over the partition. That door opened, only a little way this time, + paused, and shut suddenly. Dave got out, grabbed a stick, skipped to the + door, and clutched at the knob as if it were a nettle, and the door + wouldn’t come!—it was fast and locked! Then Dave’s face began to + look as frightened as his hair. He lit his candle at the fire, and asked + me to come with him; he unlocked the door and we went into the other room, + Dave shading his candle very carefully and feeling his way slow with his + feet. The room was empty; we tried the outer door and found it locked. + </p> + <p> + ‘It muster gone by the winder,’ whispered Dave. I noticed that he said + ‘it’ instead of ‘he’. I saw that he himself was shook up, and it only + needed that to scare me bad. + </p> + <p> + We went back to the bedroom, had a drink of cold tea, and lit our pipes. + Then Dave took the waterproof cover off his bunk, spread it on the floor, + laid his blankets on top of it, his spare clothes, &c., on top of + them, and started to roll up his swag. + </p> + <p> + ‘What are you going to do, Dave?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m going to take the track,’ says Dave, ‘and camp somewhere farther on. + You can stay here, if you like, and come on in the morning.’ + </p> + <p> + I started to roll up my swag at once. We dressed and fastened on the + tucker-bags, took up the billies, and got outside without making any + noise. We held our backs pretty hollow till we got down on to the road. + </p> + <p> + ‘That comes of camping in a deserted house,’ said Dave, when we were safe + on the track. No Australian Bushman cares to camp in an abandoned + homestead, or even near it—probably because a deserted home looks + ghostlier in the Australian Bush than anywhere else in the world. + </p> + <p> + It was blowing hard, but not raining so much. + </p> + <p> + We went on along the track for a couple of miles and camped on the + sheltered side of a round tussock hill, in a hole where there had been a + landslip. We used all our candle-ends to get a fire alight, but once we + got it started we knocked the wet bark off ‘manuka’ sticks and logs and + piled them on, and soon had a roaring fire. When the ground got a little + drier we rigged a bit of shelter from the showers with some sticks and the + oil-cloth swag-covers; then we made some coffee and got through the night + pretty comfortably. In the morning Dave said, ‘I’m going back to that + house.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What for?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m going to find out what’s the matter with that crimson door. If I + don’t I’ll never be able to sleep easy within a mile of a door so long as + I live.’ + </p> + <p> + So we went back. It was still blowing. The thing was simple enough by + daylight—after a little watching and experimenting. The house was + built of odds and ends and badly fitted. It ‘gave’ in the wind in almost + any direction—not much, not more than an inch or so, but just enough + to throw the door-frame out of plumb and out of square in such a way as to + bring the latch and bolt of the lock clear of the catch (the door-frame + was of scraps joined). Then the door swung open according to the hang of + it; and when the gust was over the house gave back, and the door swung to—the + frame easing just a little in another direction. I suppose it would take + Edison to invent a thing like that, that came about by accident. The + different strengths and directions of the gusts of wind must have + accounted for the variations of the door’s movements—and maybe the + draught of our big fire had helped. + </p> + <p> + Dave scratched his head a good bit. + </p> + <p> + ‘I never lived in a house yet,’ he said, as we came away—‘I never + lived in a house yet without there was something wrong with it. Gimme a + good tent.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Wild Irishman. + </h2> + <p> + About seven years ago I drifted from Out-Back in Australia to Wellington, + the capital of New Zealand, and up country to a little town called + Pahiatua, which meaneth the ‘home of the gods’, and is situated in the + Wairarappa (rippling or sparkling water) district. They have a pretty + little legend to the effect that the name of the district was not + originally suggested by its rivers, streams, and lakes, but by the tears + alleged to have been noticed, by a dusky squire, in the eyes of a warrior + chief who was looking his first, or last—I don’t remember which—upon + the scene. He was the discoverer, I suppose, now I come to think of it, + else the place would have been already named. Maybe the scene reminded the + old cannibal of the home of his childhood. + </p> + <p> + Pahiatua was not the home of my god; and it rained for five weeks. While + waiting for a remittance, from an Australian newspaper—which, I + anxiously hoped, would arrive in time for enough of it to be left (after + paying board) to take me away somewhere—I spent many hours in the + little shop of a shoemaker who had been a digger; and he told me yarns of + the old days on the West Coast of Middle Island. And, ever and anon, he + returned to one, a hard-case from the West Coast, called ‘The Flour of + Wheat’, and his cousin, and his mate, Dinny Murphy, dead. And ever and + again the shoemaker (he was large, humorous, and good-natured) made me + promise that, when I dropped across an old West Coast digger—no + matter who or what he was, or whether he was drunk or sober—I’d ask + him if he knew the ‘Flour of Wheat’, and hear what he had to say. + </p> + <p> + I make no attempt to give any one shade of the Irish brogue—it can’t + be done in writing. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s the little red Irishman,’ said the shoemaker, who was Irish + himself, ‘who always wants to fight when he has a glass in him; and + there’s the big sarcastic dark Irishman who makes more trouble and fights + at a spree than half-a-dozen little red ones put together; and there’s the + cheerful easy-going Irishman. Now the Flour was a combination of all three + and several other sorts. He was known from the first amongst the boys at + Th’ Canary as the Flour o’ Wheat, but no one knew exactly why. Some said + that the right name was the F-l-o-w-e-r, not F-l-o-u-r, and that he was + called that because there was no flower on wheat. The name might have been + a compliment paid to the man’s character by some one who understood and + appreciated it—or appreciated it without understanding it. Or it + might have come of some chance saying of the Flour himself, or his mates—or + an accident with bags of flour. He might have worked in a mill. But we’ve + had enough of that. It’s the man—not the name. He was just a big, + dark, blue-eyed Irish digger. He worked hard, drank hard, fought hard—and + didn’t swear. No man had ever heard him swear (except once); all things + were ‘lovely’ with him. He was always lucky. He got gold and threw it + away. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Flour was sent out to Australia (by his friends) in connection with + some trouble in Ireland in eighteen-something. The date doesn’t matter: + there was mostly trouble in Ireland in those days; and nobody, that knew + the man, could have the slightest doubt that he helped the trouble—provided + he was there at the time. I heard all this from a man who knew him in + Australia. The relatives that he was sent out to were soon very anxious to + see the end of him. He was as wild as they made them in Ireland. When he + had a few drinks, he’d walk restlessly to and fro outside the shanty, + swinging his right arm across in front of him with elbow bent and hand + closed, as if he had a head in chancery, and muttering, as though in + explanation to himself— + </p> + <p> + ‘“Oi must be walkin’ or foightin’!—Oi must be walkin’ or foightin’!—Oi + must be walkin’ or foightin’!” + </p> + <p> + ‘They say that he wanted to eat his Australian relatives before he was + done; and the story goes that one night, while he was on the spree, they + put their belongings into a cart and took to the Bush. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no floury record for several years; then the Flour turned up on + the west coast of New Zealand and was never very far from a pub. kept by a + cousin (that he had tracked, unearthed, or discovered somehow) at a place + called “Th’ Canary”. I remember the first time I saw the Flour. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was on a bit of a spree myself, at Th’ Canary, and one evening I was + standing outside Brady’s (the Flour’s cousin’s place) with Tom Lyons and + Dinny Murphy, when I saw a big man coming across the flat with a swag on + his back. + </p> + <p> + ‘“B’ God, there’s the Flour o’ Wheat comin’ this minute,” says Dinny + Murphy to Tom, “an’ no one else.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“B’ God, ye’re right!” says Tom. + </p> + <p> + ‘There were a lot of new chums in the big room at the back, drinking and + dancing and singing, and Tom says to Dinny— + </p> + <p> + ‘“Dinny, I’ll bet you a quid an’ the Flour’ll run against some of those + new chums before he’s an hour on the spot.” + </p> + <p> + ‘But Dinny wouldn’t take him up. He knew the Flour. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Good day, Tom! Good day, Dinny!” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Good day to you, Flour!” + </p> + <p> + ‘I was introduced. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Well, boys, come along,” says the Flour. + </p> + <p> + ‘And so we went inside with him. The Flour had a few drinks, and then he + went into the back-room where the new chums were. One of them was dancing + a jig, and so the Flour stood up in front of him and commenced to dance + too. And presently the new chum made a step that didn’t please the Flour, + so he hit him between the eyes, and knocked him down—fair an’ flat + on his back. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Take that,” he says. “Take that, me lovely whipper-snapper, an’ lay + there! You can’t dance. How dare ye stand up in front of me face to dance + when ye can’t dance?” + </p> + <p> + ‘He shouted, and drank, and gambled, and danced, and sang, and fought the + new chums all night, and in the morning he said— + </p> + <p> + ‘“Well, boys, we had a grand time last night. Come and have a drink with + me.” + </p> + <p> + ‘And of course they went in and had a drink with him. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + ‘Next morning the Flour was walking along the street, when he met a + drunken, disreputable old hag, known among the boys as the “Nipper”. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Good MORNING, me lovely Flour o’ Wheat!” says she. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Good MORNING, me lovely Nipper!” says the Flour. + </p> + <p> + ‘And with that she outs with a bottle she had in her dress, and smashed + him across the face with it. Broke the bottle to smithereens! + </p> + <p> + ‘A policeman saw her do it, and took her up; and they had the Flour as a + witness, whether he liked it or not. And a lovely sight he looked, with + his face all done up in bloody bandages, and only one damaged eye and a + corner of his mouth on duty. + </p> + <p> + ‘“It’s nothing at all, your Honour,” he said to the S.M.; “only a + pin-scratch—it’s nothing at all. Let it pass. I had no right to + speak to the lovely woman at all.” + </p> + <p> + ‘But they didn’t let it pass,—they fined her a quid. + </p> + <p> + ‘And the Flour paid the fine. + </p> + <p> + ‘But, alas for human nature! It was pretty much the same even in those + days, and amongst those men, as it is now. A man couldn’t do a woman a + good turn without the dirty-minded blackguards taking it for granted there + was something between them. It was a great joke amongst the boys who knew + the Flour, and who also knew the Nipper; but as it was carried too far in + some quarters, it got to be no joke to the Flour—nor to those who + laughed too loud or grinned too long. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + ‘The Flour’s cousin thought he was a sharp man. The Flour got “stiff”. He + hadn’t any money, and his credit had run out, so he went and got a blank + summons from one of the police he knew. He pretended that he wanted to + frighten a man who owed him some money. Then he filled it up and took it + to his cousin. + </p> + <p> + ‘“What d’ye think of that?” he says, handing the summons across the bar. + “What d’ye think of me lovely Dinny Murphy now?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Why, what’s this all about?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“That’s what I want to know. I borrowed a five-pound-note off of him a + fortnight ago when I was drunk, an’ now he sends me that.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Well, I never would have dream’d that of Dinny,” says the cousin, + scratching his head and blinking. “What’s come over him at all?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“That’s what I want to know.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“What have you been doing to the man?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Divil a thing that I’m aware of.” + </p> + <p> + ‘The cousin rubbed his chin-tuft between his forefinger and thumb. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Well, what am I to do about it?” asked the Flour impatiently. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Do? Pay the man, of course?” + </p> + <p> + ‘“How can I pay the lovely man when I haven’t got the price of a drink + about me?” + </p> + <p> + ‘The cousin scratched his chin. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Well—here, I’ll lend you a five-pound-note for a month or two. Go + and pay the man, and get back to work.” + </p> + <p> + ‘And the Flour went and found Dinny Murphy, and the pair of them had a + howling spree together up at Brady’s, the opposition pub. And the cousin + said he thought all the time he was being had. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + ‘He was nasty sometimes, when he was about half drunk. For instance, he’d + come on the ground when the Orewell sports were in full swing and walk + round, soliloquising just loud enough for you to hear; and just when a big + event was coming off he’d pass within earshot of some committee men—who + had been bursting themselves for weeks to work the thing up and make it a + success—saying to himself— + </p> + <p> + ‘“Where’s the Orewell sports that I hear so much about? I don’t see them! + Can any one direct me to the Orewell sports?” + </p> + <p> + ‘Or he’d pass a raffle, lottery, lucky-bag, or golden-barrel business of + some sort,— + </p> + <p> + ‘“No gamblin’ for the Flour. I don’t believe in their little shwindles. It + ought to be shtopped. Leadin’ young people ashtray.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Or he’d pass an Englishman he didn’t like,— + </p> + <p> + ‘“Look at Jinneral Roberts! He’s a man! He’s an Irishman! England has to + come to Ireland for its Jinnerals! Luk at Jinneral Roberts in the marshes + of Candyhar!” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + ‘They always had sports at Orewell Creek on New Year’s Day—except + once—and old Duncan was always there,—never missed it till the + day he died. He was a digger, a humorous and good-hearted “hard-case”. + They all knew “old Duncan”. + </p> + <p> + ‘But one New Year’s Eve he didn’t turn up, and was missed at once. + “Where’s old Duncan? Any one seen old Duncan?” “Oh, he’ll turn up + alright.” They inquired, and argued, and waited, but Duncan didn’t come. + </p> + <p> + ‘Duncan was working at Duffers. The boys inquired of fellows who came from + Duffers, but they hadn’t seen him for two days. They had fully expected to + find him at the creek. He wasn’t at Aliaura nor Notown. They inquired of + men who came from Nelson Creek, but Duncan wasn’t there. + </p> + <p> + ‘“There’s something happened to the lovely man,” said the Flour of Wheat + at last. “Some of us had better see about it.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Pretty soon this was the general opinion, and so a party started out over + the hills to Duffers before daylight in the morning, headed by the Flour. + </p> + <p> + ‘The door of Duncan’s “whare” was closed—BUT NOT PADLOCKED. The + Flour noticed this, gave his head a jerk, opened the door, and went in. + The hut was tidied up and swept out—even the fireplace. Duncan had + “lifted the boxes” and “cleaned up”, and his little bag of gold stood on a + shelf by his side—all ready for his spree. On the table lay a clean + neckerchief folded ready to tie on. The blankets had been folded neatly + and laid on the bunk, and on them was stretched Old Duncan, with his arms + lying crossed on his chest, and one foot—with a boot on—resting + on the ground. He had his “clean things” on, and was dressed except for + one boot, the necktie, and his hat. Heart disease. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Take your hats off and come in quietly, lads,” said the Flour. “Here’s + the lovely man lying dead in his bunk.” + </p> + <p> + ‘There were no sports at Orewell that New Year. Some one said that the + crowd from Nelson Creek might object to the sports being postponed on old + Duncan’s account, but the Flour said he’d see to that. + </p> + <p> + ‘One or two did object, but the Flour reasoned with them and there were no + sports. + </p> + <p> + ‘And the Flour used to say, afterwards, “Ah, but it was a grand time we + had at the funeral when Duncan died at Duffers.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + ‘The Flour of Wheat carried his mate, Dinny Murphy, all the way in from + Th’ Canary to the hospital on his back. Dinny was very bad—the man + was dying of the dysentery or something. The Flour laid him down on a + spare bunk in the reception-room, and hailed the staff. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Inside there—come out!” + </p> + <p> + ‘The doctor and some of the hospital people came to see what was the + matter. The doctor was a heavy swell, with a big cigar, held up in front + of him between two fat, soft, yellow-white fingers, and a dandy little + pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses nipped onto his nose with a spring. + </p> + <p> + ‘“There’s me lovely mate lying there dying of the dysentry,” says the + Flour, “and you’ve got to fix him up and bring him round.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Then he shook his fist in the doctor’s face and said— + </p> + <p> + ‘“If you let that lovely man die—look out!” + </p> + <p> + ‘The doctor was startled. He backed off at first; then he took a puff at + his cigar, stepped forward, had a careless look at Dinny, and gave some + order to the attendants. The Flour went to the door, turned half round as + he went out, and shook his fist at them again, and said— + </p> + <p> + ‘“If you let that lovely man die—mind!” + </p> + <p> + ‘In about twenty minutes he came back, wheeling a case of whisky in a + barrow. He carried the case inside, and dumped it down on the floor. + </p> + <p> + ‘“There,” he said, “pour that into the lovely man.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Then he shook his fist at such members of the staff as were visible, and + said— + </p> + <p> + ‘“If you let that lovely man die—look out!” + </p> + <p> + ‘They were used to hard-cases, and didn’t take much notice of him, but he + had the hospital in an awful mess; he was there all hours of the day and + night; he would go down town, have a few drinks and a fight maybe, and + then he’d say, “Ah, well, I’ll have to go up and see how me lovely mate’s + getting on.” + </p> + <p> + ‘And every time he’d go up he’d shake his fist at the hospital in general + and threaten to murder ‘em all if they let Dinny Murphy die. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Dinny Murphy died one night. The next morning the Flour met the + doctor in the street, and hauled off and hit him between the eyes, and + knocked him down before he had time to see who it was. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Stay there, ye little whipper-snapper,” said the Flour of Wheat; “you + let that lovely man die!” + </p> + <p> + ‘The police happened to be out of town that day, and while they were + waiting for them the Flour got a coffin and carried it up to the hospital, + and stood it on end by the doorway. + </p> + <p> + ‘“I’ve come for me lovely mate!” he said to the scared staff—or as + much of it as he baled up and couldn’t escape him. “Hand him over. He’s + going back to be buried with his friends at Th’ Canary. Now, don’t be + sneaking round and sidling off, you there; you needn’t be frightened; I’ve + settled with the doctor.” + </p> + <p> + ‘But they called in a man who had some influence with the Flour, and + between them—and with the assistance of the prettiest nurse on the + premises—they persuaded him to wait. Dinny wasn’t ready yet; there + were papers to sign; it wouldn’t be decent to the dead; he had to be + prayed over; he had to be washed and shaved, and fixed up decent and + comfortable. Anyway, they’d have him ready in an hour, or take the + consequences. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Flour objected on the ground that all this could be done equally as + well and better by the boys at Th’ Canary. “However,” he said, “I’ll be + round in an hour, and if you haven’t got me lovely mate ready—look + out!” Then he shook his fist sternly at them once more and said— + </p> + <p> + ‘“I know yer dirty tricks and dodges, and if there’s e’er a pin-scratch on + me mate’s body—look out! If there’s a pairin’ of Dinny’s toe-nail + missin’—look out!” + </p> + <p> + ‘Then he went out—taking the coffin with him. + </p> + <p> + ‘And when the police came to his lodgings to arrest him, they found the + coffin on the floor by the side of the bed, and the Flour lying in it on + his back, with his arms folded peacefully on his bosom. He was as dead + drunk as any man could get to be and still be alive. They knocked + air-holes in the coffin-lid, screwed it on, and carried the coffin, the + Flour, and all to the local lock-up. They laid their burden down on the + bare, cold floor of the prison-cell, and then went out, locked the door, + and departed several ways to put the “boys” up to it. And about midnight + the “boys” gathered round with a supply of liquor, and waited, and + somewhere along in the small hours there was a howl, as of a strong + Irishman in Purgatory, and presently the voice of the Flour was heard to + plead in changed and awful tones— + </p> + <p> + ‘“Pray for me soul, boys—pray for me soul! Let bygones be bygones + between us, boys, and pray for me lovely soul! The lovely Flour’s in + Purgatory!” + </p> + <p> + ‘Then silence for a while; and then a sound like a dray-wheel passing over + a packing-case.... That was the only time on record that the Flour was + heard to swear. And he swore then. + </p> + <p> + ‘They didn’t pray for him—they gave him a month. And, when he came + out, he went half-way across the road to meet the doctor, and he—to + his credit, perhaps—came the other half. They had a drink together, + and the Flour presented the doctor with a fine specimen of coarse gold for + a pin. + </p> + <p> + ‘“It was the will o’ God, after all, doctor,” said the Flour. “It was the + will o’ God. Let bygones be bygones between us; gimme your hand, + doctor.... Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + ‘Then he left for Th’ Canary.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Babies in the Bush. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Oh, tell her a tale of the fairies bright— + That only the Bushmen know— + Who guide the feet of the lost aright, + Or carry them up through the starry night, + Where the Bush-lost babies go.’ +</pre> + <p> + He was one of those men who seldom smile. There are many in the Australian + Bush, where drift wrecks and failures of all stations and professions (and + of none), and from all the world. Or, if they do smile, the smile is + either mechanical or bitter as a rule—cynical. They seldom talk. The + sort of men who, as bosses, are set down by the majority—and without + reason or evidence—as being proud, hard, and selfish,—‘too + mean to live, and too big for their boots.’ + </p> + <p> + But when the Boss did smile his expression was very, very gentle, and very + sad. I have seen him smile down on a little child who persisted in sitting + on his knee and prattling to him, in spite of his silence and gloom. He + was tall and gaunt, with haggard grey eyes—haunted grey eyes + sometimes—and hair and beard thick and strong, but grey. He was not + above forty-five. He was of the type of men who die in harness, with their + hair thick and strong, but grey or white when it should be brown. The + opposite type, I fancy, would be the soft, dark-haired, blue-eyed men who + grow bald sooner than they grow grey, and fat and contented, and die + respectably in their beds. + </p> + <p> + His name was Head—Walter Head. He was a boss drover on the overland + routes. I engaged with him at a place north of the Queensland border to + travel down to Bathurst, on the Great Western Line in New South Wales, + with something over a thousand head of store bullocks for the Sydney + market. I am an Australian Bushman (with city experience)—a rover, + of course, and a ne’er-do-well, I suppose. I was born with brains and a + thin skin—worse luck! It was in the days before I was married, and I + went by the name of ‘Jack Ellis’ this trip,—not because the police + were after me, but because I used to tell yarns about a man named Jack + Ellis—and so the chaps nicknamed me. + </p> + <p> + The Boss spoke little to the men: he’d sit at tucker or with his pipe by + the camp-fire nearly as silently as he rode his night-watch round the big, + restless, weird-looking mob of bullocks camped on the dusky starlit plain. + I believe that from the first he spoke oftener and more confidentially to + me than to any other of the droving party. There was a something of + sympathy between us—I can’t explain what it was. It seemed as though + it were an understood thing between us that we understood each other. He + sometimes said things to me which would have needed a deal of explanation—so + I thought—had he said them to any other of the party. He’d often, + after brooding a long while, start a sentence, and break off with ‘You + know, Jack.’ And somehow I understood, without being able to explain why. + We had never met before I engaged with him for this trip. His men + respected him, but he was not a popular boss: he was too gloomy, and never + drank a glass nor ‘shouted’ on the trip: he was reckoned a ‘mean boss’, + and rather a nigger-driver. + </p> + <p> + He was full of Adam Lindsay Gordon, the English-Australian poet who shot + himself, and so was I. I lost an old copy of Gordon’s poems on the route, + and the Boss overheard me inquiring about it; later on he asked me if I + liked Gordon. We got to it rather sheepishly at first, but by-and-by we’d + quote Gordon freely in turn when we were alone in camp. ‘Those are grand + lines about Burke and Wills, the explorers, aren’t they, Jack?’ he’d say, + after chewing his cud, or rather the stem of his briar, for a long while + without a word. (He had his pipe in his mouth as often as any of us, but + somehow I fancied he didn’t enjoy it: an empty pipe or a stick would have + suited him just as well, it seemed to me.) ‘Those are great lines,’ he’d + say— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘“In Collins Street standeth a statue tall— + A statue tall on a pillar of stone— + Telling its story to great and small + Of the dust reclaimed from the sand-waste lone. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Weary and wasted, worn and wan, + Feeble and faint, and languid and low, + He lay on the desert a dying man, + Who has gone, my friends, where we all must go.” + + That’s a grand thing, Jack. How does it go?— + “With a pistol clenched in his failing hand, + And the film of death o’er his fading eyes, + He saw the sun go down on the sand,”’— + + The Boss would straighten up with a sigh that might have been half a yawn— + ‘“And he slept and never saw it rise,”’ + —speaking with a sort of quiet force all the time. + Then maybe he’d stand with his back to the fire roasting his dusty leggings, + with his hands behind his back and looking out over the dusky plain. + + ‘“What mattered the sand or the whit’ning chalk, + The blighted herbage or blackened log, + The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk, + Or the hot red tongue of the native dog?” + </pre> + <p> + They don’t matter much, do they, Jack?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Damned if I think they do, Boss!’ I’d say. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘“The couch was rugged, those sextons rude, + But, in spite of a leaden shroud, we know + That the bravest and fairest are earth-worms’ food + Where once they have gone where we all must go.”’ +</pre> + <p> + Once he repeated the poem containing the lines— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘“Love, when we wandered here together, + Hand in hand through the sparkling weather— + God surely loved us a little then.” + </pre> + <p> + Beautiful lines those, Jack. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Then skies were fairer and shores were firmer, + And the blue sea over the white sand rolled— + Babble and prattle, and prattle and murmur’— +</pre> + <p> + How does it go, Jack?’ He stood up and turned his face to the light, but + not before I had a glimpse of it. I think that the saddest eyes on earth + are mostly women’s eyes, but I’ve seen few so sad as the Boss’s were just + then. + </p> + <p> + It seemed strange that he, a Bushman, preferred Gordon’s sea poems to his + horsey and bushy rhymes; but so he did. I fancy his favourite poem was + that one of Gordon’s with the lines— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘I would that with sleepy soft embraces + The sea would fold me, would find me rest + In the luminous depths of its secret places, + Where the wealth of God’s marvels is manifest!’ +</pre> + <p> + He usually spoke quietly, in a tone as though death were in camp; but + after we’d been on Gordon’s poetry for a while he’d end it abruptly with, + ‘Well, it’s time to turn in,’ or, ‘It’s time to turn out,’ or he’d give me + an order in connection with the cattle. He had been a well-to-do squatter + on the Lachlan river-side, in New South Wales, and had been ruined by the + drought, they said. One night in camp, and after smoking in silence for + nearly an hour, he asked— + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you know Fisher, Jack—the man that owns these bullocks?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve heard of him,’ I said. Fisher was a big squatter, with stations both + in New South Wales and in Queensland. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, he came to my station on the Lachlan years ago without a penny in + his pocket, or decent rag to his back, or a crust in his tucker-bag, and I + gave him a job. He’s my boss now. Ah, well! it’s the way of Australia, you + know, Jack.’ + </p> + <p> + The Boss had one man who went on every droving trip with him; he was + ‘bred’ on the Boss’s station, they said, and had been with him practically + all his life. His name was ‘Andy’. I forget his other name, if he really + had one. Andy had charge of the ‘droving-plant’ (a tilted two-horse + waggonette, in which we carried the rations and horse-feed), and he did + the cooking and kept accounts. The Boss had no head for figures. Andy + might have been twenty-five or thirty-five, or anything in between. His + hair stuck up like a well-made brush all round, and his big grey eyes also + had an inquiring expression. His weakness was girls, or he theirs, I don’t + know which (half-castes not barred). He was, I think, the most innocent, + good-natured, and open-hearted scamp I ever met. Towards the middle of the + trip Andy spoke to me one night alone in camp about the Boss. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Boss seems to have taken to you, Jack, all right.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Think so?’ I said. I thought I smelt jealousy and detected a sneer. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sure of it. It’s very seldom HE takes to any one.’ + </p> + <p> + I said nothing. + </p> + <p> + Then after a while Andy said suddenly— + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Jack, I’m glad of it. I’d like to see him make a chum of some + one, if only for one trip. And don’t you make any mistake about the Boss. + He’s a white man. There’s precious few that know him—precious few + now; but I do, and it’ll do him a lot of good to have some one to yarn + with.’ And Andy said no more on the subject for that trip. + </p> + <p> + The long, hot, dusty miles dragged by across the blazing plains—big + clearings rather—and through the sweltering hot scrubs, and we + reached Bathurst at last; and then the hot dusty days and weeks and months + that we’d left behind us to the Great North-West seemed as nothing,—as + I suppose life will seem when we come to the end of it. + </p> + <p> + The bullocks were going by rail from Bathurst to Sydney. We were all one + long afternoon getting them into the trucks, and when we’d finished the + boss said to me— + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Jack, you’re going on to Sydney, aren’t you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; I’m going down to have a fly round.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, why not wait and go down with Andy in the morning? He’s going down + in charge of the cattle. The cattle-train starts about daylight. It won’t + be so comfortable as the passenger; but you’ll save your fare, and you can + give Andy a hand with the cattle. You’ve only got to have a look at ‘em + every other station, and poke up any that fall down in the trucks. You and + Andy are mates, aren’t you?’ + </p> + <p> + I said it would just suit me. Somehow I fancied that the Boss seemed + anxious to have my company for one more evening, and, to tell the truth, I + felt really sorry to part with him. I’d had to work as hard as any of the + other chaps; but I liked him, and I believed he liked me. He’d struck me + as a man who’d been quietened down by some heavy trouble, and I felt sorry + for him without knowing what the trouble was. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come and have a drink, Boss,’ I said. The agent had paid us off during + the day. + </p> + <p> + He turned into a hotel with me. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t drink, Jack,’ he said; ‘but I’ll take a glass with you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t know you were a teetotaller, Boss,’ I said. I had not been + surprised at his keeping so strictly from the drink on the trip; but now + that it was over it was a different thing. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not a teetotaller, Jack,’ he said. ‘I can take a glass or leave it.’ + And he called for a long beer, and we drank ‘Here’s luck!’ to each other. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I wish I could take a glass or leave it.’ And I meant it. + </p> + <p> + Then the Boss spoke as I’d never heard him speak before. I thought for the + moment that the one drink had affected him; but I understood before the + night was over. He laid his hand on my shoulder with a grip like a man who + has suddenly made up his mind to lend you five pounds. ‘Jack!’ he said, + ‘there’s worse things than drinking, and there’s worse things than heavy + smoking. When a man who smokes gets such a load of trouble on him that he + can find no comfort in his pipe, then it’s a heavy load. And when a man + who drinks gets so deep into trouble that he can find no comfort in + liquor, then it’s deep trouble. Take my tip for it, Jack.’ + </p> + <p> + He broke off, and half turned away with a jerk of his head, as if + impatient with himself; then presently he spoke in his usual quiet tone— + </p> + <p> + ‘But you’re only a boy yet, Jack. Never mind me. I won’t ask you to take + the second drink. You don’t want it; and, besides, I know the signs.’ + </p> + <p> + He paused, leaning with both hands on the edge of the counter, and looking + down between his arms at the floor. He stood that way thinking for a + while; then he suddenly straightened up, like a man who’d made up his mind + to something. + </p> + <p> + ‘I want you to come along home with me, Jack,’ he said; ‘we’ll fix you a + shake-down.’ + </p> + <p> + I forgot to tell you that he was married and lived in Bathurst. + </p> + <p> + ‘But won’t it put Mrs Head about?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not at all. She’s expecting you. Come along; there’s nothing to see in + Bathurst, and you’ll have plenty of knocking round in Sydney. Come on, + we’ll just be in time for tea.’ + </p> + <p> + He lived in a brick cottage on the outskirts of the town—an + old-fashioned cottage, with ivy and climbing roses, like you see in some + of those old settled districts. There was, I remember, the stump of a tree + in front, covered with ivy till it looked like a giant’s club with the + thick end up. + </p> + <p> + When we got to the house the Boss paused a minute with his hand on the + gate. He’d been home a couple of days, having ridden in ahead of the + bullocks. + </p> + <p> + ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘I must tell you that Mrs Head had a great trouble at one + time. We—we lost our two children. It does her good to talk to a + stranger now and again—she’s always better afterwards; but there’s + very few I care to bring. You—you needn’t notice anything strange. + And agree with her, Jack. You know, Jack.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s all right, Boss,’ I said. I’d knocked about the Bush too long, and + run against too many strange characters and things, to be surprised at + anything much. + </p> + <p> + The door opened, and he took a little woman in his arms. I saw by the + light of a lamp in the room behind that the woman’s hair was grey, and I + reckoned that he had his mother living with him. And—we do have odd + thoughts at odd times in a flash—and I wondered how Mrs Head and her + mother-in-law got on together. But the next minute I was in the room, and + introduced to ‘My wife, Mrs Head,’ and staring at her with both eyes. + </p> + <p> + It was his wife. I don’t think I can describe her. For the first minute or + two, coming in out of the dark and before my eyes got used to the + lamp-light, I had an impression as of a little old woman—one of + those fresh-faced, well-preserved, little old ladies—who dressed + young, wore false teeth, and aped the giddy girl. But this was because of + Mrs Head’s impulsive welcome of me, and her grey hair. The hair was not so + grey as I thought at first, seeing it with the lamp-light behind it: it + was like dull-brown hair lightly dusted with flour. She wore it short, and + it became her that way. There was something aristocratic about her face—her + nose and chin—I fancied, and something that you couldn’t describe. + She had big dark eyes—dark-brown, I thought, though they might have + been hazel: they were a bit too big and bright for me, and now and again, + when she got excited, the white showed all round the pupils—just a + little, but a little was enough. + </p> + <p> + She seemed extra glad to see me. I thought at first that she was a bit of + a gusher. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come, Mr Ellis,’ she said, giving my hand a grip. + ‘Walter—Mr Head—has been speaking to me about you. I’ve been + expecting you. Sit down by the fire, Mr Ellis; tea will be ready + presently. Don’t you find it a bit chilly?’ She shivered. It was a bit + chilly now at night on the Bathurst plains. The table was set for tea, and + set rather in swell style. The cottage was too well furnished even for a + lucky boss drover’s home; the furniture looked as if it had belonged to a + tony homestead at one time. I felt a bit strange at first, sitting down to + tea, and almost wished that I was having a comfortable tuck-in at a + restaurant or in a pub. dining-room. But she knew a lot about the Bush, + and chatted away, and asked questions about the trip, and soon put me at + my ease. You see, for the last year or two I’d taken my tucker in my + hands,—hunk of damper and meat and a clasp-knife mostly,—sitting + on my heel in the dust, or on a log or a tucker-box. + </p> + <p> + There was a hard, brown, wrinkled old woman that the Heads called + ‘Auntie’. She waited at the table; but Mrs Head kept bustling round + herself most of the time, helping us. Andy came in to tea. + </p> + <p> + Mrs Head bustled round like a girl of twenty instead of a woman of + thirty-seven, as Andy afterwards told me she was. She had the figure and + movements of a girl, and the impulsiveness and expression too—a + womanly girl; but sometimes I fancied there was something very childish + about her face and talk. After tea she and the Boss sat on one side of the + fire and Andy and I on the other—Andy a little behind me at the + corner of the table. + </p> + <p> + ‘Walter—Mr Head—tells me you’ve been out on the Lachlan river, + Mr Ellis?’ she said as soon as she’d settled down, and she leaned forward, + as if eager to hear that I’d been there. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, Mrs Head. I’ve knocked round all about out there.’ + </p> + <p> + She sat up straight, and put the tips of her fingers to the side of her + forehead and knitted her brows. This was a trick she had—she often + did it during the evening. And when she did that she seemed to forget what + she’d said last. + </p> + <p> + She smoothed her forehead, and clasped her hands in her lap. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I’m so glad to meet somebody from the back country, Mr Ellis,’ she + said. ‘Walter so seldom brings a stranger here, and I get tired of talking + to the same people about the same things, and seeing the same faces. You + don’t know what a relief it is, Mr Ellis, to see a new face and talk to a + stranger.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can quite understand that, Mrs Head,’ I said. And so I could. I never + stayed more than three months in one place if I could help it. + </p> + <p> + She looked into the fire and seemed to try to think. The Boss straightened + up and stroked her head with his big sun-browned hand, and then put his + arm round her shoulders. This brought her back. + </p> + <p> + ‘You know we had a station out on the Lachlan, Mr Ellis. Did Walter ever + tell you about the time we lived there?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I said, glancing at the Boss. ‘I know you had a station there; but, + you know, the Boss doesn’t talk much.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell Jack, Maggie,’ said the Boss; ‘I don’t mind.’ + </p> + <p> + She smiled. ‘You know Walter, Mr Ellis,’ she said. ‘You won’t mind him. He + doesn’t like me to talk about the children; he thinks it upsets me, but + that’s foolish: it always relieves me to talk to a stranger.’ She leaned + forward, eagerly it seemed, and went on quickly: ‘I’ve been wanting to + tell you about the children ever since Walter spoke to me about you. I + knew you would understand directly I saw your face. These town people + don’t understand. I like to talk to a Bushman. You know we lost our + children out on the station. The fairies took them. Did Walter ever tell + you about the fairies taking the children away?’ + </p> + <p> + This was a facer. ‘I—I beg pardon,’ I commenced, when Andy gave me a + dig in the back. Then I saw it all. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Mrs Head. The Boss didn’t tell me about that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You surely know about the Bush Fairies, Mr Ellis,’ she said, her big eyes + fixed on my face—‘the Bush Fairies that look after the little ones + that are lost in the Bush, and take them away from the Bush if they are + not found? You’ve surely heard of them, Mr Ellis? Most Bushmen have that + I’ve spoken to. Maybe you’ve seen them? Andy there has?’ Andy gave me + another dig. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course I’ve heard of them, Mrs Head,’ I said; ‘but I can’t swear that + I’ve seen one.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Andy has. Haven’t you, Andy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course I have, Mrs Head. Didn’t I tell you all about it the last time + we were home?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And didn’t you ever tell Mr Ellis, Andy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course he did!’ I said, coming to Andy’s rescue; ‘I remember it now. + You told me that night we camped on the Bogan river, Andy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course!’ said Andy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did he tell you about finding a lost child and the fairy with it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Andy; ‘I told him all about that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And the fairy was just going to take the child away when Andy found it, + and when the fairy saw Andy she flew away.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I said; ‘that’s what Andy told me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what did you say the fairy was like, Andy?’ asked Mrs Head, fixing + her eyes on his face. + </p> + <p> + ‘Like. It was like one of them angels you see in Bible pictures, Mrs + Head,’ said Andy promptly, sitting bolt upright, and keeping his big + innocent grey eyes fixed on hers lest she might think he was telling lies. + ‘It was just like the angel in that Christ-in-the-stable picture we had at + home on the station—the right-hand one in blue.’ + </p> + <p> + She smiled. You couldn’t call it an idiotic smile, nor the foolish smile + you see sometimes in melancholy mad people. It was more of a happy + childish smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was so foolish at first, and gave poor Walter and the doctors a lot of + trouble,’ she said. ‘Of course it never struck me, until afterwards, that + the fairies had taken the children.’ + </p> + <p> + She pressed the tips of the fingers of both hands to her forehead, and sat + so for a while; then she roused herself again— + </p> + <p> + ‘But what am I thinking about? I haven’t started to tell you about the + children at all yet. Auntie! bring the children’s portraits, will you, + please? You’ll find them on my dressing-table.’ + </p> + <p> + The old woman seemed to hesitate. + </p> + <p> + ‘Go on, Auntie, and do what I ask you,’ said Mrs Head. ‘Don’t be foolish. + You know I’m all right now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mustn’t take any notice of Auntie, Mr Ellis,’ she said with a smile, + while the old woman’s back was turned. ‘Poor old body, she’s a bit + crotchety at times, as old women are. She doesn’t like me to get talking + about the children. She’s got an idea that if I do I’ll start talking + nonsense, as I used to do the first year after the children were lost. I + was very foolish then, wasn’t I, Walter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You were, Maggie,’ said the Boss. ‘But that’s all past. You mustn’t think + of that time any more.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You see,’ said Mrs Head, in explanation to me, ‘at first nothing would + drive it out of my head that the children had wandered about until they + perished of hunger and thirst in the Bush. As if the Bush Fairies would + let them do that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You were very foolish, Maggie,’ said the Boss; ‘but don’t think about + that.’ + </p> + <p> + The old woman brought the portraits, a little boy and a little girl: they + must have been very pretty children. + </p> + <p> + ‘You see,’ said Mrs Head, taking the portraits eagerly, and giving them to + me one by one, ‘we had these taken in Sydney some years before the + children were lost; they were much younger then. Wally’s is not a good + portrait; he was teething then, and very thin. That’s him standing on the + chair. Isn’t the pose good? See, he’s got one hand and one little foot + forward, and an eager look in his eyes. The portrait is very dark, and + you’ve got to look close to see the foot. He wants a toy rabbit that the + photographer is tossing up to make him laugh. In the next portrait he’s + sitting on the chair—he’s just settled himself to enjoy the fun. But + see how happy little Maggie looks! You can see my arm where I was holding + her in the chair. She was six months old then, and little Wally had just + turned two.’ + </p> + <p> + She put the portraits up on the mantel-shelf. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let me see; Wally (that’s little Walter, you know)—Wally was five + and little Maggie three and a half when we lost them. Weren’t they, + Walter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, Maggie,’ said the Boss. + </p> + <p> + ‘You were away, Walter, when it happened.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, Maggie,’ said the Boss—cheerfully, it seemed to me—‘I + was away.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And we couldn’t find you, Walter. You see,’ she said to me, ‘Walter—Mr + Head—was away in Sydney on business, and we couldn’t find his + address. It was a beautiful morning, though rather warm, and just after + the break-up of the drought. The grass was knee-high all over the run. It + was a lonely place; there wasn’t much bush cleared round the homestead, + just a hundred yards or so, and the great awful scrubs ran back from the + edges of the clearing all round for miles and miles—fifty or a + hundred miles in some directions without a break; didn’t they, Walter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, Maggie.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was alone at the house except for Mary, a half-caste girl we had, who + used to help me with the housework and the children. Andy was out on the + run with the men, mustering sheep; weren’t you, Andy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, Mrs Head.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I used to watch the children close as they got to run about, because if + they once got into the edge of the scrub they’d be lost; but this morning + little Wally begged hard to be let take his little sister down under a + clump of blue-gums in a corner of the home paddock to gather buttercups. + You remember that clump of gums, Walter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I remember, Maggie.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘“I won’t go through the fence a step, mumma,” little Wally said. I could + see Old Peter—an old shepherd and station-hand we had—I could + see him working on a dam we were making across a creek that ran down + there. You remember Old Peter, Walter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course I do, Maggie.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I knew that Old Peter would keep an eye to the children; so I told little + Wally to keep tight hold of his sister’s hand and go straight down to Old + Peter and tell him I sent them.’ + </p> + <p> + She was leaning forward with her hands clasping her knee, and telling me + all this with a strange sort of eagerness. + </p> + <p> + ‘The little ones toddled off hand in hand, with their other hands holding + fast their straw hats. “In case a bad wind blowed,” as little Maggie said. + I saw them stoop under the first fence, and that was the last that any one + saw of them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Except the fairies, Maggie,’ said the Boss quickly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course, Walter, except the fairies.’ + </p> + <p> + She pressed her fingers to her temples again for a minute. + </p> + <p> + ‘It seems that Old Peter was going to ride out to the musterers’ camp that + morning with bread for the men, and he left his work at the dam and + started into the Bush after his horse just as I turned back into the + house, and before the children got near him. They either followed him for + some distance or wandered into the Bush after flowers or butterflies——’ + She broke off, and then suddenly asked me, ‘Do you think the Bush Fairies + would entice children away, Mr Ellis?’ + </p> + <p> + The Boss caught my eye, and frowned and shook his head slightly. + </p> + <p> + ‘No. I’m sure they wouldn’t, Mrs Head,’ I said—‘at least not from + what I know of them.’ + </p> + <p> + She thought, or tried to think, again for a while, in her helpless puzzled + way. Then she went on, speaking rapidly, and rather mechanically, it + seemed to me— + </p> + <p> + ‘The first I knew of it was when Peter came to the house about an hour + afterwards, leading his horse, and without the children. I said—I + said, “O my God! where’s the children?”’ Her fingers fluttered up to her + temples. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t mind about that, Maggie,’ said the Boss, hurriedly, stroking her + head. ‘Tell Jack about the fairies.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You were away at the time, Walter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, Maggie.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And we couldn’t find you, Walter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Maggie,’ very gently. He rested his elbow on his knee and his chin on + his hand, and looked into the fire. + </p> + <p> + ‘It wasn’t your fault, Walter; but if you had been at home do you think + the fairies would have taken the children?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course they would, Maggie. They had to: the children were lost.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And they’re bringing the children home next year?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, Maggie—next year.’ + </p> + <p> + She lifted her hands to her head in a startled way, and it was some time + before she went on again. There was no need to tell me about the lost + children. I could see it all. She and the half-caste rushing towards where + the children were seen last, with Old Peter after them. The hurried search + in the nearer scrub. The mother calling all the time for Maggie and Wally, + and growing wilder as the minutes flew past. Old Peter’s ride to the + musterers’ camp. Horsemen seeming to turn up in no time and from nowhere, + as they do in a case like this, and no matter how lonely the district. + Bushmen galloping through the scrub in all directions. The hurried search + the first day, and the mother mad with anxiety as night came on. Her long, + hopeless, wild-eyed watch through the night; starting up at every sound of + a horse’s hoof, and reading the worst in one glance at the rider’s face. + The systematic work of the search-parties next day and the days following. + How those days do fly past. The women from the next run or selection, and + some from the town, driving from ten or twenty miles, perhaps, to stay + with and try to comfort the mother. (‘Put the horse to the cart, Jim: I + must go to that poor woman!’) Comforting her with improbable stories of + children who had been lost for days, and were none the worse for it when + they were found. The mounted policemen out with the black trackers. + Search-parties cooeeing to each other about the Bush, and lighting + signal-fires. The reckless break-neck rides for news or more help. And the + Boss himself, wild-eyed and haggard, riding about the Bush with Andy and + one or two others perhaps, and searching hopelessly, days after the rest + had given up all hope of finding the children alive. All this passed + before me as Mrs Head talked, her voice sounding the while as if she were + in another room; and when I roused myself to listen, she was on to the + fairies again. + </p> + <p> + ‘It was very foolish of me, Mr Ellis. Weeks after—months after, I + think—I’d insist on going out on the verandah at dusk and calling + for the children. I’d stand there and call “Maggie!” and “Wally!” until + Walter took me inside; sometimes he had to force me inside. Poor Walter! + But of course I didn’t know about the fairies then, Mr Ellis. I was really + out of my mind for a time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No wonder you were, Mrs Head,’ I said. ‘It was terrible trouble.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, and I made it worse. I was so selfish in my trouble. But it’s all + right now, Walter,’ she said, rumpling the Boss’s hair. ‘I’ll never be so + foolish again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course you won’t, Maggie.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We’re very happy now, aren’t we, Walter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course we are, Maggie.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And the children are coming back next year.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Next year, Maggie.’ + </p> + <p> + He leaned over the fire and stirred it up. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mustn’t take any notice of us, Mr Ellis,’ she went on. ‘Poor Walter + is away so much that I’m afraid I make a little too much of him when he + does come home.’ + </p> + <p> + She paused and pressed her fingers to her temples again. Then she said + quickly— + </p> + <p> + ‘They used to tell me that it was all nonsense about the fairies, but they + were no friends of mine. I shouldn’t have listened to them, Walter. You + told me not to. But then I was really not in my right mind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who used to tell you that, Mrs Head?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Voices,’ she said; ‘you know about the Voices, Walter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, Maggie. But you don’t hear the Voices now, Maggie?’ he asked + anxiously. ‘You haven’t heard them since I’ve been away this time, have + you, Maggie?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Walter. They’ve gone away a long time. I hear voices now sometimes, + but they’re the Bush Fairies’ voices. I hear them calling Maggie and Wally + to come with them.’ She paused again. ‘And sometimes I think I hear them + call me. But of course I couldn’t go away without you, Walter. But I’m + foolish again. I was going to ask you about the other voices, Mr Ellis. + They used to say that it was madness about the fairies; but then, if the + fairies hadn’t taken the children, Black Jimmy, or the black trackers with + the police, could have tracked and found them at once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course they could, Mrs Head,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘They said that the trackers couldn’t track them because there was rain a + few hours after the children were lost. But that was ridiculous. It was + only a thunderstorm.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why!’ I said, ‘I’ve known the blacks to track a man after a week’s heavy + rain.’ + </p> + <p> + She had her head between her fingers again, and when she looked up it was + in a scared way. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Walter!’ she said, clutching the Boss’s arm; ‘whatever have I been + talking about? What must Mr Ellis think of me? Oh! why did you let me talk + like that?’ + </p> + <p> + He put his arm round her. Andy nudged me and got up. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where are you going, Mr Ellis?’ she asked hurriedly. ‘You’re not going + to-night. Auntie’s made a bed for you in Andy’s room. You mustn’t mind + me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Jack and Andy are going out for a little while,’ said the Boss. ‘They’ll + be in to supper. We’ll have a yarn, Maggie.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Be sure you come back to supper, Mr Ellis,’ she said. ‘I really don’t + know what you must think of me,—I’ve been talking all the time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I’ve enjoyed myself, Mrs Head,’ I said; and Andy hooked me out. + </p> + <p> + ‘She’ll have a good cry and be better now,’ said Andy when we got away + from the house. ‘She might be better for months. She has been fairly + reasonable for over a year, but the Boss found her pretty bad when he came + back this time. It upset him a lot, I can tell you. She has turns now and + again, and always ends up like she did just now. She gets a longing to + talk about it to a Bushman and a stranger; it seems to do her good. The + doctor’s against it, but doctors don’t know everything.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s all true about the children, then?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s cruel true,’ said Andy. + </p> + <p> + ‘And were the bodies never found?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes;’ then, after a long pause, ‘I found them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You did!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; in the scrub, and not so very far from home either—and in a + fairly clear space. It’s a wonder the search-parties missed it; but it + often happens that way. Perhaps the little ones wandered a long way and + came round in a circle. I found them about two months after they were + lost. They had to be found, if only for the Boss’s sake. You see, in a + case like this, and when the bodies aren’t found, the parents never quite + lose the idea that the little ones are wandering about the Bush to-night + (it might be years after) and perishing from hunger, thirst, or cold. That + mad idea haunts ‘em all their lives. It’s the same, I believe, with + friends drowned at sea. Friends ashore are haunted for a long while with + the idea of the white sodden corpse tossing about and drifting round in + the water.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you never told Mrs Head about the children being found?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not for a long time. It wouldn’t have done any good. She was raving mad + for months. He took her to Sydney and then to Melbourne—to the best + doctors he could find in Australia. They could do no good, so he sold the + station—sacrificed everything, and took her to England.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To England?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; and then to Germany to a big German doctor there. He’d offer a + thousand pounds where they only wanted fifty. It was no good. She got + worse in England, and raved to go back to Australia and find the children. + The doctors advised him to take her back, and he did. He spent all his + money, travelling saloon, and with reserved cabins, and a nurse, and + trying to get her cured; that’s why he’s droving now. She was restless in + Sydney. She wanted to go back to the station and wait there till the + fairies brought the children home. She’d been getting the fairy idea into + her head slowly all the time. The Boss encouraged it. But the station was + sold, and he couldn’t have lived there anyway without going mad himself. + He’d married her from Bathurst. Both of them have got friends and + relations here, so he thought best to bring her here. He persuaded her + that the fairies were going to bring the children here. Everybody’s very + kind to them. I think it’s a mistake to run away from a town where you’re + known, in a case like this, though most people do it. It was years before + he gave up hope. I think he has hopes yet—after she’s been fairly + well for a longish time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you never tried telling her that the children were found?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; the Boss did. The little ones were buried on the Lachlan river at + first; but the Boss got a horror of having them buried in the Bush, so he + had them brought to Sydney and buried in the Waverley Cemetery near the + sea. He bought the ground, and room for himself and Maggie when they go + out. It’s all the ground he owns in wide Australia, and once he had + thousands of acres. He took her to the grave one day. The doctors were + against it; but he couldn’t rest till he tried it. He took her out, and + explained it all to her. She scarcely seemed interested. She read the + names on the stone, and said it was a nice stone, and asked questions + about how the children were found and brought here. She seemed quite + sensible, and very cool about it. But when he got her home she was back on + the fairy idea again. He tried another day, but it was no use; so then he + let it be. I think it’s better as it is. Now and again, at her best, she + seems to understand that the children were found dead, and buried, and + she’ll talk sensibly about it, and ask questions in a quiet way, and make + him promise to take her to Sydney to see the grave next time he’s down. + But it doesn’t last long, and she’s always worse afterwards.’ + </p> + <p> + We turned into a bar and had a beer. It was a very quiet drink. Andy + ‘shouted’ in his turn, and while I was drinking the second beer a thought + struck me. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Boss was away when the children were lost?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Andy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Strange you couldn’t find him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it was strange; but HE’LL have to tell you about that. Very likely + he will; it’s either all or nothing with him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I feel damned sorry for the Boss,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’d be sorrier if you knew all,’ said Andy. ‘It’s the worst trouble + that can happen to a man. It’s like living with the dead. It’s—it’s + like a man living with his dead wife.’ + </p> + <p> + When we went home supper was ready. We found Mrs Head, bright and + cheerful, bustling round. You’d have thought her one of the happiest and + brightest little women in Australia. Not a word about children or the + fairies. She knew the Bush, and asked me all about my trips. She told some + good Bush stories too. It was the pleasantest hour I’d spent for a long + time. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good night, Mr Ellis,’ she said brightly, shaking hands with me when Andy + and I were going to turn in. ‘And don’t forget your pipe. Here it is! I + know that Bushmen like to have a whiff or two when they turn in. Walter + smokes in bed. I don’t mind. You can smoke all night if you like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She seems all right,’ I said to Andy when we were in our room. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head mournfully. We’d left the door ajar, and we could hear + the Boss talking to her quietly. Then we heard her speak; she had a very + clear voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I’ll tell you the truth, Walter. I’ve been deceiving you, Walter, + all the time, but I did it for the best. Don’t be angry with me, Walter! + The Voices did come back while you were away. Oh, how I longed for you to + come back! They haven’t come since you’ve been home, Walter. You must stay + with me a while now. Those awful Voices kept calling me, and telling me + lies about the children, Walter! They told me to kill myself; they told me + it was all my own fault—that I killed the children. They said I was + a drag on you, and they’d laugh—Ha! ha! ha!—like that. They’d + say, “Come on, Maggie; come on, Maggie.” They told me to come to the + river, Walter.’ + </p> + <p> + Andy closed the door. His face was very miserable. + </p> + <p> + We turned in, and I can tell you I enjoyed a soft white bed after months + and months of sleeping out at night, between watches, on the hard ground + or the sand, or at best on a few boughs when I wasn’t too tired to pull + them down, and my saddle for a pillow. + </p> + <p> + But the story of the children haunted me for an hour or two. I’ve never + since quite made up my mind as to why the Boss took me home. Probably he + really did think it would do his wife good to talk to a stranger; perhaps + he wanted me to understand—maybe he was weakening as he grew older, + and craved for a new word or hand-grip of sympathy now and then. + </p> + <p> + When I did get to sleep I could have slept for three or four days, but + Andy roused me out about four o’clock. The old woman that they called + Auntie was up and had a good breakfast of eggs and bacon and coffee ready + in the detached kitchen at the back. We moved about on tiptoe and had our + breakfast quietly. + </p> + <p> + ‘The wife made me promise to wake her to see to our breakfast and say + Good-bye to you; but I want her to sleep this morning, Jack,’ said the + Boss. ‘I’m going to walk down as far as the station with you. She made up + a parcel of fruit and sandwiches for you and Andy. Don’t forget it.’ + </p> + <p> + Andy went on ahead. The Boss and I walked down the wide silent street, + which was also the main road; and we walked two or three hundred yards + without speaking. He didn’t seem sociable this morning, or any way + sentimental; when he did speak it was something about the cattle. + </p> + <p> + But I had to speak; I felt a swelling and rising up in my chest, and at + last I made a swallow and blurted out— + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Boss, old chap! I’m damned sorry!’ + </p> + <p> + Our hands came together and gripped. The ghostly Australian daybreak was + over the Bathurst plains. + </p> + <p> + We went on another hundred yards or so, and then the Boss said quietly— + </p> + <p> + ‘I was away when the children were lost, Jack. I used to go on a howling + spree every six or nine months. Maggie never knew. I’d tell her I had to + go to Sydney on business, or Out-Back to look after some stock. When the + children were lost, and for nearly a fortnight after, I was beastly drunk + in an out-of-the-way shanty in the Bush—a sly grog-shop. The old + brute that kept it was too true to me. He thought that the story of the + lost children was a trick to get me home, and he swore that he hadn’t seen + me. He never told me. I could have found those children, Jack. They were + mostly new chums and fools about the run, and not one of the three + policemen was a Bushman. I knew those scrubs better than any man in the + country.’ + </p> + <p> + I reached for his hand again, and gave it a grip. That was all I could do + for him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good-bye, Jack!’ he said at the door of the brake-van. ‘Good-bye, Andy!—keep + those bullocks on their feet.’ + </p> + <p> + The cattle-train went on towards the Blue Mountains. Andy and I sat silent + for a while, watching the guard fry three eggs on a plate over a + coal-stove in the centre of the van. + </p> + <p> + ‘Does the boss never go to Sydney?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very seldom,’ said Andy, ‘and then only when he has to, on business. When + he finishes his business with the stock agents, he takes a run out to + Waverley Cemetery perhaps, and comes home by the next train.’ + </p> + <p> + After a while I said, ‘He told me about the drink, Andy—about his + being on the spree when the children were lost.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Jack,’ said Andy, ‘that’s the thing that’s been killing him ever + since, and it happened over ten years ago.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Bush Dance. + </h2> + <p> + ‘Tap, tap, tap, tap.’ + </p> + <p> + The little schoolhouse and residence in the scrub was lighted brightly in + the midst of the ‘close’, solid blackness of that moonless December night, + when the sky and stars were smothered and suffocated by drought haze. + </p> + <p> + It was the evening of the school children’s ‘Feast’. That is to say that + the children had been sent, and ‘let go’, and the younger ones ‘fetched’ + through the blazing heat to the school, one day early in the holidays, and + raced—sometimes in couples tied together by the legs—and + caked, and bunned, and finally improved upon by the local Chadband, and + got rid of. The schoolroom had been cleared for dancing, the maps rolled + and tied, the desks and blackboards stacked against the wall outside. Tea + was over, and the trestles and boards, whereon had been spread better + things than had been provided for the unfortunate youngsters, had been + taken outside to keep the desks and blackboards company. + </p> + <p> + On stools running end to end along one side of the room sat about twenty + more or less blooming country girls of from fifteen to twenty odd. + </p> + <p> + On the rest of the stools, running end to end along the other wall, sat + about twenty more or less blooming chaps. + </p> + <p> + It was evident that something was seriously wrong. None of the girls spoke + above a hushed whisper. None of the men spoke above a hushed oath. Now and + again two or three sidled out, and if you had followed them you would have + found that they went outside to listen hard into the darkness and to + swear. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tap, tap, tap.’ + </p> + <p> + The rows moved uneasily, and some of the girls turned pale faces nervously + towards the side-door, in the direction of the sound. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tap—tap.’ + </p> + <p> + The tapping came from the kitchen at the rear of the teacher’s residence, + and was uncomfortably suggestive of a coffin being made: it was also + accompanied by a sickly, indescribable odour—more like that of warm + cheap glue than anything else. + </p> + <p> + In the schoolroom was a painful scene of strained listening. Whenever one + of the men returned from outside, or put his head in at the door, all eyes + were fastened on him in the flash of a single eye, and then withdrawn + hopelessly. At the sound of a horse’s step all eyes and ears were on the + door, till some one muttered, ‘It’s only the horses in the paddock.’ + </p> + <p> + Some of the girls’ eyes began to glisten suspiciously, and at last the + belle of the party—a great, dark-haired, pink-and-white Blue + Mountain girl, who had been sitting for a full minute staring before her, + with blue eyes unnaturally bright, suddenly covered her face with her + hands, rose, and started blindly from the room, from which she was steered + in a hurry by two sympathetic and rather ‘upset’ girl friends, and as she + passed out she was heard sobbing hysterically— + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I can’t help it! I did want to dance! It’s a sh-shame! I can’t help + it! I—I want to dance! I rode twenty miles to dance—and—and + I want to dance!’ + </p> + <p> + A tall, strapping young Bushman rose, without disguise, and followed the + girl out. The rest began to talk loudly of stock, dogs, and horses, and + other Bush things; but above their voices rang out that of the girl from + the outside—being man comforted— + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t help it, Jack! I did want to dance! I—I had such—such—a + job—to get mother—and—and father to let me come—and—and + now!’ + </p> + <p> + The two girl friends came back. ‘He sez to leave her to him,’ they + whispered, in reply to an interrogatory glance from the schoolmistress. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s—it’s no use, Jack!’ came the voice of grief. ‘You don’t know + what—what father and mother—is. I—I won’t—be able—to + ge-get away—again—for—for—not till I’m married, + perhaps.’ + </p> + <p> + The schoolmistress glanced uneasily along the row of girls. ‘I’ll take her + into my room and make her lie down,’ she whispered to her sister, who was + staying with her. ‘She’ll start some of the other girls presently—it’s + just the weather for it,’ and she passed out quietly. That schoolmistress + was a woman of penetration. + </p> + <p> + A final ‘tap-tap’ from the kitchen; then a sound like the squawk of a hurt + or frightened child, and the faces in the room turned quickly in that + direction and brightened. But there came a bang and a sound like ‘damn!’ + and hopelessness settled down. + </p> + <p> + A shout from the outer darkness, and most of the men and some of the girls + rose and hurried out. Fragments of conversation heard in the darkness— + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s two horses, I tell you!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s three, you——!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Lay you——!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Put the stuff up!’ + </p> + <p> + A clack of gate thrown open. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is it, Tom?’ + </p> + <p> + Voices from gatewards, yelling, ‘Johnny Mears! They’ve got Johnny Mears!’ + </p> + <p> + Then rose yells, and a cheer such as is seldom heard in scrub-lands. + </p> + <p> + Out in the kitchen long Dave Regan grabbed, from the far side of the + table, where he had thrown it, a burst and battered concertina, which he + had been for the last hour vainly trying to patch and make air-tight; and, + holding it out towards the back-door, between his palms, as a football is + held, he let it drop, and fetched it neatly on the toe of his riding-boot. + It was a beautiful kick, the concertina shot out into the blackness, from + which was projected, in return, first a short, sudden howl, then a face + with one eye glaring and the other covered by an enormous brick-coloured + hand, and a voice that wanted to know who shot ‘that lurid loaf of bread?’ + </p> + <p> + But from the schoolroom was heard the loud, free voice of Joe Matthews, + M.C.,— + </p> + <p> + ‘Take yer partners! Hurry up! Take yer partners! They’ve got Johnny Mears + with his fiddle!’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Buck-Jumper. + </h2> + <h3> + Saturday afternoon. + </h3> + <p> + There were about a dozen Bush natives, from anywhere, most of them lanky + and easy-going, hanging about the little slab-and-bark hotel on the edge + of the scrub at Capertee Camp (a teamster’s camp) when Cob & Co.‘s + mail-coach and six came dashing down the siding from round Crown Ridge, in + all its glory, to the end of the twelve-mile stage. Some wiry, ill-used + hacks were hanging to the fence and to saplings about the place. The fresh + coach-horses stood ready in a stock-yard close to the shanty. As the coach + climbed the nearer bank of the creek at the foot of the ridge, six of the + Bushmen detached themselves from verandah posts, from their heels, from + the clay floor of the verandah and the rough slab wall against which + they’d been resting, and joined a group of four or five who stood round + one. He stood with his back to the corner post of the stock-yard, his feet + well braced out in front of him, and contemplated the toes of his tight + new ‘lastic-side boots and whistled softly. He was a clean-limbed, + handsome fellow, with riding-cords, leggings, and a blue sash; he was + Graeco-Roman-nosed, blue-eyed, and his glossy, curly black hair bunched up + in front of the brim of a new cabbage-tree hat, set well back on his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do it for a quid, Jack?’ asked one. + </p> + <p> + ‘Damned if I will, Jim!’ said the young man at the post. ‘I’ll do it for a + fiver—not a blanky sprat less.’ + </p> + <p> + Jim took off his hat and ‘shoved’ it round, and ‘bobs’ were ‘chucked’ into + it. The result was about thirty shillings. + </p> + <p> + Jack glanced contemptuously into the crown of the hat. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not me!’ he said, showing some emotion for the first time. ‘D’yer think + I’m going to risk me blanky neck for your blanky amusement for thirty + blanky bob. I’ll ride the blanky horse for a fiver, and I’ll feel the + blanky quids in my pocket before I get on.’ + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the coach had dashed up to the door of the shanty. There were + about twenty passengers aboard—inside, on the box-seat, on the + tail-board, and hanging on to the roof—most of them Sydney men going + up to the Mudgee races. They got down and went inside with the driver for + a drink, while the stablemen changed horses. The Bushmen raised their + voices a little and argued. + </p> + <p> + One of the passengers was a big, stout, hearty man—a good-hearted, + sporting man and a racehorse-owner, according to his brands. He had a + round red face and a white cork hat. ‘What’s those chaps got on outside?’ + he asked the publican. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, it’s a bet they’ve got on about riding a horse,’ replied the + publican. ‘The flash-looking chap with the sash is Flash Jack, the + horse-breaker; and they reckon they’ve got the champion outlaw in the + district out there—that chestnut horse in the yard.’ + </p> + <p> + The sporting man was interested at once, and went out and joined the + Bushmen. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, chaps! what have you got on here?’ he asked cheerily. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh,’ said Jim carelessly, ‘it’s only a bit of a bet about ridin’ that + blanky chestnut in the corner of the yard there.’ He indicated an + ungroomed chestnut horse, fenced off by a couple of long sapling poles in + a corner of the stock-yard. ‘Flash Jack there—he reckons he’s the + champion horse-breaker round here—Flash Jack reckons he can take it + out of that horse first try.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s up with the horse?’ inquired the big, red-faced man. ‘It looks + quiet enough. Why, I’d ride it myself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Would yer?’ said Jim, who had hair that stood straight up, and an + innocent, inquiring expression. ‘Looks quiet, does he? YOU ought to know + more about horses than to go by the looks of ‘em. He’s quiet enough just + now, when there’s no one near him; but you should have been here an hour + ago. That horse has killed two men and put another chap’s shoulder out—besides + breaking a cove’s leg. It took six of us all the morning to run him in and + get the saddle on him; and now Flash Jack wants to back out of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Euraliar!’ remarked Flash Jack cheerfully. ‘I said I’d ride that blanky + horse out of the yard for a fiver. I ain’t goin’ to risk my blanky neck + for nothing and only to amuse you blanks.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He said he’d ride the horse inside the yard for a quid,’ said Jim. + </p> + <p> + ‘And get smashed against the rails!’ said Flash Jack. ‘I would be a fool. + I’d rather take my chance outside in the scrub—and it’s rough + country round here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, how much do you want?’ asked the man in the mushroom hat. + </p> + <p> + ‘A fiver, I said,’ replied Jack indifferently. ‘And the blanky stuff in my + pocket before I get on the blanky horse.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you frightened of us running away without paying you?’ inquired one + of the passengers who had gathered round. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m frightened of the horse bolting with me without me being paid,’ said + Flash Jack. ‘I know that horse; he’s got a mouth like iron. I might be at + the bottom of the cliff on Crown Ridge road in twenty minutes with my head + caved in, and then what chance for the quids?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You wouldn’t want ‘em then,’ suggested a passenger. ‘Or, say!—we’d + leave the fiver with the publican to bury you.’ + </p> + <p> + Flash Jack ignored that passenger. He eyed his boots and softly whistled a + tune. + </p> + <p> + ‘All right!’ said the man in the cork hat, putting his hand in his pocket. + ‘I’ll start with a quid; stump up, you chaps.’ + </p> + <p> + The five pounds were got together. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll lay a quid to half a quid he don’t stick on ten minutes!’ shouted + Jim to his mates as soon as he saw that the event was to come off. The + passengers also betted amongst themselves. Flash Jack, after putting the + money in his breeches-pocket, let down the rails and led the horse into + the middle of the yard. + </p> + <p> + ‘Quiet as an old cow!’ snorted a passenger in disgust. ‘I believe it’s a + sell!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wait a bit,’ said Jim to the passenger, ‘wait a bit and you’ll see.’ + </p> + <p> + They waited and saw. + </p> + <p> + Flash Jack leisurely mounted the horse, rode slowly out of the yard, and + trotted briskly round the corner of the shanty and into the scrub, which + swallowed him more completely than the sea might have done. + </p> + <p> + Most of the other Bushmen mounted their horses and followed Flash Jack to + a clearing in the scrub, at a safe distance from the shanty; then they + dismounted and hung on to saplings, or leaned against their horses, while + they laughed. + </p> + <p> + At the hotel there was just time for another drink. The driver climbed to + his seat and shouted, ‘All aboard!’ in his usual tone. The passengers + climbed to their places, thinking hard. A mile or so along the road the + man with the cork hat remarked, with much truth— + </p> + <p> + ‘Those blanky Bushmen have got too much time to think.’ + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The Bushmen returned to the shanty as soon as the coach was out of sight, + and proceeded to ‘knock down’ the fiver. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Jimmy Grimshaw’s Wooing. + </h2> + <p> + The Half-way House at Tinned Dog (Out-Back in Australia) kept Daniel Myers—licensed + to retail spirituous and fermented liquors—in drink and the horrors + for upward of five years, at the end of which time he lay hidden for weeks + in a back skillion, an object which no decent man would care to see—or + hear when it gave forth sound. ‘Good accommodation for man and beast’; but + few shanties save his own might, for a consideration, have accommodated + the sort of beast which the man Myers had become towards the end of his + career. But at last the eccentric Bush doctor, ‘Doc’ Wild’ (who perhaps + could drink as much as Myers without its having any further effect upon + his temperament than to keep him awake and cynical), pronounced the + publican dead enough to be buried legally; so the widow buried him, had + the skillion cleaned out, and the sign altered to read, ‘Margaret Myers, + licensed, &c.’, and continued to conduct the pub. just as she had run + it for over five years, with the joyful and blessed exception that there + was no longer a human pig and pigstye attached, and that the atmosphere + was calm. Most of the regular patrons of the Half-way House could have + their horrors decently, and, comparatively, quietly—or otherwise + have them privately—in the Big Scrub adjacent; but Myers had not + been one of that sort. + </p> + <p> + Mrs Myers settled herself to enjoy life comfortably and happily, at the + fixed age of thirty-nine, for the next seven years or so. She was a + pleasant-faced dumpling, who had been baked solid in the droughts of + Out-Back without losing her good looks, and had put up with a hard life, + and Myers, all those years without losing her good humour and nature. + Probably, had her husband been the opposite kind of man, she would have + been different—haggard, bad-tempered, and altogether impossible—for + of such is woman. But then it might be taken into consideration that she + had been practically a widow during at least the last five years of her + husband’s alleged life. + </p> + <p> + Mrs Myers was reckoned a good catch in the district, but it soon seemed + that she was not to be caught. + </p> + <p> + ‘It would be a grand thing,’ one of the periodical boozers of Tinned Dog + would say to his mates, ‘for one of us to have his name up on a pub.; it + would save a lot of money.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It wouldn’t save you anything, Bill, if I got it,’ was the retort. ‘You + needn’t come round chewing my lug then. I’d give you one drink and no + more.’ + </p> + <p> + The publican at Dead Camel, station managers, professional shearers, even + one or two solvent squatters and promising cockatoos, tried their luck in + vain. In answer to the suggestion that she ought to have a man to knock + round and look after things, she retorted that she had had one, and was + perfectly satisfied. Few trav’lers on those tracks but tried ‘a bit of + bear-up’ in that direction, but all to no purpose. Chequemen knocked down + their cheques manfully at the Half-way House—to get courage and + goodwill and ‘put it off’ till, at the last moment, they offered + themselves abjectly to the landlady; which was worse than bad judgment on + their part—it was very silly, and she told them so. + </p> + <p> + One or two swore off, and swore to keep straight; but she had no faith in + them, and when they found that out, it hurt their feelings so much that + they ‘broke out’ and went on record-breaking sprees. + </p> + <p> + About the end of each shearing the sign was touched up, with an extra coat + of paint on the ‘Margaret’, whereat suitors looked hopeless. + </p> + <p> + One or two of the rejected died of love in the horrors in the Big Scrub—anyway, + the verdict was that they died of love aggravated by the horrors. But the + climax was reached when a Queensland shearer, seizing the opportunity when + the mate, whose turn it was to watch him, fell asleep, went down to the + yard and hanged himself on the butcher’s gallows—having first + removed his clothes, with some drink-lurid idea of leaving the world as + naked as he came into it. He climbed the pole, sat astride on top, fixed + the rope to neck and bar, but gave a yell—a yell of drunken triumph—before + he dropped, and woke his mates. + </p> + <p> + They cut him down and brought him to. Next day he apologised to Mrs Myers, + said, ‘Ah, well! So long!’ to the rest, and departed—cured of drink + and love apparently. The verdict was that the blanky fool should have + dropped before he yelled; but she was upset and annoyed, and it began to + look as though, if she wished to continue to live on happily and + comfortably for a few years longer at the fixed age of thirty-nine, she + would either have to give up the pub. or get married. + </p> + <p> + Her fame was carried far and wide, and she became a woman whose name was + mentioned with respect in rough shearing-sheds and huts, and round the + camp-fire. + </p> + <p> + About thirty miles south of Tinned Dog one James Grimshaw, widower—otherwise + known as ‘Old Jimmy’, though he was little past middle age—had a + small selection which he had worked, let, given up, and tackled afresh + (with sinews of war drawn from fencing contracts) ever since the death of + his young wife some fifteen years agone. He was a practical, square-faced, + clean-shaven, clean, and tidy man, with a certain ‘cleanness’ about the + shape of his limbs which suggested the old jockey or hostler. There were + two strong theories in connection with Jimmy—one was that he had had + a university education, and the other that he couldn’t write his own name. + Not nearly such a ridiculous nor simple case Out-Back as it might seem. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy smoked and listened without comment to the ‘heard tells’ in + connection with Mrs Myers, till at last one night, at the end of his + contract and over a last pipe, he said quietly, ‘I’ll go up to Tinned Dog + next week and try my luck.’ + </p> + <p> + His mates and the casual Jims and Bills were taken too suddenly to laugh, + and the laugh having been lost, as Bland Holt, the Australian actor would + put it in a professional sense, the audience had time to think, with the + result that the joker swung his hand down through an imaginary table and + exclaimed— + </p> + <p> + ‘By God! Jimmy’ll do it.’ (Applause.) + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + So one drowsy afternoon at the time of the year when the breathless day + runs on past 7 P.M., Mrs Myers sat sewing in the bar parlour, when a + clean-shaved, clean-shirted, clean-neckerchiefed, clean-moleskinned, + greased-bluchered—altogether a model or stage swagman came up, was + served in the bar by the half-caste female cook, and took his way to the + river-bank, where he rigged a small tent and made a model camp. + </p> + <p> + A couple of hours later he sat on a stool on the verandah, smoking a clean + clay pipe. Just before the sunset meal Mrs Myers asked, ‘Is that trav’ler + there yet, Mary?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, missus. Clean pfellar that.’ + </p> + <p> + The landlady knitted her forehead over her sewing, as women do when + limited for ‘stuff’ or wondering whether a section has been cut wrong—or + perhaps she thought of that other who hadn’t been a ‘clean pfellar’. She + put her work aside, and stood in the doorway, looking out across the + clearing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good-day, mister,’ she said, seeming to become aware of him for the first + time. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good-day, missus!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hot!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hot!’ + </p> + <p> + Pause. + </p> + <p> + ‘Trav’lin’?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, not particular!’ + </p> + <p> + She waited for him to explain. Myers was always explaining when he wasn’t + raving. But the swagman smoked on. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have a drink?’ she suggested, to keep her end up. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, thank you, missus. I had one an hour or so ago. I never take more + than two a-day—one before breakfast, if I can get it, and a + night-cap.’ + </p> + <p> + What a contrast to Myers! she thought. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come and have some tea; it’s ready.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you. I don’t mind if I do.’ + </p> + <p> + They got on very slowly, but comfortably. She got little out of him except + the facts that he had a selection, had finished a contract, and was ‘just + having a look at the country.’ He politely declined a ‘shake-down’, saying + he had a comfortable camp, and preferred being out this weather. She got + his name with a ‘by-the-way’, as he rose to leave, and he went back to + camp. + </p> + <p> + He caught a cod, and they had it for breakfast next morning, and got along + so comfortable over breakfast that he put in the forenoon pottering about + the gates and stable with a hammer, a saw, and a box of nails. + </p> + <p> + And, well—to make it short—when the big Tinned Dog shed had + cut-out, and the shearers struck the Half-way House, they were greatly + impressed by a brand-new sign whereon glistened the words— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HALF-WAY HOUSE HOTEL, + BY + JAMES GRIMSHAW. + Good Stabling. +</pre> + <p> + The last time I saw Mrs Grimshaw she looked about thirty-five. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + At Dead Dingo. + </h2> + <p> + It was blazing hot outside and smothering hot inside the weather-board and + iron shanty at Dead Dingo, a place on the Cleared Road, where there was a + pub. and a police-station, and which was sometimes called ‘Roasted’, and + other times ‘Potted Dingo’—nicknames suggested by the everlasting + drought and the vicinity of the one-pub. township of Tinned Dog. + </p> + <p> + From the front verandah the scene was straight-cleared road, running right + and left to Out-Back, and to Bourke (and ankle-deep in the red sand dust + for perhaps a hundred miles); the rest blue-grey bush, dust, and the + heat-wave blazing across every object. + </p> + <p> + There were only four in the bar-room, though it was New Year’s Day. There + weren’t many more in the county. The girl sat behind the bar—the + coolest place in the shanty—reading ‘Deadwood Dick’. On a worn and + torn and battered horse-hair sofa, which had seen cooler places and better + days, lay an awful and healthy example, a bearded swagman, with his arms + twisted over his head and his face to the wall, sleeping off the death of + the dead drunk. Bill and Jim—shearer and rouseabout—sat at a + table playing cards. It was about three o’clock in the afternoon, and they + had been gambling since nine—and the greater part of the night + before—so they were, probably, in a worse condition morally (and + perhaps physically) than the drunken swagman on the sofa. + </p> + <p> + Close under the bar, in a dangerous place for his legs and tail, lay a + sheep-dog with a chain attached to his collar and wound round his neck. + </p> + <p> + Presently a thump on the table, and Bill, unlucky gambler, rose with an + oath that would have been savage if it hadn’t been drawled. + </p> + <p> + ‘Stumped?’ inquired Jim. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a blanky, lurid deener!’ drawled Bill. + </p> + <p> + Jim drew his reluctant hands from the cards, his eyes went slowly and + hopelessly round the room and out the door. There was something in the + eyes of both, except when on the card-table, of the look of a man waking + in a strange place. + </p> + <p> + ‘Got anything?’ asked Jim, fingering the cards again. + </p> + <p> + Bill sucked in his cheeks, collecting the saliva with difficulty, and spat + out on to the verandah floor. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s all I got,’ he drawled. ‘It’s gone now.’ + </p> + <p> + Jim leaned back in his chair, twisted, yawned, and caught sight of the + dog. + </p> + <p> + ‘That there dog yours?’ he asked, brightening. + </p> + <p> + They had evidently been strangers the day before, or as strange to each + other as Bushmen can be. + </p> + <p> + Bill scratched behind his ear, and blinked at the dog. The dog woke + suddenly to a flea fact. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ drawled Bill, ‘he’s mine.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I’m going Out-Back, and I want a dog,’ said Jim, gathering the + cards briskly. ‘Half a quid agin the dog?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Half a quid be——!’ drawled Bill. ‘Call it a quid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Half a blanky quid!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A gory, lurid quid!’ drawled Bill desperately, and he stooped over his + swag. + </p> + <p> + But Jim’s hands were itching in a ghastly way over the cards. + </p> + <p> + ‘Alright. Call it a—— quid.’ + </p> + <p> + The drunkard on the sofa stirred, showed signs of waking, but died again. + Remember this, it might come in useful. + </p> + <p> + Bill sat down to the table once more. + </p> + <p> + Jim rose first, winner of the dog. He stretched, yawned ‘Ah, well!’ and + shouted drinks. Then he shouldered his swag, stirred the dog up with his + foot, unwound the chain, said ‘Ah, well—so long!’ and drifted out + and along the road toward Out-Back, the dog following with head and tail + down. + </p> + <p> + Bill scored another drink on account of girl-pity for bad luck, shouldered + his swag, said, ‘So long, Mary!’ and drifted out and along the road + towards Tinned Dog, on the Bourke side. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + A long, drowsy, half hour passed—the sort of half hour that is as + long as an hour in the places where days are as long as years, and years + hold about as much as days do in other places. + </p> + <p> + The man on the sofa woke with a start, and looked scared and wild for a + moment; then he brought his dusty broken boots to the floor, rested his + elbows on his knees, took his unfortunate head between his hands, and came + back to life gradually. + </p> + <p> + He lifted his head, looked at the girl across the top of the bar, and + formed with his lips, rather than spoke, the words— + </p> + <p> + ‘Put up a drink?’ * + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * ‘Put up a drink’—i.e., ‘Give me a drink on credit’, or + ‘Chalk it up’. +</pre> + <p> + She shook her head tightly and went on reading. + </p> + <p> + He staggered up, and, leaning on the bar, made desperate distress signals + with hand, eyes, and mouth. + </p> + <p> + ‘No!’ she snapped. ‘I means no when I says no! You’ve had too many last + drinks already, and the boss says you ain’t to have another. If you swear + again, or bother me, I’ll call him.’ + </p> + <p> + He hung sullenly on the counter for a while, then lurched to his swag, and + shouldered it hopelessly and wearily. Then he blinked round, whistled, + waited a moment, went on to the front verandah, peered round, through the + heat, with bloodshot eyes, and whistled again. He turned and started + through to the back-door. + </p> + <p> + ‘What the devil do you want now?’ demanded the girl, interrupted in her + reading for the third time by him. ‘Stampin’ all over the house. You can’t + go through there! It’s privit! I do wish to goodness you’d git!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where the blazes is that there dog o’ mine got to?’ he muttered. ‘Did you + see a dog?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No! What do I want with your dog?’ + </p> + <p> + He whistled out in front again, and round each corner. Then he came back + with a decided step and tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here! that there dog was lyin’ there agin the wall when I went to + sleep. He wouldn’t stir from me, or my swag, in a year, if he wasn’t + dragged. He’s been blanky well touched [stolen], and I wouldn’ter lost him + for a fiver. Are you sure you ain’t seen a dog?’ then suddenly, as the + thought struck him: ‘Where’s them two chaps that was playin’ cards when I + wenter sleep?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why!’ exclaimed the girl, without thinking, ‘there was a dog, now I come + to think of it, but I thought it belonged to one of them chaps. Anyway, + they played for it, and the other chap won it and took it away.’ + </p> + <p> + He stared at her blankly, with thunder gathering in the blankness. + </p> + <p> + ‘What sort of a dog was it?’ + </p> + <p> + Dog described; the chain round the neck settled it. + </p> + <p> + He scowled at her darkly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, look here,’ he said; ‘you’ve allowed gamblin’ in this bar—your + boss has. You’ve got no right to let spielers gamble away a man’s dog. Is + a customer to lose his dog every time he has a doze to suit your boss? + I’ll go straight across to the police camp and put you away, and I don’t + care if you lose your licence. I ain’t goin’ to lose my dog. I wouldn’ter + taken a ten-pound note for that blanky dog! I——’ + </p> + <p> + She was filling a pewter hastily. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here! for God’s sake have a drink an’ stop yer row.’ + </p> + <p> + He drank with satisfaction. Then he hung on the bar with one elbow and + scowled out the door. + </p> + <p> + ‘Which blanky way did them chaps go?’ he growled. + </p> + <p> + ‘The one that took the dog went towards Tinned Dog.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And I’ll haveter go all the blanky way back after him, and most likely + lose me shed! Here!’ jerking the empty pewter across the bar, ‘fill that + up again; I’m narked properly, I am, and I’ll take twenty-four blanky + hours to cool down now. I wouldn’ter lost that dog for twenty quid.’ + </p> + <p> + He drank again with deeper satisfaction, then he shuffled out, muttering, + swearing, and threatening louder every step, and took the track to Tinned + Dog. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Now the man, girl, or woman, who told me this yarn has never quite settled + it in his or her mind as to who really owned the dog. I leave it to you. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Telling Mrs Baker. + </h2> + <p> + Most Bushmen who hadn’t ‘known Bob Baker to speak to’, had ‘heard tell of + him’. He’d been a squatter, not many years before, on the Macquarie river + in New South Wales, and had made money in the good seasons, and had gone + in for horse-racing and racehorse-breeding, and long trips to Sydney, + where he put up at swell hotels and went the pace. So after a pretty + severe drought, when the sheep died by thousands on his runs, Bob Baker + went under, and the bank took over his station and put a manager in + charge. + </p> + <p> + He’d been a jolly, open-handed, popular man, which means that he’d been a + selfish man as far as his wife and children were concerned, for they had + to suffer for it in the end. Such generosity is often born of vanity, or + moral cowardice, or both mixed. It’s very nice to hear the chaps sing ‘For + he’s a jolly good fellow’, but you’ve mostly got to pay for it twice—first + in company, and afterwards alone. I once heard the chaps singing that I + was a jolly good fellow, when I was leaving a place and they were giving + me a send-off. It thrilled me, and brought a warm gush to my eyes; but, + all the same, I wished I had half the money I’d lent them, and spent on + ‘em, and I wished I’d used the time I’d wasted to be a jolly good fellow. + </p> + <p> + When I first met Bob Baker he was a boss-drover on the great north-western + route, and his wife lived at the township of Solong on the Sydney side. He + was going north to new country round by the Gulf of Carpentaria, with a + big mob of cattle, on a two years’ trip; and I and my mate, Andy + M’Culloch, engaged to go with him. We wanted to have a look at the Gulf + Country. + </p> + <p> + After we had crossed the Queensland border it seemed to me that the Boss + was too fond of going into wayside shanties and town pubs. Andy had been + with him on another trip, and he told me that the Boss was only going this + way lately. Andy knew Mrs Baker well, and seemed to think a deal of her. + ‘She’s a good little woman,’ said Andy. ‘One of the right stuff. I worked + on their station for a while when I was a nipper, and I know. She was + always a damned sight too good for the Boss, but she believed in him. When + I was coming away this time she says to me, “Look here, Andy, I’m afraid + Robert is drinking again. Now I want you to look after him for me, as much + as you can—you seem to have as much influence with him as any one. I + want you to promise me that you’ll never have a drink with him.” + </p> + <p> + ‘And I promised,’ said Andy, ‘and I’ll keep my word.’ Andy was a chap who + could keep his word, and nothing else. And, no matter how the Boss + persuaded, or sneered, or swore at him, Andy would never drink with him. + </p> + <p> + It got worse and worse: the Boss would ride on ahead and get drunk at a + shanty, and sometimes he’d be days behind us; and when he’d catch up to us + his temper would be just about as much as we could stand. At last he went + on a howling spree at Mulgatown, about a hundred and fifty miles north of + the border, and, what was worse, he got in tow with a flash barmaid there—one + of those girls who are engaged, by the publicans up country, as baits for + chequemen. + </p> + <p> + He went mad over that girl. He drew an advance cheque from the + stock-owner’s agent there, and knocked that down; then he raised some more + money somehow, and spent that—mostly on the girl. + </p> + <p> + We did all we could. Andy got him along the track for a couple of stages, + and just when we thought he was all right, he slipped us in the night and + went back. + </p> + <p> + We had two other men with us, but had the devil’s own bother on account of + the cattle. It was a mixed-up job all round. You see it was all big runs + round there, and we had to keep the bullocks moving along the route all + the time, or else get into trouble for trespass. The agent wasn’t going to + go to the expense of putting the cattle in a paddock until the Boss + sobered up; there was very little grass on the route or the + travelling-stock reserves or camps, so we had to keep travelling for + grass. + </p> + <p> + The world might wobble and all the banks go bung, but the cattle have to + go through—that’s the law of the stock-routes. So the agent wired to + the owners, and, when he got their reply, he sacked the Boss and sent the + cattle on in charge of another man. The new Boss was a drover coming south + after a trip; he had his two brothers with him, so he didn’t want me and + Andy; but, anyway, we were full up of this trip, so we arranged, between + the agent and the new Boss, to get most of the wages due to us—the + Boss had drawn some of our stuff and spent it. + </p> + <p> + We could have started on the back track at once, but, drunk or sober, mad + or sane, good or bad, it isn’t Bush religion to desert a mate in a hole; + and the Boss was a mate of ours; so we stuck to him. + </p> + <p> + We camped on the creek, outside the town, and kept him in the camp with us + as much as possible, and did all we could for him. + </p> + <p> + ‘How could I face his wife if I went home without him?’ asked Andy, ‘or + any of his old mates?’ + </p> + <p> + The Boss got himself turned out of the pub. where the barmaid was, and + then he’d hang round the other pubs., and get drink somehow, and fight, + and get knocked about. He was an awful object by this time, wild-eyed and + gaunt, and he hadn’t washed or shaved for days. + </p> + <p> + Andy got the constable in charge of the police station to lock him up for + a night, but it only made him worse: we took him back to the camp next + morning and while our eyes were off him for a few minutes he slipped away + into the scrub, stripped himself naked, and started to hang himself to a + leaning tree with a piece of clothes-line rope. We got to him just in + time. + </p> + <p> + Then Andy wired to the Boss’s brother Ned, who was fighting the drought, + the rabbit-pest, and the banks, on a small station back on the border. + Andy reckoned it was about time to do something. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the Boss hadn’t been quite right in his head before he started + drinking—he had acted queer some time, now we came to think of it; + maybe he’d got a touch of sunstroke or got brooding over his troubles—anyway + he died in the horrors within the week. + </p> + <p> + His brother Ned turned up on the last day, and Bob thought he was the + devil, and grappled with him. It took the three of us to hold the Boss + down sometimes. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes, towards the end, he’d be sensible for a few minutes and talk + about his ‘poor wife and children’; and immediately afterwards he’d fall + a-cursing me, and Andy, and Ned, and calling us devils. He cursed + everything; he cursed his wife and children, and yelled that they were + dragging him down to hell. He died raving mad. It was the worst case of + death in the horrors of drink that I ever saw or heard of in the Bush. + </p> + <p> + Ned saw to the funeral: it was very hot weather, and men have to be buried + quick who die out there in the hot weather—especially men who die in + the state the Boss was in. Then Ned went to the public-house where the + barmaid was and called the landlord out. It was a desperate fight: the + publican was a big man, and a bit of a fighting man; but Ned was one of + those quiet, simple-minded chaps who will carry a thing through to death + when they make up their minds. He gave that publican nearly as good a + thrashing as he deserved. The constable in charge of the station backed + Ned, while another policeman picked up the publican. Sounds queer to you + city people, doesn’t it? + </p> + <p> + Next morning we three started south. We stayed a couple of days at Ned + Baker’s station on the border, and then started on our three-hundred-mile + ride down-country. The weather was still very hot, so we decided to travel + at night for a while, and left Ned’s place at dusk. He parted from us at + the homestead gate. He gave Andy a small packet, done up in canvas, for + Mrs Baker, which Andy told me contained Bob’s pocket-book, letters, and + papers. We looked back, after we’d gone a piece along the dusty road, and + saw Ned still standing by the gate; and a very lonely figure he looked. + Ned was a bachelor. ‘Poor old Ned,’ said Andy to me. ‘He was in love with + Mrs Bob Baker before she got married, but she picked the wrong man—girls + mostly do. Ned and Bob were together on the Macquarie, but Ned left when + his brother married, and he’s been up in these God-forsaken scrubs ever + since. Look, I want to tell you something, Jack: Ned has written to Mrs + Bob to tell her that Bob died of fever, and everything was done for him + that could be done, and that he died easy—and all that sort of + thing. Ned sent her some money, and she is to think that it was the money + due to Bob when he died. Now I’ll have to go and see her when we get to + Solong; there’s no getting out of it, I’ll have to face her—and + you’ll have to come with me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Damned if I will!’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘But you’ll have to,’ said Andy. ‘You’ll have to stick to me; you’re + surely not crawler enough to desert a mate in a case like this? I’ll have + to lie like hell—I’ll have to lie as I never lied to a woman before; + and you’ll have to back me and corroborate every lie.’ + </p> + <p> + I’d never seen Andy show so much emotion. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s plenty of time to fix up a good yarn,’ said Andy. He said no more + about Mrs Baker, and we only mentioned the Boss’s name casually, until we + were within about a day’s ride of Solong; then Andy told me the yarn he’d + made up about the Boss’s death. + </p> + <p> + ‘And I want you to listen, Jack,’ he said, ‘and remember every word—and + if you can fix up a better yarn you can tell me afterwards. Now it was + like this: the Boss wasn’t too well when he crossed the border. He + complained of pains in his back and head and a stinging pain in the back + of his neck, and he had dysentery bad,—but that doesn’t matter; it’s + lucky I ain’t supposed to tell a woman all the symptoms. The Boss stuck to + the job as long as he could, but we managed the cattle and made it as easy + as we could for him. He’d just take it easy, and ride on from camp to + camp, and rest. One night I rode to a town off the route (or you did, if + you like) and got some medicine for him; that made him better for a while, + but at last, a day or two this side of Mulgatown, he had to give up. A + squatter there drove him into town in his buggy and put him up at the best + hotel. The publican knew the Boss and did all he could for him—put + him in the best room and wired for another doctor. We wired for Ned as + soon as we saw how bad the Boss was, and Ned rode night and day and got + there three days before the Boss died. The Boss was a bit off his head + some of the time with the fever, but was calm and quiet towards the end + and died easy. He talked a lot about his wife and children, and told us to + tell the wife not to fret but to cheer up for the children’s sake. How + does that sound?’ + </p> + <p> + I’d been thinking while I listened, and an idea struck me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not let her know the truth?’ I asked. ‘She’s sure to hear of it + sooner or later; and if she knew he was only a selfish, drunken blackguard + she might get over it all the sooner.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t know women, Jack,’ said Andy quietly. ‘And, anyway, even if she + is a sensible woman, we’ve got a dead mate to consider as well as a living + woman.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But she’s sure to hear the truth sooner or later,’ I said, ‘the Boss was + so well known.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And that’s just the reason why the truth might be kept from her,’ said + Andy. ‘If he wasn’t well known—and nobody could help liking him, + after all, when he was straight—if he wasn’t so well known the truth + might leak out unawares. She won’t know if I can help it, or at least not + yet a while. If I see any chaps that come from the North I’ll put them up + to it. I’ll tell M’Grath, the publican at Solong, too: he’s a straight man—he’ll + keep his ears open and warn chaps. One of Mrs Baker’s sisters is staying + with her, and I’ll give her a hint so that she can warn off any women that + might get hold of a yarn. Besides, Mrs Baker is sure to go and live in + Sydney, where all her people are—she was a Sydney girl; and she’s + not likely to meet any one there that will tell her the truth. I can tell + her that it was the last wish of the Boss that she should shift to + Sydney.’ + </p> + <p> + We smoked and thought a while, and by-and-by Andy had what he called a + ‘happy thought’. He went to his saddle-bags and got out the small canvas + packet that Ned had given him: it was sewn up with packing-thread, and + Andy ripped it open with his pocket-knife. + </p> + <p> + ‘What are you doing, Andy?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ned’s an innocent old fool, as far as sin is concerned,’ said Andy. ‘I + guess he hasn’t looked through the Boss’s letters, and I’m just going to + see that there’s nothing here that will make liars of us.’ + </p> + <p> + He looked through the letters and papers by the light of the fire. There + were some letters from Mrs Baker to her husband, also a portrait of her + and the children; these Andy put aside. But there were other letters from + barmaids and women who were not fit to be seen in the same street with the + Boss’s wife; and there were portraits—one or two flash ones. There + were two letters from other men’s wives too. + </p> + <p> + ‘And one of those men, at least, was an old mate of his!’ said Andy, in a + tone of disgust. + </p> + <p> + He threw the lot into the fire; then he went through the Boss’s + pocket-book and tore out some leaves that had notes and addresses on them, + and burnt them too. Then he sewed up the packet again and put it away in + his saddle-bag. + </p> + <p> + ‘Such is life!’ said Andy, with a yawn that might have been half a sigh. + </p> + <p> + We rode into Solong early in the day, turned our horses out in a paddock, + and put up at M’Grath’s pub. until such time as we made up our minds as to + what we’d do or where we’d go. We had an idea of waiting until the + shearing season started and then making Out-Back to the big sheds. + </p> + <p> + Neither of us was in a hurry to go and face Mrs Baker. ‘We’ll go after + dinner,’ said Andy at first; then after dinner we had a drink, and felt + sleepy—we weren’t used to big dinners of roast-beef and vegetables + and pudding, and, besides, it was drowsy weather—so we decided to + have a snooze and then go. When we woke up it was late in the afternoon, + so we thought we’d put it off till after tea. ‘It wouldn’t be manners to + walk in while they’re at tea,’ said Andy—‘it would look as if we + only came for some grub.’ + </p> + <p> + But while we were at tea a little girl came with a message that Mrs Baker + wanted to see us, and would be very much obliged if we’d call up as soon + as possible. You see, in those small towns you can’t move without the + thing getting round inside of half an hour. + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll have to face the music now!’ said Andy, ‘and no get out of it.’ He + seemed to hang back more than I did. There was another pub. opposite where + Mrs Baker lived, and when we got up the street a bit I said to Andy— + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose we go and have another drink first, Andy? We might be kept in + there an hour or two.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t want another drink,’ said Andy, rather short. ‘Why, you seem to + be going the same way as the Boss!’ But it was Andy that edged off towards + the pub. when we got near Mrs Baker’s place. ‘All right!’ he said. ‘Come + on! We’ll have this other drink, since you want it so bad.’ + </p> + <p> + We had the drink, then we buttoned up our coats and started across the + road—we’d bought new shirts and collars, and spruced up a bit. + Half-way across Andy grabbed my arm and asked— + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you feel now, Jack?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I’M all right,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘For God’s sake!’ said Andy, ‘don’t put your foot in it and make a mess of + it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I won’t, if you don’t.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs Baker’s cottage was a little weather-board box affair back in a + garden. When we went in through the gate Andy gripped my arm again and + whispered— + </p> + <p> + ‘For God’s sake stick to me now, Jack!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll stick all right,’ I said—‘you’ve been having too much beer, + Andy.’ + </p> + <p> + I had seen Mrs Baker before, and remembered her as a cheerful, contented + sort of woman, bustling about the house and getting the Boss’s shirts and + things ready when we started North. Just the sort of woman that is + contented with housework and the children, and with nothing particular + about her in the way of brains. But now she sat by the fire looking like + the ghost of herself. I wouldn’t have recognised her at first. I never saw + such a change in a woman, and it came like a shock to me. + </p> + <p> + Her sister let us in, and after a first glance at Mrs Baker I had eyes for + the sister and no one else. She was a Sydney girl, about twenty-four or + twenty-five, and fresh and fair—not like the sun-browned women we + were used to see. She was a pretty, bright-eyed girl, and seemed quick to + understand, and very sympathetic. She had been educated, Andy had told me, + and wrote stories for the Sydney ‘Bulletin’ and other Sydney papers. She + had her hair done and was dressed in the city style, and that took us back + a bit at first. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s very good of you to come,’ said Mrs Baker in a weak, weary voice, + when we first went in. ‘I heard you were in town.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We were just coming when we got your message,’ said Andy. ‘We’d have come + before, only we had to see to the horses.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s very kind of you, I’m sure,’ said Mrs Baker. + </p> + <p> + They wanted us to have tea, but we said we’d just had it. Then Miss + Standish (the sister) wanted us to have tea and cake; but we didn’t feel + as if we could handle cups and saucers and pieces of cake successfully + just then. + </p> + <p> + There was something the matter with one of the children in a back-room, + and the sister went to see to it. Mrs Baker cried a little quietly. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mustn’t mind me,’ she said. ‘I’ll be all right presently, and then I + want you to tell me all about poor Bob. It’s seeing you, that saw the last + of him, that set me off.’ + </p> + <p> + Andy and I sat stiff and straight, on two chairs against the wall, and + held our hats tight, and stared at a picture of Wellington meeting Blucher + on the opposite wall. I thought it was lucky that that picture was there. + </p> + <p> + The child was calling ‘mumma’, and Mrs Baker went in to it, and her sister + came out. ‘Best tell her all about it and get it over,’ she whispered to + Andy. ‘She’ll never be content until she hears all about poor Bob from + some one who was with him when he died. Let me take your hats. Make + yourselves comfortable.’ + </p> + <p> + She took the hats and put them on the sewing-machine. I wished she’d let + us keep them, for now we had nothing to hold on to, and nothing to do with + our hands; and as for being comfortable, we were just about as comfortable + as two cats on wet bricks. + </p> + <p> + When Mrs Baker came into the room she brought little Bobby Baker, about + four years old; he wanted to see Andy. He ran to Andy at once, and Andy + took him up on his knee. He was a pretty child, but he reminded me too + much of his father. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m so glad you’ve come, Andy!’ said Bobby. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you, Bobby?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. I wants to ask you about daddy. You saw him go away, didn’t you?’ + and he fixed his great wondering eyes on Andy’s face. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Andy. + </p> + <p> + ‘He went up among the stars, didn’t he?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Andy. + </p> + <p> + ‘And he isn’t coming back to Bobby any more?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ said Andy. ‘But Bobby’s going to him by-and-by.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs Baker had been leaning back in her chair, resting her head on her + hand, tears glistening in her eyes; now she began to sob, and her sister + took her out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Andy looked miserable. ‘I wish to God I was off this job!’ he whispered to + me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is that the girl that writes the stories?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ he said, staring at me in a hopeless sort of way, ‘and poems too.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is Bobby going up among the stars?’ asked Bobby. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Andy—‘if Bobby’s good.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And auntie?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And mumma?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you going, Andy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Andy hopelessly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you see daddy go up amongst the stars, Andy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Andy, ‘I saw him go up.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And he isn’t coming down again any more?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ said Andy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why isn’t he?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because he’s going to wait up there for you and mumma, Bobby.’ + </p> + <p> + There was a long pause, and then Bobby asked— + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you going to give me a shilling, Andy?’ with the same expression of + innocent wonder in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Andy slipped half-a-crown into his hand. ‘Auntie’ came in and told him + he’d see Andy in the morning and took him away to bed, after he’d kissed + us both solemnly; and presently she and Mrs Baker settled down to hear + Andy’s story. + </p> + <p> + ‘Brace up now, Jack, and keep your wits about you,’ whispered Andy to me + just before they came in. + </p> + <p> + ‘Poor Bob’s brother Ned wrote to me,’ said Mrs Baker, ‘but he scarcely + told me anything. Ned’s a good fellow, but he’s very simple, and never + thinks of anything.’ + </p> + <p> + Andy told her about the Boss not being well after he crossed the border. + </p> + <p> + ‘I knew he was not well,’ said Mrs Baker, ‘before he left. I didn’t want + him to go. I tried hard to persuade him not to go this trip. I had a + feeling that I oughtn’t to let him go. But he’d never think of anything + but me and the children. He promised he’d give up droving after this trip, + and get something to do near home. The life was too much for him—riding + in all weathers and camping out in the rain, and living like a dog. But he + was never content at home. It was all for the sake of me and the children. + He wanted to make money and start on a station again. I shouldn’t have let + him go. He only thought of me and the children! Oh! my poor, dear, kind, + dead husband!’ She broke down again and sobbed, and her sister comforted + her, while Andy and I stared at Wellington meeting Blucher on the field of + Waterloo. I thought the artist had heaped up the dead a bit extra, and I + thought that I wouldn’t like to be trod on by horses, even if I was dead. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you mind,’ said Miss Standish, ‘she’ll be all right presently,’ and + she handed us the ‘Illustrated Sydney Journal’. This was a great relief,—we + bumped our heads over the pictures. + </p> + <p> + Mrs Baker made Andy go on again, and he told her how the Boss broke down + near Mulgatown. Mrs Baker was opposite him and Miss Standish opposite me. + Both of them kept their eyes on Andy’s face: he sat, with his hair + straight up like a brush as usual, and kept his big innocent grey eyes + fixed on Mrs Baker’s face all the time he was speaking. I watched Miss + Standish. I thought she was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen; it was a bad + case of love at first sight, but she was far and away above me, and the + case was hopeless. I began to feel pretty miserable, and to think back + into the past: I just heard Andy droning away by my side. + </p> + <p> + ‘So we fixed him up comfortable in the waggonette with the blankets and + coats and things,’ Andy was saying, ‘and the squatter started into + Mulgatown.... It was about thirty miles, Jack, wasn’t it?’ he asked, + turning suddenly to me. He always looked so innocent that there were times + when I itched to knock him down. + </p> + <p> + ‘More like thirty-five,’ I said, waking up. + </p> + <p> + Miss Standish fixed her eyes on me, and I had another look at Wellington + and Blucher. + </p> + <p> + ‘They were all very good and kind to the Boss,’ said Andy. ‘They thought a + lot of him up there. Everybody was fond of him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know it,’ said Mrs Baker. ‘Nobody could help liking him. He was one of + the kindest men that ever lived.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tanner, the publican, couldn’t have been kinder to his own brother,’ said + Andy. ‘The local doctor was a decent chap, but he was only a young fellow, + and Tanner hadn’t much faith in him, so he wired for an older doctor at + Mackintyre, and he even sent out fresh horses to meet the doctor’s buggy. + Everything was done that could be done, I assure you, Mrs Baker.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I believe it,’ said Mrs Baker. ‘And you don’t know how it relieves me to + hear it. And did the publican do all this at his own expense?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He wouldn’t take a penny, Mrs Baker.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He must have been a good true man. I wish I could thank him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Ned thanked him for you,’ said Andy, though without meaning more than + he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wouldn’t have fancied that Ned would have thought of that,’ said Mrs + Baker. ‘When I first heard of my poor husband’s death, I thought perhaps + he’d been drinking again—that worried me a bit.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He never touched a drop after he left Solong, I can assure you, Mrs + Baker,’ said Andy quickly. + </p> + <p> + Now I noticed that Miss Standish seemed surprised or puzzled, once or + twice, while Andy was speaking, and leaned forward to listen to him; then + she leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands behind her head and + looked at him, with half-shut eyes, in a way I didn’t like. Once or twice + she looked at me as if she was going to ask me a question, but I always + looked away quick and stared at Blucher and Wellington, or into the empty + fireplace, till I felt that her eyes were off me. Then she asked Andy a + question or two, in all innocence I believe now, but it scared him, and at + last he watched his chance and winked at her sharp. Then she gave a little + gasp and shut up like a steel trap. + </p> + <p> + The sick child in the bedroom coughed and cried again. Mrs Baker went to + it. We three sat like a deaf-and-dumb institution, Andy and I staring all + over the place: presently Miss Standish excused herself, and went out of + the room after her sister. She looked hard at Andy as she left the room, + but he kept his eyes away. + </p> + <p> + ‘Brace up now, Jack,’ whispered Andy to me, ‘the worst is coming.’ + </p> + <p> + When they came in again Mrs Baker made Andy go on with his story. + </p> + <p> + ‘He—he died very quietly,’ said Andy, hitching round, and resting + his elbows on his knees, and looking into the fireplace so as to have his + face away from the light. Miss Standish put her arm round her sister. ‘He + died very easy,’ said Andy. ‘He was a bit off his head at times, but that + was while the fever was on him. He didn’t suffer much towards the end—I + don’t think he suffered at all.... He talked a lot about you and the + children.’ (Andy was speaking very softly now.) ‘He said that you were not + to fret, but to cheer up for the children’s sake.... It was the biggest + funeral ever seen round there.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs Baker was crying softly. Andy got the packet half out of his pocket, + but shoved it back again. + </p> + <p> + ‘The only thing that hurts me now,’ says Mrs Baker presently, ‘is to think + of my poor husband buried out there in the lonely Bush, so far from home. + It’s—cruel!’ and she was sobbing again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, that’s all right, Mrs Baker,’ said Andy, losing his head a little. + ‘Ned will see to that. Ned is going to arrange to have him brought down + and buried in Sydney.’ Which was about the first thing Andy had told her + that evening that wasn’t a lie. Ned had said he would do it as soon as he + sold his wool. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s very kind indeed of Ned,’ sobbed Mrs Baker. ‘I’d never have dreamed + he was so kind-hearted and thoughtful. I misjudged him all along. And that + is all you have to tell me about poor Robert?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Andy—then one of his ‘happy thoughts’ struck him. + ‘Except that he hoped you’d shift to Sydney, Mrs Baker, where you’ve got + friends and relations. He thought it would be better for you and the + children. He told me to tell you that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He was thoughtful up to the end,’ said Mrs Baker. ‘It was just like poor + Robert—always thinking of me and the children. We are going to + Sydney next week.’ + </p> + <p> + Andy looked relieved. We talked a little more, and Miss Standish wanted to + make coffee for us, but we had to go and see to our horses. We got up and + bumped against each other, and got each other’s hats, and promised Mrs + Baker we’d come again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you very much for coming,’ she said, shaking hands with us. ‘I feel + much better now. You don’t know how much you have relieved me. Now, mind, + you have promised to come and see me again for the last time.’ + </p> + <p> + Andy caught her sister’s eye and jerked his head towards the door to let + her know he wanted to speak to her outside. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good-bye, Mrs Baker,’ he said, holding on to her hand. ‘And don’t you + fret. You’ve—you’ve got the children yet. It’s—it’s all for + the best; and, besides, the Boss said you wasn’t to fret.’ And he + blundered out after me and Miss Standish. + </p> + <p> + She came out to the gate with us, and Andy gave her the packet. + </p> + <p> + ‘I want you to give that to her,’ he said; ‘it’s his letters and papers. I + hadn’t the heart to give it to her, somehow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell me, Mr M’Culloch,’ she said. ‘You’ve kept something back—you + haven’t told her the truth. It would be better and safer for me to know. + Was it an accident—or the drink?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was the drink,’ said Andy. ‘I was going to tell you—I thought it + would be best to tell you. I had made up my mind to do it, but, somehow, I + couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t asked me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell me all,’ she said. ‘It would be better for me to know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come a little farther away from the house,’ said Andy. She came along the + fence a piece with us, and Andy told her as much of the truth as he could. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll hurry her off to Sydney,’ she said. ‘We can get away this week as + well as next.’ Then she stood for a minute before us, breathing quickly, + her hands behind her back and her eyes shining in the moonlight. She + looked splendid. + </p> + <p> + ‘I want to thank you for her sake,’ she said quickly. ‘You are good men! I + like the Bushmen! They are grand men—they are noble! I’ll probably + never see either of you again, so it doesn’t matter,’ and she put her + white hand on Andy’s shoulder and kissed him fair and square on the mouth. + ‘And you, too!’ she said to me. I was taller than Andy, and had to stoop. + ‘Good-bye!’ she said, and ran to the gate and in, waving her hand to us. + We lifted our hats again and turned down the road. + </p> + <p> + I don’t think it did either of us any harm. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs. + </h2> + <p> + This is a story—about the only one—of Job Falconer, Boss of + the Talbragar sheep-station up country in New South Wales in the early + Eighties—when there were still runs in the Dingo-Scrubs out of the + hands of the banks, and yet squatters who lived on their stations. + </p> + <p> + Job would never tell the story himself, at least not complete, and as his + family grew up he would become as angry as it was in his easy-going nature + to become if reference were made to the incident in his presence. But his + wife—little, plump, bright-eyed Gerty Falconer—often told the + story (in the mysterious voice which women use in speaking of private + matters amongst themselves—but with brightening eyes) to women + friends over tea; and always to a new woman friend. And on such occasions + she would be particularly tender towards the unconscious Job, and ruffle + his thin, sandy hair in a way that embarrassed him in company—made + him look as sheepish as an old big-horned ram that has just been shorn and + turned amongst the ewes. And the woman friend on parting would give Job’s + hand a squeeze which would surprise him mildly, and look at him as if she + could love him. + </p> + <p> + According to a theory of mine, Job, to fit the story, should have been + tall, and dark, and stern, or gloomy and quick-tempered. But he wasn’t. He + was fairly tall, but he was fresh-complexioned and sandy (his skin was + pink to scarlet in some weathers, with blotches of umber), and his eyes + were pale-grey; his big forehead loomed babyishly, his arms were short, + and his legs bowed to the saddle. Altogether he was an awkward, unlovely + Bush bird—on foot; in the saddle it was different. He hadn’t even a + ‘temper’. + </p> + <p> + The impression on Job’s mind which many years afterwards brought about the + incident was strong enough. When Job was a boy of fourteen he saw his + father’s horse come home riderless—circling and snorting up by the + stockyard, head jerked down whenever the hoof trod on one of the snapped + ends of the bridle-reins, and saddle twisted over the side with bruised + pommel and knee-pad broken off. + </p> + <p> + Job’s father wasn’t hurt much, but Job’s mother, an emotional woman, and + then in a delicate state of health, survived the shock for three months + only. ‘She wasn’t quite right in her head,’ they said, ‘from the day the + horse came home till the last hour before she died.’ And, strange to say, + Job’s father (from whom Job inherited his seemingly placid nature) died + three months later. The doctor from the town was of the opinion that he + must have ‘sustained internal injuries’ when the horse threw him. ‘Doc. + Wild’ (eccentric Bush doctor) reckoned that Job’s father was hurt inside + when his wife died, and hurt so badly that he couldn’t pull round. But + doctors differ all over the world. + </p> + <p> + Well, the story of Job himself came about in this way. He had been married + a year, and had lately started wool-raising on a pastoral lease he had + taken up at Talbragar: it was a new run, with new slab-and-bark huts on + the creek for a homestead, new shearing-shed, yards—wife and + everything new, and he was expecting a baby. Job felt brand-new himself at + the time, so he said. It was a lonely place for a young woman; but Gerty + was a settler’s daughter. The newness took away some of the loneliness, + she said, and there was truth in that: a Bush home in the scrubs looks + lonelier the older it gets, and ghostlier in the twilight, as the bark and + slabs whiten, or rather grow grey, in fierce summers. And there’s nothing + under God’s sky so weird, so aggressively lonely, as a deserted old home + in the Bush. + </p> + <p> + Job’s wife had a half-caste gin for company when Job was away on the run, + and the nearest white woman (a hard but honest Lancashire woman from + within the kicking radius in Lancashire—wife of a selector) was only + seven miles away. She promised to be on hand, and came over two or three + times a-week; but Job grew restless as Gerty’s time drew near, and wished + that he had insisted on sending her to the nearest town (thirty miles + away), as originally proposed. Gerty’s mother, who lived in town, was + coming to see her over her trouble; Job had made arrangements with the + town doctor, but prompt attendance could hardly be expected of a doctor + who was very busy, who was too fat to ride, and who lived thirty miles + away. + </p> + <p> + Job, in common with most Bushmen and their families round there, had more + faith in Doc. Wild, a weird Yankee who made medicine in a saucepan, and + worked more cures on Bushmen than did the other three doctors of the + district together—maybe because the Bushmen had faith in him, or he + knew the Bush and Bush constitutions—or, perhaps, because he’d do + things which no ‘respectable practitioner’ dared do. I’ve described him in + another story. Some said he was a quack, and some said he wasn’t. There + are scores of wrecks and mysteries like him in the Bush. He drank + fearfully, and ‘on his own’, but was seldom incapable of performing an + operation. Experienced Bushmen preferred him three-quarters drunk: when + perfectly sober he was apt to be a bit shaky. He was tall, gaunt, had a + pointed black moustache, bushy eyebrows, and piercing black eyes. His + movements were eccentric. He lived where he happened to be—in a town + hotel, in the best room of a homestead, in the skillion of a sly-grog + shanty, in a shearer’s, digger’s, shepherd’s, or boundary-rider’s hut; in + a surveyor’s camp or a black-fellows’ camp—or, when the horrors were + on him, by a log in the lonely Bush. It seemed all one to him. He lost all + his things sometimes—even his clothes; but he never lost a pigskin + bag which contained his surgical instruments and papers. Except once; then + he gave the blacks 5 Pounds to find it for him. + </p> + <p> + His patients included all, from the big squatter to Black Jimmy; and he + rode as far and fast to a squatter’s home as to a swagman’s camp. When + nothing was to be expected from a poor selector or a station hand, and the + doctor was hard up, he went to the squatter for a few pounds. He had on + occasions been offered cheques of 50 Pounds and 100 Pounds by squatters + for ‘pulling round’ their wives or children; but such offers always + angered him. When he asked for 5 Pounds he resented being offered a 10 + Pound cheque. He once sued a doctor for alleging that he held no diploma; + but the magistrate, on reading certain papers, suggested a settlement out + of court, which both doctors agreed to—the other doctor apologising + briefly in the local paper. It was noticed thereafter that the magistrate + and town doctors treated Doc. Wild with great respect—even at his + worst. The thing was never explained, and the case deepened the mystery + which surrounded Doc. Wild. + </p> + <p> + As Job Falconer’s crisis approached Doc. Wild was located at a shanty on + the main road, about half-way between Job’s station and the town. + (Township of Come-by-Chance—expressive name; and the shanty was the + ‘Dead Dingo Hotel’, kept by James Myles—known as ‘Poisonous Jimmy’, + perhaps as a compliment to, or a libel on, the liquor he sold.) Job’s + brother Mac. was stationed at the Dead Dingo Hotel with instructions to + hang round on some pretence, see that the doctor didn’t either drink + himself into the ‘D.T.‘s’ or get sober enough to become restless; to + prevent his going away, or to follow him if he did; and to bring him to + the station in about a week’s time. Mac. (rather more careless, brighter, + and more energetic than his brother) was carrying out these instructions + while pretending, with rather great success, to be himself on the spree at + the shanty. + </p> + <p> + But one morning, early in the specified week, Job’s uneasiness was + suddenly greatly increased by certain symptoms, so he sent the black boy + for the neighbour’s wife and decided to ride to Come-by-Chance to hurry + out Gerty’s mother, and see, by the way, how Doc. Wild and Mac. were + getting on. On the arrival of the neighbour’s wife, who drove over in a + spring-cart, Job mounted his horse (a freshly broken filly) and started. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t be anxious, Job,’ said Gerty, as he bent down to kiss her. ‘We’ll + be all right. Wait! you’d better take the gun—you might see those + dingoes again. I’ll get it for you.’ + </p> + <p> + The dingoes (native dogs) were very bad amongst the sheep; and Job and + Gerty had started three together close to the track the last time they + were out in company—without the gun, of course. Gerty took the + loaded gun carefully down from its straps on the bedroom wall, carried it + out, and handed it up to Job, who bent and kissed her again and then rode + off. + </p> + <p> + It was a hot day—the beginning of a long drought, as Job found to + his bitter cost. He followed the track for five or six miles through the + thick, monotonous scrub, and then turned off to make a short cut to the + main road across a big ring-barked flat. The tall gum-trees had been + ring-barked (a ring of bark taken out round the butts), or rather ‘sapped’—that + is, a ring cut in through the sap—in order to kill them, so that the + little strength in the ‘poor’ soil should not be drawn out by the living + roots, and the natural grass (on which Australian stock depends) should + have a better show. The hard, dead trees raised their barkless and + whitened trunks and leafless branches for three or four miles, and the + grey and brown grass stood tall between, dying in the first breaths of the + coming drought. All was becoming grey and ashen here, the heat blazing and + dancing across objects, and the pale brassy dome of the sky cloudless over + all, the sun a glaring white disc with its edges almost melting into the + sky. Job held his gun carelessly ready (it was a double-barrelled + muzzle-loader, one barrel choke-bore for shot, and the other rifled), and + he kept an eye out for dingoes. He was saving his horse for a long ride, + jogging along in the careless Bush fashion, hitched a little to one side—and + I’m not sure that he didn’t have a leg thrown up and across in front of + the pommel of the saddle—he was riding along in the careless Bush + fashion, and thinking fatherly thoughts in advance, perhaps, when suddenly + a great black, greasy-looking iguana scuttled off from the side of the + track amongst the dry tufts of grass and shreds of dead bark, and started + up a sapling. ‘It was a whopper,’ Job said afterwards; ‘must have been + over six feet, and a foot across the body. It scared me nearly as much as + the filly.’ + </p> + <p> + The filly shied off like a rocket. Job kept his seat instinctively, as was + natural to him; but before he could more than grab at the rein—lying + loosely on the pommel—the filly ‘fetched up’ against a dead + box-tree, hard as cast-iron, and Job’s left leg was jammed from stirrup to + pocket. ‘I felt the blood flare up,’ he said, ‘and I knowed that that’—(Job + swore now and then in an easy-going way)—‘I knowed that that blanky + leg was broken alright. I threw the gun from me and freed my left foot + from the stirrup with my hand, and managed to fall to the right, as the + filly started off again.’ + </p> + <p> + What follows comes from the statements of Doc. Wild and Mac. Falconer, and + Job’s own ‘wanderings in his mind’, as he called them. ‘They took a blanky + mean advantage of me,’ he said, ‘when they had me down and I couldn’t talk + sense.’ + </p> + <p> + The filly circled off a bit, and then stood staring—as a mob of + brumbies, when fired at, will sometimes stand watching the smoke. Job’s + leg was smashed badly, and the pain must have been terrible. But he + thought then with a flash, as men do in a fix. No doubt the scene at the + lonely Bush home of his boyhood started up before him: his father’s horse + appeared riderless, and he saw the look in his mother’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + Now a Bushman’s first, best, and quickest chance in a fix like this is + that his horse go home riderless, the home be alarmed, and the horse’s + tracks followed back to him; otherwise he might lie there for days, for + weeks—till the growing grass buries his mouldering bones. Job was on + an old sheep-track across a flat where few might have occasion to come for + months, but he did not consider this. He crawled to his gun, then to a + log, dragging gun and smashed leg after him. How he did it he doesn’t + know. Half-lying on one side, he rested the barrel on the log, took aim at + the filly, pulled both triggers, and then fell over and lay with his head + against the log; and the gun-barrel, sliding down, rested on his neck. He + had fainted. The crows were interested, and the ants would come by-and-by. + </p> + <p> + Now Doc. Wild had inspirations; anyway, he did things which seemed, after + they were done, to have been suggested by inspiration and in no other + possible way. He often turned up where and when he was wanted above all + men, and at no other time. He had gipsy blood, they said; but, anyway, + being the mystery he was, and having the face he had, and living the life + he lived—and doing the things he did—it was quite probable + that he was more nearly in touch than we with that awful invisible world + all round and between us, of which we only see distorted faces and hear + disjointed utterances when we are ‘suffering a recovery’—or going + mad. + </p> + <p> + On the morning of Job’s accident, and after a long brooding silence, Doc. + Wild suddenly said to Mac. Falconer— + </p> + <p> + ‘Git the hosses, Mac. We’ll go to the station.’ + </p> + <p> + Mac., used to the doctor’s eccentricities, went to see about the horses. + </p> + <p> + And then who should drive up but Mrs Spencer—Job’s mother-in-law—on + her way from the town to the station. She stayed to have a cup of tea and + give her horses a feed. She was square-faced, and considered a rather hard + and practical woman, but she had plenty of solid flesh, good sympathetic + common-sense, and deep-set humorous blue eyes. She lived in the town + comfortably on the interest of some money which her husband left in the + bank. She drove an American waggonette with a good width and length of + ‘tray’ behind, and on this occasion she had a pole and two horses. In the + trap were a new flock mattress and pillows, a generous pair of new white + blankets, and boxes containing necessaries, delicacies, and luxuries. All + round she was an excellent mother-in-law for a man to have on hand at a + critical time. + </p> + <p> + And, speaking of mother-in-law, I would like to put in a word for her + right here. She is universally considered a nuisance in times of peace and + comfort; but when illness or serious trouble comes home! Then it’s ‘Write + to Mother! Wire for Mother! Send some one to fetch Mother! I’ll go and + bring Mother!’ and if she is not near: ‘Oh, I wish Mother were here! If + Mother were only near!’ And when she is on the spot, the anxious + son-in-law: ‘Don’t YOU go, Mother! You’ll stay, won’t you, Mother?—till + we’re all right? I’ll get some one to look after your house, Mother, while + you’re here.’ But Job Falconer was fond of his mother-in-law, all times. + </p> + <p> + Mac. had some trouble in finding and catching one of the horses. Mrs + Spencer drove on, and Mac. and the doctor caught up to her about a mile + before she reached the homestead track, which turned in through the scrubs + at the corner of the big ring-barked flat. + </p> + <p> + Doc. Wild and Mac. followed the cart-road, and as they jogged along in the + edge of the scrub the doctor glanced once or twice across the flat through + the dead, naked branches. Mac. looked that way. The crows were hopping + about the branches of a tree way out in the middle of the flat, flopping + down from branch to branch to the grass, then rising hurriedly and + circling. + </p> + <p> + ‘Dead beast there!’ said Mac. out of his Bushcraft. + </p> + <p> + ‘No—dying,’ said Doc. Wild, with less Bush experience but more + intellect. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s some steers of Job’s out there somewhere,’ muttered Mac. Then + suddenly, ‘It ain’t drought—it’s the ploorer at last! or I’m + blanked!’ + </p> + <p> + Mac. feared the advent of that cattle-plague, pleuro-pneumonia, which was + raging on some other stations, but had been hitherto kept clear of Job’s + run. + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll go and see, if you like,’ suggested Doc. Wild. + </p> + <p> + They turned out across the flat, the horses picking their way amongst the + dried tufts and fallen branches. + </p> + <p> + ‘Theer ain’t no sign o’ cattle theer,’ said the doctor; ‘more likely a ewe + in trouble about her lamb.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, the blanky dingoes at the sheep,’ said Mac. ‘I wish we had a gun—might + get a shot at them.’ + </p> + <p> + Doc. Wild hitched the skirt of a long China silk coat he wore, free of a + hip-pocket. He always carried a revolver. ‘In case I feel obliged to shoot + a first person singular one of these hot days,’ he explained once, whereat + Bushmen scratched the backs of their heads and thought feebly, without + result. + </p> + <p> + ‘We’d never git near enough for a shot,’ said the doctor; then he + commenced to hum fragments from a Bush song about the finding of a lost + Bushman in the last stages of death by thirst,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘“The crows kept flyin’ up, boys! + The crows kept flyin’ up! + The dog, he seen and whimpered, boys, + Though he was but a pup.”’ +</pre> + <p> + ‘It must be something or other,’ muttered Mac. ‘Look at them blanky + crows!’ + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘“The lost was found, we brought him round, + And took him from the place, + While the ants was swarmin’ on the ground, + And the crows was sayin’ grace!”’ +</pre> + <p> + ‘My God! what’s that?’ cried Mac., who was a little in advance and rode a + tall horse. + </p> + <p> + It was Job’s filly, lying saddled and bridled, with a rifle-bullet (as + they found on subsequent examination) through shoulders and chest, and her + head full of kangaroo-shot. She was feebly rocking her head against the + ground, and marking the dust with her hoof, as if trying to write the + reason of it there. + </p> + <p> + The doctor drew his revolver, took a cartridge from his waistcoat pocket, + and put the filly out of her misery in a very scientific manner; then + something—professional instinct or the something supernatural about + the doctor—led him straight to the log, hidden in the grass, where + Job lay as we left him, and about fifty yards from the dead filly, which + must have staggered off some little way after being shot. Mac. followed + the doctor, shaking violently. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, my God!’ he cried, with the woman in his voice—and his face so + pale that his freckles stood out like buttons, as Doc. Wild said—‘oh, + my God! he’s shot himself!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, he hasn’t,’ said the doctor, deftly turning Job into a healthier + position with his head from under the log and his mouth to the air: then + he ran his eyes and hands over him, and Job moaned. ‘He’s got a broken + leg,’ said the doctor. Even then he couldn’t resist making a + characteristic remark, half to himself: ‘A man doesn’t shoot himself when + he’s going to be made a lawful father for the first time, unless he can + see a long way into the future.’ Then he took out his whisky-flask and + said briskly to Mac., ‘Leave me your water-bag’ (Mac. carried a canvas + water-bag slung under his horse’s neck), ‘ride back to the track, stop Mrs + Spencer, and bring the waggonette here. Tell her it’s only a broken leg.’ + </p> + <p> + Mac. mounted and rode off at a break-neck pace. + </p> + <p> + As he worked the doctor muttered: ‘He shot his horse. That’s what gits me. + The fool might have lain there for a week. I’d never have suspected spite + in that carcass, and I ought to know men.’ + </p> + <p> + But as Job came round a little Doc. Wild was enlightened. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where’s the filly?’ cried Job suddenly between groans. + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s all right,’ said the doctor. + </p> + <p> + ‘Stop her!’ cried Job, struggling to rise—‘stop her!—oh God! + my leg.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Keep quiet, you fool!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Stop her!’ yelled Job. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why stop her?’ asked the doctor. ‘She won’t go fur,’ he added. + </p> + <p> + ‘She’ll go home to Gerty,’ shouted Job. ‘For God’s sake stop her!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘O—h!’ drawled the doctor to himself. ‘I might have guessed that. + And I ought to know men.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t take me home!’ demanded Job in a semi-sensible interval. ‘Take me + to Poisonous Jimmy’s and tell Gerty I’m on the spree.’ + </p> + <p> + When Mac. and Mrs Spencer arrived with the waggonette Doc. Wild was in his + shirt-sleeves, his Chinese silk coat having gone for bandages. The lower + half of Job’s trouser-leg and his ‘lastic-side boot lay on the ground, + neatly cut off, and his bandaged leg was sandwiched between two strips of + bark, with grass stuffed in the hollows, and bound by saddle-straps. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s all I kin do for him for the present.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs Spencer was a strong woman mentally, but she arrived rather pale and a + little shaky: nevertheless she called out, as soon as she got within + earshot of the doctor— + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s Job been doing now?’ (Job, by the way, had never been remarkable + for doing anything.) + </p> + <p> + ‘He’s got his leg broke and shot his horse,’ replied the doctor. ‘But,’ he + added, ‘whether he’s been a hero or a fool I dunno. Anyway, it’s a mess + all round.’ + </p> + <p> + They unrolled the bed, blankets, and pillows in the bottom of the trap, + backed it against the log, to have a step, and got Job in. It was a + ticklish job, but they had to manage it: Job, maddened by pain and heat, + only kept from fainting by whisky, groaning and raving and yelling to them + to stop his horse. + </p> + <p> + ‘Lucky we got him before the ants did,’ muttered the doctor. Then he had + an inspiration— + </p> + <p> + ‘You bring him on to the shepherd’s hut this side the station. We must + leave him there. Drive carefully, and pour brandy into him now and then; + when the brandy’s done pour whisky, then gin—keep the rum till the + last’ (the doctor had put a supply of spirits in the waggonette at + Poisonous Jimmy’s). ‘I’ll take Mac.‘s horse and ride on and send Peter’ + (the station hand) ‘back to the hut to meet you. I’ll be back myself if I + can. THIS BUSINESS WILL HURRY UP THINGS AT THE STATION.’ + </p> + <p> + Which last was one of those apparently insane remarks of the doctor’s + which no sane nor sober man could fathom or see a reason for—except + in Doc. Wild’s madness. + </p> + <p> + He rode off at a gallop. The burden of Job’s raving, all the way, rested + on the dead filly— + </p> + <p> + ‘Stop her! She must not go home to Gerty!... God help me shoot!... Whoa!—whoa, + there!... “Cope—cope—cope”—Steady, Jessie, old girl.... + Aim straight—aim straight! Aim for me, God!—I’ve missed!... + Stop her!’ &c. + </p> + <p> + ‘I never met a character like that,’ commented the doctor afterwards, + ‘inside a man that looked like Job on the outside. I’ve met men behind + revolvers and big mustarshes in Califo’nia; but I’ve met a derned sight + more men behind nothing but a good-natured grin, here in Australia. These + lanky sawney Bushmen will do things in an easy-going way some day that’ll + make the old world sit up and think hard.’ + </p> + <p> + He reached the station in time, and twenty minutes or half an hour later + he left the case in the hands of the Lancashire woman—whom he saw + reason to admire—and rode back to the hut to help Job, whom they + soon fixed up as comfortably as possible. + </p> + <p> + They humbugged Mrs Falconer first with a yarn of Job’s alleged phenomenal + shyness, and gradually, as she grew stronger, and the truth less + important, they told it to her. And so, instead of Job being pushed, + scarlet-faced, into the bedroom to see his first-born, Gerty Falconer + herself took the child down to the hut, and so presented Uncle Job with my + first and favourite cousin and Bush chum. + </p> + <p> + Doc. Wild stayed round until he saw Job comfortably moved to the + homestead, then he prepared to depart. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sorry,’ said Job, who was still weak—‘I’m sorry for that there + filly. I was breaking her in to side-saddle for Gerty when she should get + about. I wouldn’t have lost her for twenty quid.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind, Job,’ said the doctor. ‘I, too, once shot an animal I was + fond of—and for the sake of a woman—but that animal walked on + two legs and wore trousers. Good-bye, Job.’ + </p> + <p> + And he left for Poisonous Jimmy’s. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Little World Left Behind. + </h2> + <p> + I lately revisited a western agricultural district in Australia after many + years. The railway had reached it, but otherwise things were drearily, + hopelessly, depressingly unchanged. There was the same old grant, + comprising several thousands of acres of the richest land in the district, + lying idle still, except for a few horses allowed to run there for a + shilling a-head per week. + </p> + <p> + There were the same old selections—about as far off as ever from + becoming freeholds—shoved back among the barren ridges; dusty little + patches in the scrub, full of stones and stumps, and called farms, + deserted every few years, and tackled again by some little dried-up + family, or some old hatter, and then given best once more. There was the + cluster of farms on the flat, and in the foot of the gully, owned by + Australians of Irish or English descent, with the same number of stumps in + the wheat-paddock, the same broken fences and tumble-down huts and yards, + and the same weak, sleepy attempt made every season to scratch up the + ground and raise a crop. And along the creek the German farmers—the + only people there worthy of the name—toiling (men, women, and + children) from daylight till dark, like slaves, just as they always had + done; the elder sons stoop-shouldered old men at thirty. + </p> + <p> + The row about the boundary fence between the Sweeneys and the Joneses was + unfinished still, and the old feud between the Dunderblitzens and the + Blitzendunders was more deadly than ever—it started three + generations ago over a stray bull. The O’Dunn was still fighting for his + great object in life, which was not to be ‘onneighborly’, as he put it. ‘I + DON’T want to be onneighborly,’ he said, ‘but I’ll be aven wid some of ‘em + yit. It’s almost impossible for a dacent man to live in sich a + neighborhood and not be onneighborly, thry how he will. But I’ll be aven + wid some of ‘em yit, marruk my wurrud.’ + </p> + <p> + Jones’s red steer—it couldn’t have been the same red steer—was + continually breaking into Rooney’s ‘whate an’ bringin’ ivery head av the + other cattle afther him, and ruinin’ him intirely.’ The Rooneys and + M’Kenzies were at daggers drawn, even to the youngest child, over the + impounding of a horse belonging to Pat Rooney’s brother-in-law, by a + distant relation of the M’Kenzies, which had happened nine years ago. + </p> + <p> + The same sun-burned, masculine women went past to market twice a-week in + the same old carts and driving much the same quality of carrion. The + string of overloaded spring-carts, buggies, and sweating horses went + whirling into town, to ‘service’, through clouds of dust and broiling + heat, on Sunday morning, and came driving cruelly out again at noon. The + neighbours’ sons rode over in the afternoon, as of old, and hung up their + poor, ill-used little horses to bake in the sun, and sat on their heels + about the verandah, and drawled drearily concerning crops, fruit, trees, + and vines, and horses and cattle; the drought and ‘smut’ and ‘rust’ in + wheat, and the ‘ploorer’ (pleuro-pneumonia) in cattle, and other cheerful + things; that there colt or filly, or that there cattle-dog (pup or bitch) + o’ mine (or ‘Jim’s’). They always talked most of farming there, where no + farming worthy of the name was possible—except by Germans and + Chinamen. Towards evening the old local relic of the golden days dropped + in and announced that he intended to ‘put down a shaft’ next week, in a + spot where he’d been going to put it down twenty years ago—and every + week since. It was nearly time that somebody sunk a hole and buried him + there. + </p> + <p> + An old local body named Mrs Witherly still went into town twice a-week + with her ‘bit av prodjuce’, as O’Dunn called it. She still drove a long, + bony, blind horse in a long rickety dray, with a stout sapling for a whip, + and about twenty yards of clothes-line reins. The floor of the dray + covered part of an acre, and one wheel was always ahead of the other—or + behind, according to which shaft was pulled. She wore, to all appearances, + the same short frock, faded shawl, men’s ‘lastic sides, and white hood + that she had on when the world was made. She still stopped just twenty + minutes at old Mrs Leatherly’s on the way in for a yarn and a cup of tea—as + she had always done, on the same days and at the same time within the + memory of the hoariest local liar. However, she had a new clothes-line + bent on to the old horse’s front end—and we fancy that was the + reason she didn’t recognise us at first. She had never looked younger than + a hard hundred within the memory of man. Her shrivelled face was the + colour of leather, and crossed and recrossed with lines till there wasn’t + room for any more. But her eyes were bright yet, and twinkled with humour + at times. + </p> + <p> + She had been in the Bush for fifty years, and had fought fires, droughts, + hunger and thirst, floods, cattle and crop diseases, and all the things + that God curses Australian settlers with. She had had two husbands, and it + could be said of neither that he had ever done an honest day’s work, or + any good for himself or any one else. She had reared something under + fifteen children, her own and others; and there was scarcely one of them + that had not given her trouble. Her sons had brought disgrace on her old + head over and over again, but she held up that same old head through it + all, and looked her narrow, ignorant world in the face—and ‘lived it + down’. She had worked like a slave for fifty years; yet she had more + energy and endurance than many modern city women in her shrivelled old + body. She was a daughter of English aristocrats. + </p> + <p> + And we who live our weak lives of fifty years or so in the cities—we + grow maudlin over our sorrows (and beer), and ask whether life is worth + living or not. + </p> + <p> + I sought in the farming town relief from the general and particular + sameness of things, but there was none. The railway station was about the + only new building in town. The old signs even were as badly in need of + retouching as of old. I picked up a copy of the local ‘Advertiser’, which + newspaper had been started in the early days by a brilliant drunkard, who + drank himself to death just as the fathers of our nation were beginning to + get educated up to his style. He might have made Australian journalism + very different from what it is. There was nothing new in the ‘Advertiser’—there + had been nothing new since the last time the drunkard had been sober + enough to hold a pen. There was the same old ‘enjoyable trip’ to Drybone + (whereof the editor was the hero), and something about an on-the-whole + very enjoyable evening in some place that was tastefully decorated, and + where the visitors did justice to the good things provided, and the small + hours, and dancing, and our host and hostess, and respected + fellow-townsmen; also divers young ladies sang very nicely, and a young Mr + Somebody favoured the company with a comic song. + </p> + <p> + There was the same trespassing on the valuable space by the old + subscriber, who said that ‘he had said before and would say again’, and he + proceeded to say the same things which he said in the same paper when we + first heard our father reading it to our mother. Farther on the old + subscriber proceeded to ‘maintain’, and recalled attention to the fact + that it was just exactly as he had said. After which he made a few + abstract, incoherent remarks about the ‘surrounding district’, and + concluded by stating that he ‘must now conclude’, and thanking the editor + for trespassing on the aforesaid valuable space. + </p> + <p> + There was the usual leader on the Government; and an agitation was still + carried on, by means of horribly-constructed correspondence to both + papers, for a bridge over Dry-Hole Creek at Dustbin—a place where no + sane man ever had occasion to go. + </p> + <p> + I took up the ‘unreliable contemporary’, but found nothing there except a + letter from ‘Parent’, another from ‘Ratepayer’, a leader on the + Government, and ‘A Trip to Limeburn’, which latter I suppose was made in + opposition to the trip to Drybone. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing new in the town. Even the almost inevitable gang of city + spoilers hadn’t arrived with the railway. They would have been a relief. + There was the monotonous aldermanic row, and the worse than hopeless + little herd of aldermen, the weird agricultural portion of whom came in on + council days in white starched and ironed coats, as we had always + remembered them. They were aggressively barren of ideas; but on this + occasion they had risen above themselves, for one of them had remembered + something his grandfather (old time English alderman) had told him, and + they were stirring up all the old local quarrels and family spite of the + district over a motion, or an amendment on a motion, that a letter—from + another enlightened body and bearing on an equally important matter (which + letter had been sent through the post sufficiently stamped, delivered to + the secretary, handed to the chairman, read aloud in council, and passed + round several times for private perusal)—over a motion that such + letter be received. + </p> + <p> + There was a maintenance case coming on—to the usual well-ventilated + disgust of the local religious crank, who was on the jury; but the case + differed in no essential point from other cases which were always coming + on and going off in my time. It was not at all romantic. The local youth + was not even brilliant in adultery. + </p> + <p> + After I had been a week in that town the Governor decided to visit it, and + preparations were made to welcome him and present him with an address. + Then I thought that it was time to go, and slipped away unnoticed in the + general lunacy. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Never-Never Country. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By homestead, hut, and shearing-shed, + By railroad, coach, and track— + By lonely graves of our brave dead, + Up-Country and Out-Back: + To where ‘neath glorious clustered stars + The dreamy plains expand— + My home lies wide a thousand miles + In the Never-Never Land. + + It lies beyond the farming belt, + Wide wastes of scrub and plain, + A blazing desert in the drought, + A lake-land after rain; + To the sky-line sweeps the waving grass, + Or whirls the scorching sand— + A phantom land, a mystic land! + The Never-Never Land. + + Where lone Mount Desolation lies, + Mounts Dreadful and Despair— + ‘Tis lost beneath the rainless skies + In hopeless deserts there; + It spreads nor’-west by No-Man’s Land— + Where clouds are seldom seen— + To where the cattle-stations lie + Three hundred miles between. + + The drovers of the Great Stock Routes + The strange Gulf country know— + Where, travelling from the southern droughts, + The big lean bullocks go; + And camped by night where plains lie wide, + Like some old ocean’s bed, + The watchmen in the starlight ride + Round fifteen hundred head. + + And west of named and numbered days + The shearers walk and ride— + Jack Cornstalk and the Ne’er-do-well, + And the grey-beard side by side; + They veil their eyes from moon and stars, + And slumber on the sand— + Sad memories sleep as years go round + In Never-Never Land. + + By lonely huts north-west of Bourke, + Through years of flood and drought, + The best of English black-sheep work + Their own salvation out: + Wild fresh-faced boys grown gaunt and brown— + Stiff-lipped and haggard-eyed— + They live the Dead Past grimly down! + Where boundary-riders ride. + + The College Wreck who sunk beneath, + Then rose above his shame, + Tramps West in mateship with the man + Who cannot write his name. + ‘Tis there where on the barren track + No last half-crust’s begrudged— + Where saint and sinner, side by side, + Judge not, and are not judged. + + Oh rebels to society! + The Outcasts of the West— + Oh hopeless eyes that smile for me, + And broken hearts that jest! + The pluck to face a thousand miles— + The grit to see it through! + The communism perfected!— + And—I am proud of you! + + The Arab to true desert sand, + The Finn to fields of snow; + The Flax-stick turns to Maoriland, + Where the seasons come and go; + And this old fact comes home to me— + And will not let me rest— + However barren it may be, + Your own land is the best! + + And, lest at ease I should forget + True mateship after all, + My water-bag and billy yet + Are hanging on the wall; + And if my fate should show the sign, + I’d tramp to sunsets grand + With gaunt and stern-eyed mates of mine + In Never-Never Land. +</pre> + <p> + [End of original text.] + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + A Note on the Author and the Text: + </p> + <p> + Henry Lawson was born near Grenfell, New South Wales, Australia on 17 June + 1867. Although he has since become the most acclaimed Australian writer, + in his own lifetime his writing was often “on the side”—his “real” + work was whatever he could find, often painting houses, or doing rough + carpentry. His writing was often taken from memories of his childhood, + especially at Pipeclay/Eurunderee. In his autobiography, he states that + many of his characters were taken from the better class of diggers and + bushmen he knew there. His experiences at this time deeply influenced his + work, for it is interesting to note a number of descriptions and phrases + that are identical in his autobiography and in his stories and poems. He + died in Sydney, 2 September 1922. Much of his writing was for periodicals, + and even his regular publications were so varied, including books + originally released as one volume being reprinted as two, and vice versa, + that the multitude of permutations cannot be listed here. However, the + following should give a basic outline of his major works. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Books of Short Stories: + While the Billy Boils (1896) + On the Track (1900) + Over the Sliprails (1900) + The Country I Come From (1901) | These works were first published + Joe Wilson and His Mates (1901) | in England, during or shortly after + Children of the Bush (1902) | Lawson’s stay there. + Send Round the Hat (1907) | These two books were first published + The Romance of the Swag (1907) | as “Children of the Bush”. + The Rising of the Court (1910) + + Poetry: + In the Days When the World Was Wide (1896) + Verses Popular and Humorous (1900) + When I Was King and Other Verses (1905) + The Skyline Riders (1910) + Selected Poems of Henry Lawson (1918) +</pre> + <p> + Joe Wilson and His Mates was later published as two separate volumes, “Joe + Wilson” and “Joe Wilson’s Mates”, which correspond to Parts I & II in + Joe Wilson and His Mates. This work was first published in England, which + may be evident from some of Lawson’s comments in the text which are + directed at English readers. For example, Lawson writes in ‘The Golden + Graveyard’: “A gold washing-dish is a flat dish—nearer the shape of + a bedroom bath-tub than anything else I have seen in England, or the dish + we used for setting milk—I don’t know whether the same is used + here....” + </p> + <p> + Alan Light, Monroe, North Carolina, June 1997. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1036 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |