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diff --git a/old/1036-0.txt b/old/1036-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..987a104 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1036-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9667 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Joe Wilson and His Mates, by Henry Lawson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Joe Wilson and His Mates + +Author: Henry Lawson + +Posting Date: July 27, 2008 [EBook #1036] +Release Date: September, 1997 +Last Updated: October 9, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light, and Gary M. Johnson + + + + + +JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES + +by Henry Lawson + + +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. + + +***** + + +An incomplete glossary of Australian, British, or antique terms and +concepts which may prove helpful to understanding this book: + + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Old-fashioned child: A child that acts old for their age. Americans +would say ‘Precocious’. + +‘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. + +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. + +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. + +Tucker: Food. + +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. + +Sly-grog-shop: An unlicensed bar or liquor-store. + +Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + +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. + +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. + +--A. L. + + + + + +JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES + + +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. + + + + +The Author’s Farewell to the Bushmen. + + + + 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. + + + + + +Contents. + + + Prefatory Verses-- + + The Author’s Farewell to the Bushmen. + + + Part I. + + Joe Wilson’s Courtship. + Brighten’s Sister-In-Law. + ‘Water Them Geraniums’. + I. A Lonely Track. + II. ‘Past Carin’’. + A Double Buggy at Lahey’s Creek. + I. Spuds, and a Woman’s Obstinacy. + II. Joe Wilson’s Luck. + III. The Ghost of Mary’s Sacrifice. + IV. The Buggy Comes Home. + + + Part II. + + The Golden Graveyard. + The Chinaman’s Ghost. + The Loaded Dog. + Poisonous Jimmy Gets Left. + I. Dave Regan’s Yarn. + II. Told by One of the Other Drovers. + The Ghostly Door. + A Wild Irishman. + The Babies in the Bush. + A Bush Dance. + The Buck-Jumper. + Jimmy Grimshaw’s Wooing. + At Dead Dingo. + Telling Mrs Baker. + A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs. + The Little World Left Behind. + + + Concluding Verses-- + The Never-Never Country. + + + + + +Part I. + + + + +Joe Wilson’s Courtship. + + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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----! + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +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! + +‘My wife knows little ‘Possum,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll get her to ask her out +to our place and let you know.’ + +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. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +‘For God’s sake shut up, Jack,’ I said. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +‘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-- + +‘Make a looking-glass of that window, Joe,’ he said. + +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. + +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. + +Presently Jack came round, and Mary disappeared. + +‘Well?’ he whispered. + +‘You’re a fool, Jack,’ I said. ‘She’s only interested in the old house +being pulled down.’ + +‘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.’ + +‘You seem mighty interested in the business,’ I said. + +‘Yes,’ said Jack. ‘This sort of thing just suits a man of my rank in +times of peace.’ + +‘What made you think of the window?’ I asked. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +I didn’t hear Mary at first. I hoped Jack would come round and help me +out of the fix, but he didn’t. + +‘Mr--Mr Wilson!’ said Mary. She had a sweet voice. + +I turned round. + +‘I thought you and Mr Barnes might like a cup of tea.’ + +‘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. + +‘Oh! did you hurt yourself, Mr Wilson?’ cried Mary. + +‘Hurt myself! Oh no, not at all, thank you,’ I blurted out. ‘It takes +more than that to hurt me.’ + +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. + +I pulled myself together when I got to where Jack was. + +‘Here, Jack!’ I said. ‘I’ve struck something all right; here’s some tea +and brownie--we’ll hang out here all right.’ + +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. + +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-- + +‘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.’ + +He gave me time to think over that. + +‘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.’ + +Then a thought struck me. I ought to have known Jack well enough to have +thought of it before. + +‘Look here, Jack,’ I said. ‘What have you been saying to that girl about +me?’ + +‘Oh, not much,’ said Jack. ‘There isn’t much to say about you.’ + +‘What did you tell her?’ + +‘Oh, nothing in particular. She’d heard all about you before.’ + +‘She hadn’t heard much good, I suppose,’ I said. + +‘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.’ + +‘What did you tell her?’ I said. ‘That’s what I want to know.’ + +‘Well, to tell the truth, I didn’t tell her anything much. I only +answered questions.’ + +‘And what questions did she ask?’ + +‘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.’ + +‘Look here, Jack,’ I said, ‘I’ve two minds to punch your head.’ + +‘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.’ + +‘What next?’ + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘Did you tell her I was in jail?’ I growled. + +‘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.’ + +We smoked a while. + +‘And was that all she said?’ I asked. + +‘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?”’ + +‘And what did you say?’ I growled. + +‘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.’ + +I wouldn’t take back the tray--but that didn’t mend matters, for Jack +took it back himself. + +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. + +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. + +‘Go and help her, you capital Idiot!’ he said, and I made the plunge. + +‘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. + +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. + +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. + +‘There’s only a few more things in the basket, Miss Brand,’ I said. ‘You +can’t reach--I’ll fix ‘em up.’ + +She seemed to give a little gasp. + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘Excuse me, Mr Wilson,’ she said, ‘but those things are not ready yet!’ +and she marched into the wash-house. + +‘Ah well! you’ve got a little temper of your own,’ I thought to myself. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +‘Do you play draughts, Mr Barnes?’ + +‘No,’ said Jack. + +‘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. + +‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I do a little.’ Then there was a silence, and I had to +say something else. + +‘Do you play draughts, Miss Brand?’ I asked. + +‘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.’ + +I saw Jack winking at me urgently. + +‘I’ll play a game with you, if you like,’ I said, ‘but I ain’t much of a +player.’ + +‘Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson! When shall you have an evening to spare?’ + +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. + +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-- + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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). + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And next day there was a little table in my room with a crocheted cover +and a looking-glass. + +I noticed the other girls began to act mysterious and giggle when I was +round, but Mary didn’t seem aware of it. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +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.’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I felt better next morning, and reckoned I was cured. I ran against Mary +accidentally and had to say something. + +‘How did you enjoy yourself yesterday evening, Miss Brand?’ I asked. + +‘Oh, very well, thank you, Mr Wilson,’ she said. Then she asked, ‘How +did you enjoy yourself, Mr Wilson?’ + +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-- + +‘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.’ + +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. + + +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. + +‘What the hell’s Romany trying to do?’ said Jimmy Nowlett. ‘He couldn’t +have fell off his horse--or else he’s drunk.’ + +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. + +‘What did you git down so sudden for, Romany?’ asked Jim Bullock +presently. ‘Did you hurt yerself on the pommel?’ + +‘Why didn’t you ask the horse to go round?’ asked Dave Regan. + +‘I’d only like to know who put up that bleeding wire!’ growled Romany. + +‘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.’ + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘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.’ + +But they saw that Romany was getting nasty, and they wanted him to play +the fiddle next night, so they dropped it. + +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. + +‘That gal’s got a nice voice,’ said Jimmy Nowlett. + +‘Nice voice!’ snarled Romany, who’d been waiting for a chance to be +nasty. ‘Why, I’ve heard a tom-cat sing better.’ + +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-- + +‘I suppose you got bit too in that quarter, Romany?’ + +‘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. + +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. + +‘You’re a damned crawler, Romany!’ I said. + +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. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I felt Jack breathing quick and trembling as he lifted me up. + +‘How are you, Joe?’ he whispered. + +‘I’m all right,’ I said. + +‘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!’ + +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. + +‘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. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +That showed how little even Jack, my old mate, understood me. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I went down again, but Jack told me afterwards that he FELT I was all +right when he lifted me. + +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. + +‘I’ve done,’ he said. ‘I’ve twisted my ankle.’ He’d caught his heel +against a tuft of grass. + +‘Shake hands,’ yelled Jimmy Nowlett. + +I stepped forward, but Romany took his coat and limped to his horse. + +‘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. + +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-- + +‘If I thought that, I’d kill him.’ + +‘What is it?’ asked Jack. + +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. + +‘Why did you let your man fight with a butcher’s knife in his belt?’ +asked Jimmy Nowlett. + +But the knife could easily have fallen out when Romany fell, and we +decided it that way. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘What’s up, Jack?’ I asked. + +‘Nothing,’ said Jack. + +‘What’s up, you old fool?’ I said. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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. + +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.’ + +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. + +‘What is it, Jack?’ I asked. + +‘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.’ + +Presently there was another hush outside, and a saucer with vinegar and +brown paper was handed in. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘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. + +‘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.’ + +‘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. + +‘Well, that’s a rum start!’ I said. + +‘Yes, it is,’ said Jack; ‘it’s very funny. Well, how’s your face this +morning, Joe?’ + +He seemed a lot more serious than usual. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +When we’d done in the shed, Jack took me aside and said-- + +‘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.’ + +‘But how am I to get her out?’ I said. + +‘Never you mind. You be mooching round down by the big peppermint-tree +near the river-gate, say about half-past ten.’ + +‘What good’ll that do?’ + +‘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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘Oh, is that you, Mr Wilson?’ said a timid little voice. + +‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Is that you, Mary?’ + +And she said yes. It was the first time I called her Mary, but she did +not seem to notice it. + +‘Did I frighten you?’ I asked. + +‘No--yes--just a little,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know there was any +one----’ then she stopped. + +‘Why aren’t you dancing?’ I asked her. + +‘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.’ + +‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it must be hot in the wool-shed.’ + +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. + +‘How beautiful the moonlight looks on the willows!’ she said. + +‘Yes,’ I said, ‘doesn’t it? Supposing we have a stroll by the river.’ + +‘Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson. I’d like it very much.’ + +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. + +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. + +‘Suppose we sit down for a while, Mary,’ I said. + +‘If you like, Mr Wilson,’ she said. + +There was about a foot of log between us. + +‘What a beautiful night!’ she said. + +‘Yes,’ I said, ‘isn’t it?’ + +Presently she said, ‘I suppose you know I’m going away next month, Mr +Wilson?’ + +I felt suddenly empty. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know that.’ + +‘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.’ + +We didn’t say anything for a good while. + +‘I suppose you won’t be sorry to go, Miss Brand?’ I said. + +‘I--I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Everybody’s been so kind to me here.’ + +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. + +‘So you think you’ll be sorry to go away?’ I said. + +‘Yes, Mr Wilson. I suppose I’ll fret for a while. It’s been my home, you +know.’ + +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. + +‘Ah, well,’ I said, ‘I suppose I’ll be on the wallaby again next week.’ + +‘Will you, Mr Wilson?’ she said. Her voice seemed very soft. + +I slipped my arm round her waist, under her arm. My heart was going like +clockwork now. + +Presently she said-- + +‘Don’t you think it’s time to go back now, Mr Wilson?’ + +‘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. + +‘Mary,’ I said. + +‘Yes,’ she said. + +‘Call me Joe,’ I said. + +‘I--I don’t like to,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it would be right.’ + +So I just turned her face round and kissed her. She clung to me and +cried. + +‘What is it, Mary?’ I asked. + +She only held me tighter and cried. + +‘What is it, Mary?’ I said. ‘Ain’t you well? Ain’t you happy?’ + +‘Yes, Joe,’ she said, ‘I’m very happy.’ Then she said, ‘Oh, your poor +face! Can’t I do anything for it?’ + +‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s all right. My face doesn’t hurt me a bit now.’ + +But she didn’t seem right. + +‘What is it, Mary?’ I said. ‘Are you tired? You didn’t sleep last +night----’ Then I got an inspiration. + +‘Mary,’ I said, ‘what were you doing out with the gun this morning?’ + +And after some coaxing it all came out, a bit hysterical. + +‘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.’ + +Then I got as much of her as I could into my arms. + +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. + +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. + +‘Mary,’ I whispered, ‘put your arms round my neck and kiss me.’ + +She put her arms round my neck, but she didn’t kiss me; she only hid her +face. + +‘Kiss me, Mary!’ I said. + +‘I--I don’t like to,’ she whispered. + +‘Why not, Mary?’ + +Then I felt her crying or laughing, or half crying and half laughing. +I’m not sure to this day which it was. + +‘Why won’t you kiss me, Mary? Don’t you love me?’ + +‘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.’ + +Then it dawned on me! I’d forgot all about proposing. + +‘Mary,’ I said, ‘would you marry a chap like me?’ + +And that was all right. + + ***** + +Next morning Mary cleared out my room and sorted out my things, and +didn’t take the slightest notice of the other girls’ astonishment. + +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. + +‘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. + +‘No,’ I said; ‘it’s not that, Boss.’ + +‘Well, what is it, Joe?’ + +‘I--well the fact is, I want little Mary.’ + +He puffed at his pipe for a long time, then I thought he spoke. + +‘What did you say, Boss?’ I said. + +‘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.’ + +I waited a good while for him to speak. + +‘Well, Boss,’ I said, ‘what about Mary?’ + +‘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.’ + + + + +Brighten’s Sister-In-Law. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Jim got on all right for a while: we used to watch him well, and have +his teeth lanced in time. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!’ + +I used to cut myself a good deal: I was always impatient over shaving. + +Then he went in to interview his mother about it. She understood his +lingo better than I did. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +For the first hour or so, along the road, he was telling me all about +his adventures at his auntie’s. + +‘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!’ + +I was taking out a cattle-pup for a drover I knew, and the pup took up a +good deal of Jim’s time. + +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-- + +‘What are you jerking your shoulders and coughing, and grunting, and +going on that way for, dad? Why don’t you tell me something?’ + +‘Tell you what, Jim?’ + +‘Tell me some talk.’ + +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-- + +‘I’m glad you took me home with you, dad. You’ll get to know Jim.’ + +‘What!’ I said. + +‘You’ll get to know Jim.’ + +‘But don’t I know you already?’ + +‘No, you don’t. You never has time to know Jim at home.’ + +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.’ + +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! + +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?’ + +But I didn’t think she’d understand. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘Dad!’ he said presently--‘Dad! do you think I’ll ever grow up to be a +man?’ + +‘Wh--why, Jim?’ I gasped. + +‘Because I don’t want to.’ + +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. + +‘Jim,’ I said, to break the silence, ‘do you hear what the she-oaks +say?’ + +‘No, I don’t. Is they talking?’ + +‘Yes,’ I said, without thinking. + +‘What is they saying?’ he asked. + +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-- + +‘Don’t cook too much, dad--I mightn’t be hungry.’ + +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-- + +‘I ain’t hungry, dad! You’ll have to eat it all.’ + +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. + +‘Sick, Jim?’ I asked. + +‘No, dad, I ain’t sick; I don’t know what’s the matter with me.’ + +‘Have some tea, sonny?’ + +‘Yes, dad.’ + +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. + +‘Jim’s tired, dad,’ he said. + +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. + +‘How do you feel now, sonny?’ + +It seemed a minute before he heard me and turned from the stars. + +‘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. + +‘Kiss me ‘night-night, daddy,’ he said. + +I’d rather he hadn’t asked me--it was a bad sign. As I was going to the +fire he called me back. + +‘What is it, Jim?’ + +‘Get me my things and the cattle-pup, please, daddy.’ + +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. + +‘Are you quite warm enough, Jim?’ + +‘Yes, dad.’ + +I started to walk up and down--I always did this when I was extra +worried. + +I was frightened now about Jim, though I tried to hide the fact from +myself. Presently he called me again. + +‘What is it, Jim?’ + +‘Take the blankets off me, fahver--Jim’s sick!’ (They’d been teaching +him to say father.) + +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-- + +‘Take the blankets off me, muvver--I’m dying.’ + +And I couldn’t get that out of my head. + +I threw back a fold of the ‘possum rug, and felt Jim’s head--he seemed +cool enough. + +‘Where do you feel bad, sonny?’ + +No answer for a while; then he said suddenly, but in a voice as if he +were talking in his sleep-- + +‘Put my boots on, please, daddy. I want to go home to muvver!’ + +I held his hand, and comforted him for a while; then he slept--in a +restless, feverish sort of way. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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---- + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +‘Who’s there?’ + +‘It’s me. Joe Wilson. I want your sister-in-law--I’ve got the boy--he’s +sick and dying!’ + +Brighten came out, pulling up his moleskins. ‘What boy?’ he asked. + +‘Here, take him,’ I shouted, ‘and let me get down.’ + +‘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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘Here, that tin of mustard--there on the shelf!’ she shouted to me. + +She knocked the lid off the tin on the edge of the tub, and went on +splashing and spanking Jim. + +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. + +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. + +I dropped on the stool by the table. + +‘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.’ + +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-- + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Suddenly she glanced round and said--in a tone as if I was her husband +and she didn’t think much of me-- + +‘Why don’t you eat something?’ + +‘Beg pardon?’ + +‘Eat something!’ + +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. + +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. + +I looked away quick, feeling full up myself. And presently (I hadn’t +seen her look round) she said-- + +‘Go to bed.’ + +‘Beg pardon?’ (Her face was the same as before the tears.) + +‘Go to bed. There’s a bed made for you inside on the sofa.’ + +‘But--the team--I must----’ + +‘What?’ + +‘The team. I left it at the camp. I must look to it.’ + +‘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.’ + +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. + + * Maize or Indian corn--wheat is never called corn in + Australia.-- + +As I started to go in I heard Brighten’s sister-in-law say, suddenly and +sharply-- + +‘Take THAT away, Jessie.’ + +And presently I saw Mrs Brighten go into the house with the black +bottle. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘And now,’ says Jim, ‘I want to go home to “muffer” in “The Same Ol’ +Fling”.’ + +‘What?’ + +Jim repeated. + +‘Oh! “The Same Old Thing”,--the waggon.’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘Here, take him,’ she said. + +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. + +‘You’d better make a start,’ she said. ‘You want to get home early with +that boy.’ + +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. + +‘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.’ + +‘Will you come to see us?’ + +‘Some day,’ she said. + +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. + + +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!’ + +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. + + + + +‘Water Them Geraniums’. + + + + +I. A Lonely Track. + + +The time Mary and I shifted out into the Bush from Gulgong to ‘settle on +the land’ at Lahey’s Creek. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.’ + +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. + +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!---- + +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.’ + +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. + +The sun was going down when Mary called out-- + +‘There’s our place, Joe!’ + +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. + +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. + + +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. + +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. + +Mary sat still by the fire, and presently I saw her chin tremble. + +‘What is it, Mary?’ + +She turned her face farther from me. I felt tired, disappointed, and +irritated--suffering from a reaction. + +‘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?’ + +‘You know very well, Joe.’ + +‘But I DON’T know,’ I said. I knew too well. + +She said nothing. + +‘Look here, Mary,’ I said, putting my hand on her shoulder, ‘don’t go on +like that; tell me what’s the matter?’ + +‘It’s only this,’ she said suddenly, ‘I can’t stand this life here; it +will kill me!’ + +I had a pannikin of tea in my hand, and I banged it down on the table. + +‘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?’ + +‘And what sort of a place was Gulgong, Joe?’ asked Mary quietly. + +(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.) + +‘Well, why didn’t you come to Sydney, as I wanted you to?’ I asked Mary. + +‘You know very well, Joe,’ said Mary quietly. + +(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.) + +‘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.’ + +‘As long as you take a glass there is danger,’ she said. + +‘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. + +‘Well,’ she said, ‘why weren’t you more decided?’ + +I’d sat down, but I jumped to my feet then. + +‘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.’ + +‘So am I, Joe,’ said Mary wearily. + +We quarrelled badly then--that first hour in our new home. I know now +whose fault it was. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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-- + +‘Why did I bring her here?’ + +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. + +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. + +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’. + +‘You, An-nay!’ (Annie.) + +‘Ye-es’ (from somewhere in the gloom). + +‘Didn’t I tell yer to water them geraniums!’ + +‘Well, didn’t I?’ + +‘Don’t tell lies or I’ll break yer young back!’ + +‘I did, I tell yer--the water won’t soak inter the ashes.’ + +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. + +Then the woman’s voice again-- + +‘You, Tom-may!’ (Tommy.) + +Silence, save for an echo on the ridge. + +‘Y-o-u, T-o-m-MAY!’ + +‘Ye-e-s!’ shrill shriek from across the creek. + +‘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. + +‘Well--I karnt find the horse.’ + +‘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.’ + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘How does that look, Joe? We’ll soon get things ship-shape.’ + +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. + +Somehow I didn’t feel satisfied with the way things had gone. + + + + +II. ‘Past Carin’’. + + +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. + +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. + + * ‘Graft’, work. The term is now applied, in Australia, to + all sorts of work, from bullock-driving to writing poetry. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * ‘Humpy’, a rough hut. + +‘Are you Mrs Wilson?’ asked the boy. + +‘Yes,’ said Mary. + +‘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.’ + +‘Piece of WHAT?’ asked Mary. + +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. + +‘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?’ + +The boy blinked at her, and scratched his head. + +‘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----’ + +‘Yes, yes,’ said Mary, getting confused. ‘But what I want to know is, +how do you manage when you sell it?’ + +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----’ + +‘Yes, yes; but what I want to know is, how much am I to send your mother +for this?’ + +‘How much what?’ + +‘Money, of course, you stupid boy,’ said Mary. ‘You seem a very stupid +boy.’ + +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. + +‘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.) + +‘Oh!’ said Mary, ‘I’m SO sorry. Thank your mother for me. She IS kind.’ + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘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.’ + +‘But wait a minute--I’ve forgotten your mother’s name,’ said Mary. + +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. + +‘Do you go to school?’ asked Mary. There was a three-days-a-week school +over the ridges at Wall’s station. + +‘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.) + +‘Finished you? How?’ asked Mary. + +‘Me edgercation, of course! How do yer expect me to start this horse +when yer keep talkin’?’ + +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. + +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. + +And I’ll bet he got there. But I’m doubtful if the old horse did. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +‘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.’ + +‘I wouldn’t ‘a’ told yer a lie; but I thought Jimmy would split on me, +Mrs Wilson,’ said Annie. ‘Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson.’ + +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. + +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’. + +‘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. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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.’ + +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. + +Some one might ask her, ‘How’s your son Jack, Mrs Spicer?’ or, ‘Heard of +Jack lately? and where is he now?’ + +‘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.’ + +And she’d turn her haggard eyes in a helpless, hopeless sort of way +towards the west--towards ‘up-country’ and ‘Out-Back’.* + + + * ‘Out-Back’ is always west of the Bushman, no matter how + far out he be. + + +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.’ + +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-- + +‘Thenk yer, Mr Wilson. Do yer think we’re ever goin’ to have any rain?’ + +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-- + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘Jist tryin’ ter keep the milkers alive till the rain comes.’ + +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). + +‘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?’ + +They had a sense of the ridiculous, most of those poor sun-dried +Bushwomen. I fancy that that helped save them from madness. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘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). + +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.’ + + ***** + +After tea the first Sunday she came to see us, Mary asked-- + +‘Don’t you feel lonely, Mrs Spicer, when your husband goes away?’ + +‘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.’ + +Mary sat silent for a minute thinking. Then Mrs Spicer roused herself-- + +‘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.’ + +But once or twice afterwards she referred to a time ‘when Spicer was a +different man to what he was now.’ + +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-- + +‘What-did-you-bring-her-here-for? She’s only a girl.’ + +‘I beg pardon, Mrs Spicer.’ + +‘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.’ + +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. + +Her great trouble was that she ‘couldn’t git no reg’lar schoolin’ for +the children.’ + +‘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.’ + +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-- + +‘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!’ + +The poor little devil stammered something, and escaped. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Sometimes, after a long pause in the conversation, Mrs Spicer would say +suddenly-- + +‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll come up next week, Mrs Wilson.’ + +‘Why, Mrs Spicer?’ + +‘Because the visits doesn’t do me any good. I git the dismals +afterwards.’ + +‘Why, Mrs Spicer? What on earth do you mean?’ + +‘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. + +Mary thought her a little mad at times. But I seemed to understand. + +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-- + +‘I wish you wouldn’t come down any more till I’m on me feet, Mrs Wilson. +The children can do for me.’ + +‘Why, Mrs Spicer?’ + +‘Well, the place is in such a muck, and it hurts me.’ + +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-- + +‘Oh, marther! Here comes Mr and Mrs Wilson in their spring-cart.’ + +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. + +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. + +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.’ + +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.’ + +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. + +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.’ + +‘Why! what on earth did they let the man hang for?’ asked Mary. + +‘To give him a good bellyful of it: they thought it would cure him of +tryin’ to hang himself again.’ + +‘Well, that’s the coolest thing I ever heard of,’ said Mary. + +‘That’s jist what the magistrate said, Mrs Wilson,’ said Mrs Spicer. + +‘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-- + +‘“For God’s sake, woman, give me a drink!” + +‘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.” + +‘I was so surprised that I didn’t know what to say, so I jist said, +“Would you like some more coffee?” + +‘“Yes, thenk yer,” he said--“about two quarts.” + +‘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.’ + +‘Why, what did he stand on his head for?’ asked Mary. + +‘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.’ + +‘O Lord!’ cried Mary. + +‘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.’ + +Mary stared at her, speechless. + +‘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. + +‘“Yer’ll go agen when I tell yer not to,” I’d say. + +‘“Oh no, mother,” they’d howl. + +‘“Yer wanted ter see a man hangin’,” I said. + +‘“Oh, don’t, mother! Don’t talk about it.” + +‘“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?” + +‘“Oh, don’t, mother!” + +‘“Yer run all the way there, I s’pose?” + +‘“Don’t, mother!” + +‘“But yer run faster back, didn’t yer?” + +‘“Oh, don’t, mother.” + +‘But,’ said Mrs Spicer, in conclusion, ‘I’d been down to see it myself +before they was up.’ + +‘And ain’t you afraid to live alone here, after all these horrible +things?’ asked Mary. + +‘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.’ + +‘Haven’t you got any friends in the district, Mrs Spicer?’ + +‘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.’ + + ***** + +One day--I was on my way home with the team that day--Annie Spicer came +running up the creek in terrible trouble. + +‘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. + +‘What?’ + +‘It’s true, Mrs Wilson.’ + +‘What for? What did the policeman say?’ + +‘He--he--he said, “I--I’m very sorry, Mrs Spicer; but--I--I want +William.”’ + +It turned out that William was wanted on account of a horse missed from +Wall’s station and sold down-country. + +‘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.’ + +James put the horse to the cart and drove Mary down. + +Mary told me all about it when I came home. + +‘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.’ + +Later on Mary said-- + +‘How the oaks are sighing to-night, Joe!’ + + ***** + +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. + +‘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.’ + +Billy Wall managed it. The charge was withdrawn, and we got young Billy +Spicer off up-country. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘I expected Mrs Spicer up to-day,’ said Mary. ‘She seems better lately.’ + +‘Why!’ cried Maggie Charlsworth, ‘if that ain’t Annie coming running up +along the creek. Something’s the matter!’ + +We all jumped up and ran out. + +‘What is it, Annie?’ cried Mary. + +‘Oh, Mrs Wilson! Mother’s asleep, and we can’t wake her!’ + +‘What?’ + +‘It’s--it’s the truth, Mrs Wilson.’ + +‘How long has she been asleep?’ + +‘Since lars’ night.’ + +‘My God!’ cried Mary, ‘SINCE LAST NIGHT?’ + +‘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’.’ + +‘Was that all she said?’ + +‘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.’ + +Mary wanted to go, but I wouldn’t let her. James and I saddled our +horses and rode down the creek. + + ***** + +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. + + + + +A Double Buggy at Lahey’s Creek. + + + + +I. Spuds, and a Woman’s Obstinacy. + + +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.’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘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.’ + +‘But I tell you the ground is not potato-ground,’ I said. + +‘How do you know? You haven’t sown any there yet.’ + +‘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?’ + +‘But you haven’t TRIED to grow potatoes there yet, Joe. How do you +know----’ + +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. + +I took my pipe and went out to smoke and cool down. + +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-- + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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. + +‘What is it, James?’ I shouted, before he came up--but I saw he was +grinning. + +‘Mary says to tell you not to forget to bring a hoe out with you.’ + +‘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.’ + +‘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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘I thought I’d make the boots easy for you, Joe,’ said Mary. + +‘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. + +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. + +‘I thought you wanted old Corny to plough the ground,’ she said. + +‘I never said so.’ + +‘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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +II. Joe Wilson’s Luck. + + +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. + +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.’ + +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’. + +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. + +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. + +One evening--I was going down next day for a load of fencing-wire for +myself--Mary said,-- + +‘Joe! do you know that the Matthews have got a new double buggy?’ + +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. + +‘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.’ + +‘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.’ + +‘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?’ + +‘Well,’ said Mary, ‘it was James who got the steers and the sheep.’ + +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. + +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. + +When I went in she’d cried herself to sleep. I bent over and, ‘Mary,’ I +whispered. + +She seemed to wake up. + +‘Joe--Joe!’ she said. + +‘What is it Mary?’ I said. + +‘I’m pretty well sure that old Spot’s calf isn’t in the pen. Make James +go at once!’ + +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. + +We both laughed when I told her about it afterwards; but I didn’t feel +like laughing just then. + +Later on in the night she called out in her sleep,-- + +‘Joe--Joe! Put that buggy in the shed, or the sun will blister the +varnish!’ + +I wish I could say that that was the last time I ever spoke unkindly to +Mary. + +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. + +When I was ready to start Mary said,-- + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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,-- + +‘Now if Mary had a comfortable buggy, she could drive in with the +children oftener. Then she wouldn’t feel the loneliness so much.’ + +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. + + + + +III. The Ghost of Mary’s Sacrifice. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +While I was looking at it, Bill Galletly came in, and slapped me on the +back. + +‘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.’ + +He called her ‘little Mary’ because the Galletly family had known her +when she was a girl. + +I rubbed my head and looked at the buggy again. It was a great +temptation. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +Just then Robert Galletly came into the shop. He was rather quieter than +his brother, but the two were very much alike. + +‘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.’ + +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.’ + +I pushed my hat forward and rubbed the back of my head and stared at the +buggy. + +‘Come across to the Royal, Joe,’ said Bob. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * ‘Shout’, to buy a round of drinks.--A. L., 1997. + + + + +IV. The Buggy Comes Home. + + +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. + +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-- + +‘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.’ + +‘I want it to be a surprise,’ I said. + +‘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.’ + +‘Tell her you’re going to get yours shod.’ + +‘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.’ + +‘Well, drive the other horse up the creek early, and pick him up as you +go.’ + +‘Yes. And she’ll want to know what I want with two bridles. But I’ll fix +her--YOU needn’t worry.’ + +‘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.’ + +‘Oh!--orlright.’ + +‘And if you can, time yourself to get here in the cool of the evening, +or just about sunset.’ + +‘What for?’ + +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. + +‘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?’ + +‘Oh well,’ I said, ‘get here at midnight if you like.’ + +We didn’t say anything for a while--just sat and puffed at our pipes. +Then I said,-- + +‘Well, what are you thinking about?’ + +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,-- + +‘Well, what am I to get out of the job, Joe?’ + +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,-- + +‘How much does Franca want for that gun?’ + +‘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.) + +‘All right,’ I said. ‘Make the best bargain you can.’ + +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. + +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. + +At tea-time I got Mary on to the buggy business. + +‘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?’ + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘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?’ + +‘Well, I’ve got nothing to say.’ + +‘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?’ + +I said there was nothing the matter. + +‘But there must be, to make you so unbearable. Have you been drinking, +Joe--or gambling?’ + +I asked her what she’d accuse me of next. + +‘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----’ + +‘Well, what is it?’ + +‘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----’ + +‘Well, what did he say?’ + +‘He--he’ (she seemed a little hysterical, trying not to laugh)--‘he said +“damn it!”’ + +I had to laugh. Mary tried to keep serious, but it was no use. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘What is it, Harry?’ said Mary. + +‘Buggy comin’, I bin thinkit.’ + +‘Where?’ + +He pointed up the creek. + +‘Sure it’s a buggy?’ + +‘Yes, missus.’ + +‘How many horses?’ + +‘One--two.’ + +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. + +‘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.’ + +She stared at me, and I sat there, grinning like a fool. + +‘Joe!’ she said, ‘whose buggy is that?’ + +‘Well, I suppose it’s yours,’ I said. + +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. + +‘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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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,-- + +‘What about my tea? I ain’t had anything to speak of since I left +Cudgeegong. I want some grub.’ + +Then Mary pulled herself together. + +‘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.’ + +‘All right,’ said James--‘anything! Only get me some grub.’ + +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. + +‘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. + +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. + +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. + +And at last Mary said, ‘Do you know, Joe, why, I feel to-night +just--just like I did the day we were married.’ + +And somehow I had that strange, shy sort of feeling too. + + + + +The Writer Wants to Say a Word. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +In two or three short sketches in another book I hope to complete the +story of his life. + + + + +Part II. + + + + +The Golden Graveyard. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘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.) + +*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.’ + +*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----?’ + +This for the edification of the wife and of all within half a mile. + +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’. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +This was Dave’s theory--drawn from a little experience and many long +yarns with old diggers:-- + +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.) + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘We’ll work this thing on the strict Q.T.,’ said Dave. + +He and Jim had a consultation by the camp fire outside their tent. Jim +grumbled, in conclusion,-- + +‘Well, then, best go under Jimmy Middleton. It’s the shortest and +straightest, and Jimmy’s the freshest, anyway.’ + +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. + +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. + +‘Old Pinter’, Ballarat digger--his theory on second and other bottoms +ran as follows:-- + +‘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----’ + +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. + +‘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.’ + +‘And some one will come poking round, and look down the hole and see the +bottom,’ said Jim Bently. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘It would look better to have a whip-pole and a horse, but we can’t +afford them just yet,’ said Dave. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘’Ello, Dave!’ said Pinter, after looking with mild surprise at the size +of Dave’s waste-heap. ‘Tryin’ for the second bottom?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Dave, guttural. + +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. + +Pinter straightened himself, blinking like an owl, and looked carelessly +over the graveyard. + +‘Tryin’ for a secon’ bottom,’ he reflected absently. ‘Eh, Dave?’ + +Dave only stood and looked black. + +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. + +‘Kullers is safe,’ reflected Pinter. + +‘All right?’ snapped Dave. ‘I suppose we must let him into it.’ + +‘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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +‘’Ullo! you dar’?’ + +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. + +‘What’s the matter?’ asked Dave. ‘Have you seen a ghost?’ + +‘I’ve seen the--the devil!’ gasped Jim. ‘I’m--I’m done with this here +ghoul business.’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘What’s up now?’ demanded Dave apprehensively. + +‘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.’ + +‘How the hell did she drop to it?’ exclaimed Pinter. + +‘Dunno,’ said Jim. ‘Anyway she’s coming for us. Listen to her!’ + +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. + +‘Why didn’t you fools make off into the Bush and give us a chance, +instead of giving her a lead here?’ asked Dave. + +Jim and Kullers began to wish they had done so. + +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. + +‘I wonder which shaf’ she’ll come down,’ asked Kullers in a tone +befitting the place and occasion. + +‘You’d better go and watch your shaft, Pinter,’ said Dave, ‘and Jim and +I’ll watch mine.’ + +‘I--I won’t,’ said Pinter hurriedly. ‘I’m--I’m a modest man.’ + +Then they heard a clang in the direction of Pinter’s shaft. + +‘She’s thrown her bottle down,’ said Dave. + +Jim crawled along the drive a piece, urged by curiosity, and returned +hurriedly. + +‘She’s broke the pitchfork off short, to use in the drive, and I believe +she’s coming down.’ + +‘Her crinoline’ll handicap her,’ said Pinter vacantly, ‘that’s a +comfort.’ + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘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.’ + +‘And she’s enough, without the neighbourhood,’ reflected Pinter. + +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. + + + + +The Chinaman’s Ghost. + + +‘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.) + +‘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.) + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘“You seem to be a bit winded, Dave,” said Jim Bently, “and mighty +thirsty. Did the Chinaman’s ghost chase you?” + +‘I told him not to talk rot, and went into the tent, and lay down on my +bunk, and had a good rest.’ + + + + +The Loaded Dog. + + +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. + +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. + +Dave got an idea. + +‘Why not blow the fish up in the big water-hole with a cartridge?’ he +said. ‘I’ll try it.’ + +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. + +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.’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘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. + +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. + +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. + +‘Go away, Tommy,’ said Jim feebly, ‘go away.’ + +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. + +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----’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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---- + +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. + +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. + +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.’ + +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. + +Andy chained the dog up securely, and cooked some more chops, while Dave +went to help Jim out of the hole. + +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-- + +‘’El-lo, Da-a-ve! How’s the fishin’ getting on, Da-a-ve?’ + + + + +Poisonous Jimmy Gets Left. + + + + +I. Dave Regan’s Yarn. + + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘“And Poisonous Jimmy is waiting for us,” said one of them. + +‘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. + +‘“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.” + +‘“You’ve always said that, Jack,” said the first drover. + +‘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. + +‘Just before we reached the shanty I got an idea. + +‘“We’ll plant our swags in the scrub,” I said to Jim. + +‘“What for?” said Jim. + +‘“Never mind--you’ll see,” I said. + +‘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. + +‘“Poisonous” came out at once, with a smile on him that would have made +anybody home-sick. + +‘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. + +‘“Good day, mates,” he said. + +‘“Good day,” we said. + +‘“It’s hot.” + +‘“It’s hot.” + +‘We went into the bar, and Poisonous got behind the counter. + +‘“What are you going to have?” he asked, rubbing up his glasses with a +rag. + +‘We had two long-beers. + +‘“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.” + +‘“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.” + +‘“I suppose you’re waiting for your cheques?” he said, turning to fix +some bottles on the shelf. + +‘“Yes,” I said, “we are;” and I winked at Jim, and Jim winked back as +solemn as an owl. + +‘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. + +‘“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. + +‘“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. + +‘Poisonous filled our pewters again in an offhand way. + +‘“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.” + +‘There was a general store back on the creek, near the drovers’ camp. + +‘“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.” + +‘“Thank you,” said Jim, taking up the sovereign carelessly and dropping +it into his pocket. + +‘“Well, Jim,” I said, “suppose we get back to camp and see how the chaps +are getting on?” + +‘“All right,” said Jim. + +‘“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. + +‘We got on our horses, I holding the billy very carefully, and rode back +to where our swags were. + +‘“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.” + +‘“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.” + +‘“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.” + +‘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. + +‘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.’ + + + + +II. Told by One of the Other Drovers. + + +‘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. + +‘“Good day, boys!” he says. + +‘“Good day, Poisonous,” we says. + +‘“It’s hot,” he says. + +‘“It’s blanky hot,” I says. + +‘He seemed to expect us to get down. “Where are you off to?” he says. + +‘“Mulgatown,” I says. “It will be cooler there,” and we sung out, +“So-long, Poisonous!” and rode on. + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘He was too mad and too winded to speak at first, so he rode along with +us a bit gasping: then he burst out. + +‘“Where’s them other two carnal blanks?” he shouted. + +‘“What other two?” I asked. “We’re all here. What’s the matter with you +anyway?” + +‘“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’----!” + +‘Oh, but Poisonous Jimmy was wild. + +‘“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.” + +‘“Pay for it!” yelled Jimmy. “I’ll----well take it out of one of yer +bleedin’ hides!” + +‘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. + +‘“Now, look here, Myles,” said the boss (Jimmy’s name was Myles)--“Now, +look here, Myles,” sez the boss, “what’s all this about?” + +‘“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!” + +‘“What was they like?” asks the boss. + +‘“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.” + +‘“Now, what’s this all about, you chaps?” sez the boss to us. + +‘So we told him as much as we knowed about them two fellers. + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘They fined him ten bob.’ + + + + +The Ghostly Door. + +Told by one of Dave’s mates. + + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘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?’ + + * ‘Whare’, ‘whorrie’, Maori name for house. + +I shifted my feet and presently moved the stool farther away from the +fire--it was too hot. + +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. + +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. + +Dave scratched his ear. ‘That’s rum,’ he said. ‘I could have sworn I +fastened that door. They must have left the cat behind.’ + +‘It looks like it,’ I said. ‘Neither of us has been on the boose +lately.’ + +He got out of bed and up on his long hairy spindle-shanks. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘You shot the bolt OUTSIDE the catch,’ I said, as he caught hold of the +door--like one grabs a craw-fish. + +‘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. + +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. + +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. + +‘What are you doing that for?’ I asked. + +‘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. + +‘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. + +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. + +‘What are you going to do, Dave?’ I asked. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘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. + +It was blowing hard, but not raining so much. + +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.’ + +‘What for?’ I said. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +Dave scratched his head a good bit. + +‘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.’ + + + + +A Wild Irishman. + + +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. + +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. + +I make no attempt to give any one shade of the Irish brogue--it can’t be +done in writing. + + +‘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. + +‘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-- + +‘“Oi must be walkin’ or foightin’!--Oi must be walkin’ or foightin’!--Oi +must be walkin’ or foightin’!” + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘“B’ God, there’s the Flour o’ Wheat comin’ this minute,” says Dinny +Murphy to Tom, “an’ no one else.” + +‘“B’ God, ye’re right!” says Tom. + +‘There were a lot of new chums in the big room at the back, drinking and +dancing and singing, and Tom says to Dinny-- + +‘“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.” + +‘But Dinny wouldn’t take him up. He knew the Flour. + +‘“Good day, Tom! Good day, Dinny!” + +‘“Good day to you, Flour!” + +‘I was introduced. + +‘“Well, boys, come along,” says the Flour. + +‘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. + +‘“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?” + +‘He shouted, and drank, and gambled, and danced, and sang, and fought +the new chums all night, and in the morning he said-- + +‘“Well, boys, we had a grand time last night. Come and have a drink with +me.” + +‘And of course they went in and had a drink with him. + + ***** + +‘Next morning the Flour was walking along the street, when he met a +drunken, disreputable old hag, known among the boys as the “Nipper”. + +‘“Good MORNING, me lovely Flour o’ Wheat!” says she. + +‘“Good MORNING, me lovely Nipper!” says the Flour. + +‘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! + +‘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. + +‘“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.” + +‘But they didn’t let it pass,--they fined her a quid. + +‘And the Flour paid the fine. + +‘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. + + ***** + +‘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. + +‘“What d’ye think of that?” he says, handing the summons across the bar. +“What d’ye think of me lovely Dinny Murphy now?” + +‘“Why, what’s this all about?” + +‘“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.” + +‘“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?” + +‘“That’s what I want to know.” + +‘“What have you been doing to the man?” + +‘“Divil a thing that I’m aware of.” + +‘The cousin rubbed his chin-tuft between his forefinger and thumb. + +‘“Well, what am I to do about it?” asked the Flour impatiently. + +‘“Do? Pay the man, of course?” + +‘“How can I pay the lovely man when I haven’t got the price of a drink +about me?” + +‘The cousin scratched his chin. + +‘“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.” + +‘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. + + . . . . . + +‘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-- + +‘“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?” + +‘Or he’d pass a raffle, lottery, lucky-bag, or golden-barrel business of +some sort,-- + +‘“No gamblin’ for the Flour. I don’t believe in their little shwindles. +It ought to be shtopped. Leadin’ young people ashtray.” + +‘Or he’d pass an Englishman he didn’t like,-- + +‘“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!” + + ***** + +‘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”. + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘“There’s something happened to the lovely man,” said the Flour of Wheat +at last. “Some of us had better see about it.” + +‘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. + + +‘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. + +‘“Take your hats off and come in quietly, lads,” said the Flour. “Here’s +the lovely man lying dead in his bunk.” + +‘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. + +‘One or two did object, but the Flour reasoned with them and there were +no sports. + +‘And the Flour used to say, afterwards, “Ah, but it was a grand time we +had at the funeral when Duncan died at Duffers.” + + . . . . . + +‘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. + +‘“Inside there--come out!” + +‘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. + +‘“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.” + +‘Then he shook his fist in the doctor’s face and said-- + +‘“If you let that lovely man die--look out!” + +‘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-- + +‘“If you let that lovely man die--mind!” + +‘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. + +‘“There,” he said, “pour that into the lovely man.” + +‘Then he shook his fist at such members of the staff as were visible, +and said-- + +‘“If you let that lovely man die--look out!” + +‘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.” + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘“Stay there, ye little whipper-snapper,” said the Flour of Wheat; “you +let that lovely man die!” + +‘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. + +‘“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.” + +‘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. + +‘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-- + +‘“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!” + +‘Then he went out--taking the coffin with him. + +‘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-- + +‘“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!” + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘“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.” + +‘Then he left for Th’ Canary.’ + + + + +The Babies in the Bush. + + + ‘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.’ + + +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.’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + + ‘“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. + + ***** + + 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?” + +They don’t matter much, do they, Jack?’ + +‘Damned if I think they do, Boss!’ I’d say. + + ‘“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.”’ + +Once he repeated the poem containing the lines-- + + ‘“Love, when we wandered here together, + Hand in hand through the sparkling weather-- + God surely loved us a little then.” + +Beautiful lines those, Jack. + + “Then skies were fairer and shores were firmer, + And the blue sea over the white sand rolled-- + Babble and prattle, and prattle and murmur’-- + +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. + +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-- + + ‘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!’ + +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-- + +‘Do you know Fisher, Jack--the man that owns these bullocks?’ + +‘I’ve heard of him,’ I said. Fisher was a big squatter, with stations +both in New South Wales and in Queensland. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘The Boss seems to have taken to you, Jack, all right.’ + +‘Think so?’ I said. I thought I smelt jealousy and detected a sneer. + +‘I’m sure of it. It’s very seldom HE takes to any one.’ + +I said nothing. + +Then after a while Andy said suddenly-- + +‘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. + +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. + +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-- + +‘Look here, Jack, you’re going on to Sydney, aren’t you?’ + +‘Yes; I’m going down to have a fly round.’ + +‘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?’ + +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. + +‘Come and have a drink, Boss,’ I said. The agent had paid us off during +the day. + +He turned into a hotel with me. + +‘I don’t drink, Jack,’ he said; ‘but I’ll take a glass with you.’ + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘Well,’ I said, ‘I wish I could take a glass or leave it.’ And I meant +it. + +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.’ + +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-- + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘I want you to come along home with me, Jack,’ he said; ‘we’ll fix you a +shake-down.’ + +I forgot to tell you that he was married and lived in Bathurst. + +‘But won’t it put Mrs Head about?’ + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +‘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. + +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. + +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. + +She seemed extra glad to see me. I thought at first that she was a bit +of a gusher. + +‘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. + +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. + +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. + +‘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. + +‘Yes, Mrs Head. I’ve knocked round all about out there.’ + +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. + +She smoothed her forehead, and clasped her hands in her lap. + +‘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.’ + +‘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. + +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. + +‘You know we had a station out on the Lachlan, Mr Ellis. Did Walter ever +tell you about the time we lived there?’ + +‘No,’ I said, glancing at the Boss. ‘I know you had a station there; +but, you know, the Boss doesn’t talk much.’ + +‘Tell Jack, Maggie,’ said the Boss; ‘I don’t mind.’ + +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?’ + +This was a facer. ‘I--I beg pardon,’ I commenced, when Andy gave me a +dig in the back. Then I saw it all. + +‘No, Mrs Head. The Boss didn’t tell me about that.’ + +‘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. + +‘Of course I’ve heard of them, Mrs Head,’ I said; ‘but I can’t swear +that I’ve seen one.’ + +‘Andy has. Haven’t you, Andy?’ + +‘Of course I have, Mrs Head. Didn’t I tell you all about it the last +time we were home?’ + +‘And didn’t you ever tell Mr Ellis, Andy?’ + +‘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.’ + +‘Of course!’ said Andy. + +‘Did he tell you about finding a lost child and the fairy with it?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Andy; ‘I told him all about that.’ + +‘And the fairy was just going to take the child away when Andy found it, +and when the fairy saw Andy she flew away.’ + +‘Yes,’ I said; ‘that’s what Andy told me.’ + +‘And what did you say the fairy was like, Andy?’ asked Mrs Head, fixing +her eyes on his face. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘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.’ + +She pressed the tips of the fingers of both hands to her forehead, and +sat so for a while; then she roused herself again-- + +‘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.’ + +The old woman seemed to hesitate. + +‘Go on, Auntie, and do what I ask you,’ said Mrs Head. ‘Don’t be +foolish. You know I’m all right now.’ + +‘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?’ + +‘You were, Maggie,’ said the Boss. ‘But that’s all past. You mustn’t +think of that time any more.’ + +‘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.’ + +‘You were very foolish, Maggie,’ said the Boss; ‘but don’t think about +that.’ + +The old woman brought the portraits, a little boy and a little girl: +they must have been very pretty children. + +‘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.’ + +She put the portraits up on the mantel-shelf. + +‘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?’ + +‘Yes, Maggie,’ said the Boss. + +‘You were away, Walter, when it happened.’ + +‘Yes, Maggie,’ said the Boss--cheerfully, it seemed to me--‘I was away.’ + +‘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?’ + +‘Yes, Maggie.’ + +‘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?’ + +‘Yes, Mrs Head.’ + +‘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?’ + +‘I remember, Maggie.’ + +‘“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?’ + +‘Of course I do, Maggie.’ + +‘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.’ + +She was leaning forward with her hands clasping her knee, and telling me +all this with a strange sort of eagerness. + +‘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.’ + +‘Except the fairies, Maggie,’ said the Boss quickly. + +‘Of course, Walter, except the fairies.’ + +She pressed her fingers to her temples again for a minute. + +‘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?’ + +The Boss caught my eye, and frowned and shook his head slightly. + +‘No. I’m sure they wouldn’t, Mrs Head,’ I said--‘at least not from what +I know of them.’ + +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-- + +‘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. + +‘Don’t mind about that, Maggie,’ said the Boss, hurriedly, stroking her +head. ‘Tell Jack about the fairies.’ + +‘You were away at the time, Walter?’ + +‘Yes, Maggie.’ + +‘And we couldn’t find you, Walter?’ + +‘No, Maggie,’ very gently. He rested his elbow on his knee and his chin +on his hand, and looked into the fire. + +‘It wasn’t your fault, Walter; but if you had been at home do you think +the fairies would have taken the children?’ + +‘Of course they would, Maggie. They had to: the children were lost.’ + +‘And they’re bringing the children home next year?’ + +‘Yes, Maggie--next year.’ + +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. + +‘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.’ + +‘No wonder you were, Mrs Head,’ I said. ‘It was terrible trouble.’ + +‘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.’ + +‘Of course you won’t, Maggie.’ + +‘We’re very happy now, aren’t we, Walter?’ + +‘Of course we are, Maggie.’ + +‘And the children are coming back next year.’ + +‘Next year, Maggie.’ + +He leaned over the fire and stirred it up. + +‘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.’ + +She paused and pressed her fingers to her temples again. Then she said +quickly-- + +‘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.’ + +‘Who used to tell you that, Mrs Head?’ I asked. + +‘The Voices,’ she said; ‘you know about the Voices, Walter?’ + +‘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?’ + +‘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.’ + +‘Of course they could, Mrs Head,’ I said. + +‘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.’ + +‘Why!’ I said, ‘I’ve known the blacks to track a man after a week’s +heavy rain.’ + +She had her head between her fingers again, and when she looked up it +was in a scared way. + +‘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?’ + +He put his arm round her. Andy nudged me and got up. + +‘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.’ + +‘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.’ + +‘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.’ + +‘Oh, I’ve enjoyed myself, Mrs Head,’ I said; and Andy hooked me out. + +‘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.’ + +‘It’s all true about the children, then?’ I asked. + +‘It’s cruel true,’ said Andy. + +‘And were the bodies never found?’ + +‘Yes;’ then, after a long pause, ‘I found them.’ + +‘You did!’ + +‘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.’ + +‘And you never told Mrs Head about the children being found?’ + +‘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.’ + +‘To England?’ + +‘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.’ + +‘And you never tried telling her that the children were found?’ + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘The Boss was away when the children were lost?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Andy. + +‘Strange you couldn’t find him.’ + +‘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.’ + +‘I feel damned sorry for the Boss,’ I said. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘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.’ + +‘She seems all right,’ I said to Andy when we were in our room. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +Andy closed the door. His face was very miserable. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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-- + +‘Look here, Boss, old chap! I’m damned sorry!’ + +Our hands came together and gripped. The ghostly Australian daybreak was +over the Bathurst plains. + +We went on another hundred yards or so, and then the Boss said quietly-- + +‘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.’ + +I reached for his hand again, and gave it a grip. That was all I could +do for him. + +‘Good-bye, Jack!’ he said at the door of the brake-van. ‘Good-bye, +Andy!--keep those bullocks on their feet.’ + +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. + +‘Does the boss never go to Sydney?’ I asked. + +‘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.’ + +After a while I said, ‘He told me about the drink, Andy--about his being +on the spree when the children were lost.’ + +‘Well, Jack,’ said Andy, ‘that’s the thing that’s been killing him ever +since, and it happened over ten years ago.’ + + + + +A Bush Dance. + + + +‘Tap, tap, tap, tap.’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +On the rest of the stools, running end to end along the other wall, sat +about twenty more or less blooming chaps. + +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. + +‘Tap, tap, tap.’ + +The rows moved uneasily, and some of the girls turned pale faces +nervously towards the side-door, in the direction of the sound. + +‘Tap--tap.’ + +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. + +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.’ + +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-- + +‘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!’ + +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-- + +‘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!’ + +The two girl friends came back. ‘He sez to leave her to him,’ they +whispered, in reply to an interrogatory glance from the schoolmistress. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +‘It’s two horses, I tell you!’ + +‘It’s three, you----!’ + +‘Lay you----!’ + +‘Put the stuff up!’ + +A clack of gate thrown open. + +‘Who is it, Tom?’ + +Voices from gatewards, yelling, ‘Johnny Mears! They’ve got Johnny +Mears!’ + +Then rose yells, and a cheer such as is seldom heard in scrub-lands. + +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?’ + +But from the schoolroom was heard the loud, free voice of Joe Matthews, +M.C.,-- + +‘Take yer partners! Hurry up! Take yer partners! They’ve got Johnny +Mears with his fiddle!’ + + + + +The Buck-Jumper. + +Saturday afternoon. + +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. + +‘Do it for a quid, Jack?’ asked one. + +‘Damned if I will, Jim!’ said the young man at the post. ‘I’ll do it for +a fiver--not a blanky sprat less.’ + +Jim took off his hat and ‘shoved’ it round, and ‘bobs’ were ‘chucked’ +into it. The result was about thirty shillings. + +Jack glanced contemptuously into the crown of the hat. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +The sporting man was interested at once, and went out and joined the +Bushmen. + +‘Well, chaps! what have you got on here?’ he asked cheerily. + +‘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.’ + +‘What’s up with the horse?’ inquired the big, red-faced man. ‘It looks +quiet enough. Why, I’d ride it myself.’ + +‘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.’ + +‘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.’ + +‘He said he’d ride the horse inside the yard for a quid,’ said Jim. + +‘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.’ + +‘Well, how much do you want?’ asked the man in the mushroom hat. + +‘A fiver, I said,’ replied Jack indifferently. ‘And the blanky stuff in +my pocket before I get on the blanky horse.’ + +‘Are you frightened of us running away without paying you?’ inquired one +of the passengers who had gathered round. + +‘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?’ + +‘You wouldn’t want ‘em then,’ suggested a passenger. ‘Or, say!--we’d +leave the fiver with the publican to bury you.’ + +Flash Jack ignored that passenger. He eyed his boots and softly whistled +a tune. + +‘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.’ + +The five pounds were got together. + +‘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. + +‘Quiet as an old cow!’ snorted a passenger in disgust. ‘I believe it’s a +sell!’ + +‘Wait a bit,’ said Jim to the passenger, ‘wait a bit and you’ll see.’ + +They waited and saw. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +‘Those blanky Bushmen have got too much time to think.’ + + ***** + +The Bushmen returned to the shanty as soon as the coach was out of +sight, and proceeded to ‘knock down’ the fiver. + + + + +Jimmy Grimshaw’s Wooing. + + +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. + +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. + +Mrs Myers was reckoned a good catch in the district, but it soon seemed +that she was not to be caught. + +‘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.’ + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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. + +About the end of each shearing the sign was touched up, with an extra +coat of paint on the ‘Margaret’, whereat suitors looked hopeless. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.’ + +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-- + +‘By God! Jimmy’ll do it.’ (Applause.) + + ***** + +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. + +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?’ + +‘Yes, missus. Clean pfellar that.’ + +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. + +‘Good-day, mister,’ she said, seeming to become aware of him for the +first time. + +‘Good-day, missus!’ + +‘Hot!’ + +‘Hot!’ + +Pause. + +‘Trav’lin’?’ + +‘No, not particular!’ + +She waited for him to explain. Myers was always explaining when he +wasn’t raving. But the swagman smoked on. + +‘Have a drink?’ she suggested, to keep her end up. + +‘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.’ + +What a contrast to Myers! she thought. + +‘Come and have some tea; it’s ready.’ + +‘Thank you. I don’t mind if I do.’ + +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. + +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. + +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-- + + HALF-WAY HOUSE HOTEL, + BY + JAMES GRIMSHAW. + Good Stabling. + +The last time I saw Mrs Grimshaw she looked about thirty-five. + + + + +At Dead Dingo. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘Stumped?’ inquired Jim. + +‘Not a blanky, lurid deener!’ drawled Bill. + +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. + +‘Got anything?’ asked Jim, fingering the cards again. + +Bill sucked in his cheeks, collecting the saliva with difficulty, and +spat out on to the verandah floor. + +‘That’s all I got,’ he drawled. ‘It’s gone now.’ + +Jim leaned back in his chair, twisted, yawned, and caught sight of the +dog. + +‘That there dog yours?’ he asked, brightening. + +They had evidently been strangers the day before, or as strange to each +other as Bushmen can be. + +Bill scratched behind his ear, and blinked at the dog. The dog woke +suddenly to a flea fact. + +‘Yes,’ drawled Bill, ‘he’s mine.’ + +‘Well, I’m going Out-Back, and I want a dog,’ said Jim, gathering the +cards briskly. ‘Half a quid agin the dog?’ + +‘Half a quid be----!’ drawled Bill. ‘Call it a quid?’ + +‘Half a blanky quid!’ + +‘A gory, lurid quid!’ drawled Bill desperately, and he stooped over his +swag. + +But Jim’s hands were itching in a ghastly way over the cards. + +‘Alright. Call it a---- quid.’ + +The drunkard on the sofa stirred, showed signs of waking, but died +again. Remember this, it might come in useful. + +Bill sat down to the table once more. + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +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. + +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. + +He lifted his head, looked at the girl across the top of the bar, and +formed with his lips, rather than spoke, the words-- + +‘Put up a drink?’ * + + * ‘Put up a drink’--i.e., ‘Give me a drink on credit’, or + ‘Chalk it up’. + +She shook her head tightly and went on reading. + +He staggered up, and, leaning on the bar, made desperate distress +signals with hand, eyes, and mouth. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘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!’ + +‘Where the blazes is that there dog o’ mine got to?’ he muttered. ‘Did +you see a dog?’ + +‘No! What do I want with your dog?’ + +He whistled out in front again, and round each corner. Then he came back +with a decided step and tone. + +‘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?’ + +‘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.’ + +He stared at her blankly, with thunder gathering in the blankness. + +‘What sort of a dog was it?’ + +Dog described; the chain round the neck settled it. + +He scowled at her darkly. + +‘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----’ + +She was filling a pewter hastily. + +‘Here! for God’s sake have a drink an’ stop yer row.’ + +He drank with satisfaction. Then he hung on the bar with one elbow and +scowled out the door. + +‘Which blanky way did them chaps go?’ he growled. + +‘The one that took the dog went towards Tinned Dog.’ + +‘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.’ + +He drank again with deeper satisfaction, then he shuffled out, +muttering, swearing, and threatening louder every step, and took the +track to Tinned Dog. + + ***** + +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. + + + + +Telling Mrs Baker. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +‘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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘How could I face his wife if I went home without him?’ asked Andy, ‘or +any of his old mates?’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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.’ + +‘Damned if I will!’ I said. + +‘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.’ + +I’d never seen Andy show so much emotion. + +‘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. + +‘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?’ + +I’d been thinking while I listened, and an idea struck me. + +‘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.’ + +‘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.’ + +‘But she’s sure to hear the truth sooner or later,’ I said, ‘the Boss +was so well known.’ + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘What are you doing, Andy?’ I asked. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘And one of those men, at least, was an old mate of his!’ said Andy, in +a tone of disgust. + +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. + +‘Such is life!’ said Andy, with a yawn that might have been half a sigh. + +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. + +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.’ + +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. + +‘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-- + +‘Suppose we go and have another drink first, Andy? We might be kept in +there an hour or two.’ + +‘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.’ + +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-- + +‘How do you feel now, Jack?’ + +‘Oh, I’M all right,’ I said. + +‘For God’s sake!’ said Andy, ‘don’t put your foot in it and make a mess +of it.’ + +‘I won’t, if you don’t.’ + +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-- + +‘For God’s sake stick to me now, Jack!’ + +‘I’ll stick all right,’ I said--‘you’ve been having too much beer, +Andy.’ + +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. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +‘We were just coming when we got your message,’ said Andy. ‘We’d have +come before, only we had to see to the horses.’ + +‘It’s very kind of you, I’m sure,’ said Mrs Baker. + +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. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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.’ + +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. + +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. + +‘I’m so glad you’ve come, Andy!’ said Bobby. + +‘Are you, Bobby?’ + +‘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. + +‘Yes,’ said Andy. + +‘He went up among the stars, didn’t he?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Andy. + +‘And he isn’t coming back to Bobby any more?’ + +‘No,’ said Andy. ‘But Bobby’s going to him by-and-by.’ + +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. + +Andy looked miserable. ‘I wish to God I was off this job!’ he whispered +to me. + +‘Is that the girl that writes the stories?’ I asked. + +‘Yes,’ he said, staring at me in a hopeless sort of way, ‘and poems +too.’ + +‘Is Bobby going up among the stars?’ asked Bobby. + +‘Yes,’ said Andy--‘if Bobby’s good.’ + +‘And auntie?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘And mumma?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘Are you going, Andy?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Andy hopelessly. + +‘Did you see daddy go up amongst the stars, Andy?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Andy, ‘I saw him go up.’ + +‘And he isn’t coming down again any more?’ + +‘No,’ said Andy. + +‘Why isn’t he?’ + +‘Because he’s going to wait up there for you and mumma, Bobby.’ + +There was a long pause, and then Bobby asked-- + +‘Are you going to give me a shilling, Andy?’ with the same expression of +innocent wonder in his eyes. + +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. + +‘Brace up now, Jack, and keep your wits about you,’ whispered Andy to me +just before they came in. + +‘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.’ + +Andy told her about the Boss not being well after he crossed the border. + +‘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. + +‘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. + +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. + +‘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. + +‘More like thirty-five,’ I said, waking up. + +Miss Standish fixed her eyes on me, and I had another look at Wellington +and Blucher. + +‘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.’ + +‘I know it,’ said Mrs Baker. ‘Nobody could help liking him. He was one +of the kindest men that ever lived.’ + +‘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.’ + +‘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?’ + +‘He wouldn’t take a penny, Mrs Baker.’ + +‘He must have been a good true man. I wish I could thank him.’ + +‘Oh, Ned thanked him for you,’ said Andy, though without meaning more +than he said. + +‘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.’ + +‘He never touched a drop after he left Solong, I can assure you, Mrs +Baker,’ said Andy quickly. + +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. + +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. + +‘Brace up now, Jack,’ whispered Andy to me, ‘the worst is coming.’ + +When they came in again Mrs Baker made Andy go on with his story. + +‘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.’ + +Mrs Baker was crying softly. Andy got the packet half out of his pocket, +but shoved it back again. + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘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?’ + +‘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.’ + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘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.’ + +Andy caught her sister’s eye and jerked his head towards the door to let +her know he wanted to speak to her outside. + +‘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. + +She came out to the gate with us, and Andy gave her the packet. + +‘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.’ + +‘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?’ + +‘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.’ + +‘Tell me all,’ she said. ‘It would be better for me to know.’ + +‘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. + +‘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. + +‘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. + +I don’t think it did either of us any harm. + + + + +A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs. + + +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. + +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. + +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’. + +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. + +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. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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.’ + +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.’ + +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.’ + +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. + +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. + + +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. + +On the morning of Job’s accident, and after a long brooding silence, +Doc. Wild suddenly said to Mac. Falconer-- + +‘Git the hosses, Mac. We’ll go to the station.’ + +Mac., used to the doctor’s eccentricities, went to see about the horses. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +‘Dead beast there!’ said Mac. out of his Bushcraft. + +‘No--dying,’ said Doc. Wild, with less Bush experience but more +intellect. + +‘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!’ + +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. + +‘We’ll go and see, if you like,’ suggested Doc. Wild. + +They turned out across the flat, the horses picking their way amongst +the dried tufts and fallen branches. + +‘Theer ain’t no sign o’ cattle theer,’ said the doctor; ‘more likely a +ewe in trouble about her lamb.’ + +‘Oh, the blanky dingoes at the sheep,’ said Mac. ‘I wish we had a +gun--might get a shot at them.’ + +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. + +‘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,-- + + ‘“The crows kept flyin’ up, boys! + The crows kept flyin’ up! + The dog, he seen and whimpered, boys, + Though he was but a pup.”’ + +‘It must be something or other,’ muttered Mac. ‘Look at them blanky +crows!’ + + ‘“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!”’ + +‘My God! what’s that?’ cried Mac., who was a little in advance and rode +a tall horse. + +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. + +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. + +‘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!’ + +‘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.’ + +Mac. mounted and rode off at a break-neck pace. + +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.’ + +But as Job came round a little Doc. Wild was enlightened. + +‘Where’s the filly?’ cried Job suddenly between groans. + +‘She’s all right,’ said the doctor. + +‘Stop her!’ cried Job, struggling to rise--‘stop her!--oh God! my leg.’ + +‘Keep quiet, you fool!’ + +‘Stop her!’ yelled Job. + +‘Why stop her?’ asked the doctor. ‘She won’t go fur,’ he added. + +‘She’ll go home to Gerty,’ shouted Job. ‘For God’s sake stop her!’ + +‘O--h!’ drawled the doctor to himself. ‘I might have guessed that. And I +ought to know men.’ + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘That’s all I kin do for him for the present.’ + +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-- + +‘What’s Job been doing now?’ (Job, by the way, had never been remarkable +for doing anything.) + +‘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.’ + +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. + +‘Lucky we got him before the ants did,’ muttered the doctor. Then he had +an inspiration-- + +‘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.’ + +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. + +He rode off at a gallop. The burden of Job’s raving, all the way, rested +on the dead filly-- + +‘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. + +‘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.’ + +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. + +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. + +Doc. Wild stayed round until he saw Job comfortably moved to the +homestead, then he prepared to depart. + +‘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.’ + +‘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.’ + +And he left for Poisonous Jimmy’s. + + + + +The Little World Left Behind. + + +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. + +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. + +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.’ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +The Never-Never Country. + + + 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. + + + +[End of original text.] + + + +***** + + + +A Note on the Author and the Text: + + +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. + + + 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) + + +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....” + +Alan Light, Monroe, North Carolina, June 1997. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s Joe Wilson and His Mates, by Henry Lawson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES *** + +***** This file should be named 1036-0.txt or 1036-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/3/1036/ + +Produced by Alan R. Light, and Gary M. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/1036-0.zip b/old/1036-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..36c59f4 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1036-0.zip diff --git a/old/1036-h.zip b/old/1036-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..565f2f7 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1036-h.zip diff --git a/old/1036-h/1036-h.htm b/old/1036-h/1036-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2ec2a11 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1036-h/1036-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11591 @@ +<?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> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Joe Wilson and His Mates, by Henry Lawson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Joe Wilson and His Mates + +Author: Henry Lawson + +Release Date: July 27, 2008 [EBook #1036] +Last Updated: October 9, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light, Gary M. Johnson, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <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> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s Joe Wilson and His Mates, by Henry Lawson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES *** + +***** This file should be named 1036-h.htm or 1036-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/3/1036/ + +Produced by Alan R. Light, Gary M. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Joe Wilson and His Mates + +Author: Henry Lawson + +Posting Date: July 27, 2008 [EBook #1036] +Release Date: September, 1997 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light, and Gary M. Johnson + + + + + +JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES + +by Henry Lawson + + +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. + + +***** + + +An incomplete glossary of Australian, British, or antique terms and +concepts which may prove helpful to understanding this book: + + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Old-fashioned child: A child that acts old for their age. Americans +would say 'Precocious'. + +'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. + +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. + +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. + +Tucker: Food. + +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. + +Sly-grog-shop: An unlicensed bar or liquor-store. + +Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + +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. + +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. + +--A. L. + + + + + +JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES + + +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. + + + + +The Author's Farewell to the Bushmen. + + + + 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. + + + + + +Contents. + + + Prefatory Verses-- + + The Author's Farewell to the Bushmen. + + + Part I. + + Joe Wilson's Courtship. + Brighten's Sister-In-Law. + 'Water Them Geraniums'. + I. A Lonely Track. + II. 'Past Carin''. + A Double Buggy at Lahey's Creek. + I. Spuds, and a Woman's Obstinacy. + II. Joe Wilson's Luck. + III. The Ghost of Mary's Sacrifice. + IV. The Buggy Comes Home. + + + Part II. + + The Golden Graveyard. + The Chinaman's Ghost. + The Loaded Dog. + Poisonous Jimmy Gets Left. + I. Dave Regan's Yarn. + II. Told by One of the Other Drovers. + The Ghostly Door. + A Wild Irishman. + The Babies in the Bush. + A Bush Dance. + The Buck-Jumper. + Jimmy Grimshaw's Wooing. + At Dead Dingo. + Telling Mrs Baker. + A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs. + The Little World Left Behind. + + + Concluding Verses-- + The Never-Never Country. + + + + + +Part I. + + + + +Joe Wilson's Courtship. + + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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----! + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +'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.' + +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! + +'My wife knows little 'Possum,' said Jack. 'I'll get her to ask her out +to our place and let you know.' + +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. + +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. + +'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.' + +'For God's sake shut up, Jack,' I said. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +'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-- + +'Make a looking-glass of that window, Joe,' he said. + +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. + +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. + +Presently Jack came round, and Mary disappeared. + +'Well?' he whispered. + +'You're a fool, Jack,' I said. 'She's only interested in the old house +being pulled down.' + +'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.' + +'You seem mighty interested in the business,' I said. + +'Yes,' said Jack. 'This sort of thing just suits a man of my rank in +times of peace.' + +'What made you think of the window?' I asked. + +'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.' + +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. + +I didn't hear Mary at first. I hoped Jack would come round and help me +out of the fix, but he didn't. + +'Mr--Mr Wilson!' said Mary. She had a sweet voice. + +I turned round. + +'I thought you and Mr Barnes might like a cup of tea.' + +'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. + +'Oh! did you hurt yourself, Mr Wilson?' cried Mary. + +'Hurt myself! Oh no, not at all, thank you,' I blurted out. 'It takes +more than that to hurt me.' + +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. + +I pulled myself together when I got to where Jack was. + +'Here, Jack!' I said. 'I've struck something all right; here's some tea +and brownie--we'll hang out here all right.' + +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. + +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-- + +'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.' + +He gave me time to think over that. + +'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.' + +Then a thought struck me. I ought to have known Jack well enough to have +thought of it before. + +'Look here, Jack,' I said. 'What have you been saying to that girl about +me?' + +'Oh, not much,' said Jack. 'There isn't much to say about you.' + +'What did you tell her?' + +'Oh, nothing in particular. She'd heard all about you before.' + +'She hadn't heard much good, I suppose,' I said. + +'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.' + +'What did you tell her?' I said. 'That's what I want to know.' + +'Well, to tell the truth, I didn't tell her anything much. I only +answered questions.' + +'And what questions did she ask?' + +'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.' + +'Look here, Jack,' I said, 'I've two minds to punch your head.' + +'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.' + +'What next?' + +'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.' + +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. + +'Did you tell her I was in jail?' I growled. + +'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.' + +We smoked a while. + +'And was that all she said?' I asked. + +'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?"' + +'And what did you say?' I growled. + +'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.' + +I wouldn't take back the tray--but that didn't mend matters, for Jack +took it back himself. + +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. + +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. + +'Go and help her, you capital Idiot!' he said, and I made the plunge. + +'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. + +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. + +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. + +'There's only a few more things in the basket, Miss Brand,' I said. 'You +can't reach--I'll fix 'em up.' + +She seemed to give a little gasp. + +'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. + +'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. + +'Excuse me, Mr Wilson,' she said, 'but those things are not ready yet!' +and she marched into the wash-house. + +'Ah well! you've got a little temper of your own,' I thought to myself. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +'Do you play draughts, Mr Barnes?' + +'No,' said Jack. + +'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. + +'Yes,' I said, 'I do a little.' Then there was a silence, and I had to +say something else. + +'Do you play draughts, Miss Brand?' I asked. + +'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.' + +I saw Jack winking at me urgently. + +'I'll play a game with you, if you like,' I said, 'but I ain't much of a +player.' + +'Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson! When shall you have an evening to spare?' + +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. + +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-- + +'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.' + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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). + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And next day there was a little table in my room with a crocheted cover +and a looking-glass. + +I noticed the other girls began to act mysterious and giggle when I was +round, but Mary didn't seem aware of it. + +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. + +'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.' + +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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I felt better next morning, and reckoned I was cured. I ran against Mary +accidentally and had to say something. + +'How did you enjoy yourself yesterday evening, Miss Brand?' I asked. + +'Oh, very well, thank you, Mr Wilson,' she said. Then she asked, 'How +did you enjoy yourself, Mr Wilson?' + +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-- + +'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.' + +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. + + +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. + +'What the hell's Romany trying to do?' said Jimmy Nowlett. 'He couldn't +have fell off his horse--or else he's drunk.' + +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. + +'What did you git down so sudden for, Romany?' asked Jim Bullock +presently. 'Did you hurt yerself on the pommel?' + +'Why didn't you ask the horse to go round?' asked Dave Regan. + +'I'd only like to know who put up that bleeding wire!' growled Romany. + +'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.' + +'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.' + +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. + +'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.' + +But they saw that Romany was getting nasty, and they wanted him to play +the fiddle next night, so they dropped it. + +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. + +'That gal's got a nice voice,' said Jimmy Nowlett. + +'Nice voice!' snarled Romany, who'd been waiting for a chance to be +nasty. 'Why, I've heard a tom-cat sing better.' + +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-- + +'I suppose you got bit too in that quarter, Romany?' + +'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. + +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. + +'You're a damned crawler, Romany!' I said. + +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. + +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. + +'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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I felt Jack breathing quick and trembling as he lifted me up. + +'How are you, Joe?' he whispered. + +'I'm all right,' I said. + +'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!' + +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. + +'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. + +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. + +'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.' + +That showed how little even Jack, my old mate, understood me. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I went down again, but Jack told me afterwards that he FELT I was all +right when he lifted me. + +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. + +'I've done,' he said. 'I've twisted my ankle.' He'd caught his heel +against a tuft of grass. + +'Shake hands,' yelled Jimmy Nowlett. + +I stepped forward, but Romany took his coat and limped to his horse. + +'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. + +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-- + +'If I thought that, I'd kill him.' + +'What is it?' asked Jack. + +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. + +'Why did you let your man fight with a butcher's knife in his belt?' +asked Jimmy Nowlett. + +But the knife could easily have fallen out when Romany fell, and we +decided it that way. + +'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.' + +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. + +'What's up, Jack?' I asked. + +'Nothing,' said Jack. + +'What's up, you old fool?' I said. + +'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.' + +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. + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +'What is it, Jack?' I asked. + +'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.' + +Presently there was another hush outside, and a saucer with vinegar and +brown paper was handed in. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'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. + +'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.' + +'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. + +'Well, that's a rum start!' I said. + +'Yes, it is,' said Jack; 'it's very funny. Well, how's your face this +morning, Joe?' + +He seemed a lot more serious than usual. + +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. + +'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.' + +When we'd done in the shed, Jack took me aside and said-- + +'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.' + +'But how am I to get her out?' I said. + +'Never you mind. You be mooching round down by the big peppermint-tree +near the river-gate, say about half-past ten.' + +'What good'll that do?' + +'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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'Oh, is that you, Mr Wilson?' said a timid little voice. + +'Yes,' I said. 'Is that you, Mary?' + +And she said yes. It was the first time I called her Mary, but she did +not seem to notice it. + +'Did I frighten you?' I asked. + +'No--yes--just a little,' she said. 'I didn't know there was any +one----' then she stopped. + +'Why aren't you dancing?' I asked her. + +'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.' + +'Yes,' I said, 'it must be hot in the wool-shed.' + +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. + +'How beautiful the moonlight looks on the willows!' she said. + +'Yes,' I said, 'doesn't it? Supposing we have a stroll by the river.' + +'Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson. I'd like it very much.' + +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. + +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. + +'Suppose we sit down for a while, Mary,' I said. + +'If you like, Mr Wilson,' she said. + +There was about a foot of log between us. + +'What a beautiful night!' she said. + +'Yes,' I said, 'isn't it?' + +Presently she said, 'I suppose you know I'm going away next month, Mr +Wilson?' + +I felt suddenly empty. 'No,' I said, 'I didn't know that.' + +'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.' + +We didn't say anything for a good while. + +'I suppose you won't be sorry to go, Miss Brand?' I said. + +'I--I don't know,' she said. 'Everybody's been so kind to me here.' + +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. + +'So you think you'll be sorry to go away?' I said. + +'Yes, Mr Wilson. I suppose I'll fret for a while. It's been my home, you +know.' + +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. + +'Ah, well,' I said, 'I suppose I'll be on the wallaby again next week.' + +'Will you, Mr Wilson?' she said. Her voice seemed very soft. + +I slipped my arm round her waist, under her arm. My heart was going like +clockwork now. + +Presently she said-- + +'Don't you think it's time to go back now, Mr Wilson?' + +'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. + +'Mary,' I said. + +'Yes,' she said. + +'Call me Joe,' I said. + +'I--I don't like to,' she said. 'I don't think it would be right.' + +So I just turned her face round and kissed her. She clung to me and +cried. + +'What is it, Mary?' I asked. + +She only held me tighter and cried. + +'What is it, Mary?' I said. 'Ain't you well? Ain't you happy?' + +'Yes, Joe,' she said, 'I'm very happy.' Then she said, 'Oh, your poor +face! Can't I do anything for it?' + +'No,' I said. 'That's all right. My face doesn't hurt me a bit now.' + +But she didn't seem right. + +'What is it, Mary?' I said. 'Are you tired? You didn't sleep last +night----' Then I got an inspiration. + +'Mary,' I said, 'what were you doing out with the gun this morning?' + +And after some coaxing it all came out, a bit hysterical. + +'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.' + +Then I got as much of her as I could into my arms. + +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. + +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. + +'Mary,' I whispered, 'put your arms round my neck and kiss me.' + +She put her arms round my neck, but she didn't kiss me; she only hid her +face. + +'Kiss me, Mary!' I said. + +'I--I don't like to,' she whispered. + +'Why not, Mary?' + +Then I felt her crying or laughing, or half crying and half laughing. +I'm not sure to this day which it was. + +'Why won't you kiss me, Mary? Don't you love me?' + +'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.' + +Then it dawned on me! I'd forgot all about proposing. + +'Mary,' I said, 'would you marry a chap like me?' + +And that was all right. + + ***** + +Next morning Mary cleared out my room and sorted out my things, and +didn't take the slightest notice of the other girls' astonishment. + +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. + +'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. + +'No,' I said; 'it's not that, Boss.' + +'Well, what is it, Joe?' + +'I--well the fact is, I want little Mary.' + +He puffed at his pipe for a long time, then I thought he spoke. + +'What did you say, Boss?' I said. + +'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.' + +I waited a good while for him to speak. + +'Well, Boss,' I said, 'what about Mary?' + +'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.' + + + + +Brighten's Sister-In-Law. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Jim got on all right for a while: we used to watch him well, and have +his teeth lanced in time. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!' + +I used to cut myself a good deal: I was always impatient over shaving. + +Then he went in to interview his mother about it. She understood his +lingo better than I did. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +For the first hour or so, along the road, he was telling me all about +his adventures at his auntie's. + +'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!' + +I was taking out a cattle-pup for a drover I knew, and the pup took up a +good deal of Jim's time. + +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-- + +'What are you jerking your shoulders and coughing, and grunting, and +going on that way for, dad? Why don't you tell me something?' + +'Tell you what, Jim?' + +'Tell me some talk.' + +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-- + +'I'm glad you took me home with you, dad. You'll get to know Jim.' + +'What!' I said. + +'You'll get to know Jim.' + +'But don't I know you already?' + +'No, you don't. You never has time to know Jim at home.' + +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.' + +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! + +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?' + +But I didn't think she'd understand. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'Dad!' he said presently--'Dad! do you think I'll ever grow up to be a +man?' + +'Wh--why, Jim?' I gasped. + +'Because I don't want to.' + +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. + +'Jim,' I said, to break the silence, 'do you hear what the she-oaks +say?' + +'No, I don't. Is they talking?' + +'Yes,' I said, without thinking. + +'What is they saying?' he asked. + +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-- + +'Don't cook too much, dad--I mightn't be hungry.' + +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-- + +'I ain't hungry, dad! You'll have to eat it all.' + +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. + +'Sick, Jim?' I asked. + +'No, dad, I ain't sick; I don't know what's the matter with me.' + +'Have some tea, sonny?' + +'Yes, dad.' + +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. + +'Jim's tired, dad,' he said. + +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. + +'How do you feel now, sonny?' + +It seemed a minute before he heard me and turned from the stars. + +'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. + +'Kiss me 'night-night, daddy,' he said. + +I'd rather he hadn't asked me--it was a bad sign. As I was going to the +fire he called me back. + +'What is it, Jim?' + +'Get me my things and the cattle-pup, please, daddy.' + +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. + +'Are you quite warm enough, Jim?' + +'Yes, dad.' + +I started to walk up and down--I always did this when I was extra +worried. + +I was frightened now about Jim, though I tried to hide the fact from +myself. Presently he called me again. + +'What is it, Jim?' + +'Take the blankets off me, fahver--Jim's sick!' (They'd been teaching +him to say father.) + +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-- + +'Take the blankets off me, muvver--I'm dying.' + +And I couldn't get that out of my head. + +I threw back a fold of the 'possum rug, and felt Jim's head--he seemed +cool enough. + +'Where do you feel bad, sonny?' + +No answer for a while; then he said suddenly, but in a voice as if he +were talking in his sleep-- + +'Put my boots on, please, daddy. I want to go home to muvver!' + +I held his hand, and comforted him for a while; then he slept--in a +restless, feverish sort of way. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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---- + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +'Who's there?' + +'It's me. Joe Wilson. I want your sister-in-law--I've got the boy--he's +sick and dying!' + +Brighten came out, pulling up his moleskins. 'What boy?' he asked. + +'Here, take him,' I shouted, 'and let me get down.' + +'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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'Here, that tin of mustard--there on the shelf!' she shouted to me. + +She knocked the lid off the tin on the edge of the tub, and went on +splashing and spanking Jim. + +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. + +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. + +I dropped on the stool by the table. + +'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.' + +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-- + +'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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Suddenly she glanced round and said--in a tone as if I was her husband +and she didn't think much of me-- + +'Why don't you eat something?' + +'Beg pardon?' + +'Eat something!' + +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. + +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. + +I looked away quick, feeling full up myself. And presently (I hadn't +seen her look round) she said-- + +'Go to bed.' + +'Beg pardon?' (Her face was the same as before the tears.) + +'Go to bed. There's a bed made for you inside on the sofa.' + +'But--the team--I must----' + +'What?' + +'The team. I left it at the camp. I must look to it.' + +'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.' + +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. + + * Maize or Indian corn--wheat is never called corn in + Australia.-- + +As I started to go in I heard Brighten's sister-in-law say, suddenly and +sharply-- + +'Take THAT away, Jessie.' + +And presently I saw Mrs Brighten go into the house with the black +bottle. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'And now,' says Jim, 'I want to go home to "muffer" in "The Same Ol' +Fling".' + +'What?' + +Jim repeated. + +'Oh! "The Same Old Thing",--the waggon.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'Here, take him,' she said. + +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. + +'You'd better make a start,' she said. 'You want to get home early with +that boy.' + +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. + +'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.' + +'Will you come to see us?' + +'Some day,' she said. + +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. + + +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!' + +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. + + + + +'Water Them Geraniums'. + + + + +I. A Lonely Track. + + +The time Mary and I shifted out into the Bush from Gulgong to 'settle on +the land' at Lahey's Creek. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +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!---- + +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.' + +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. + +The sun was going down when Mary called out-- + +'There's our place, Joe!' + +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. + +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. + + +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. + +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. + +Mary sat still by the fire, and presently I saw her chin tremble. + +'What is it, Mary?' + +She turned her face farther from me. I felt tired, disappointed, and +irritated--suffering from a reaction. + +'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?' + +'You know very well, Joe.' + +'But I DON'T know,' I said. I knew too well. + +She said nothing. + +'Look here, Mary,' I said, putting my hand on her shoulder, 'don't go on +like that; tell me what's the matter?' + +'It's only this,' she said suddenly, 'I can't stand this life here; it +will kill me!' + +I had a pannikin of tea in my hand, and I banged it down on the table. + +'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?' + +'And what sort of a place was Gulgong, Joe?' asked Mary quietly. + +(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.) + +'Well, why didn't you come to Sydney, as I wanted you to?' I asked Mary. + +'You know very well, Joe,' said Mary quietly. + +(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.) + +'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.' + +'As long as you take a glass there is danger,' she said. + +'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. + +'Well,' she said, 'why weren't you more decided?' + +I'd sat down, but I jumped to my feet then. + +'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.' + +'So am I, Joe,' said Mary wearily. + +We quarrelled badly then--that first hour in our new home. I know now +whose fault it was. + +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. + +'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.' + +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. + +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-- + +'Why did I bring her here?' + +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. + +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. + +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'. + +'You, An-nay!' (Annie.) + +'Ye-es' (from somewhere in the gloom). + +'Didn't I tell yer to water them geraniums!' + +'Well, didn't I?' + +'Don't tell lies or I'll break yer young back!' + +'I did, I tell yer--the water won't soak inter the ashes.' + +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. + +Then the woman's voice again-- + +'You, Tom-may!' (Tommy.) + +Silence, save for an echo on the ridge. + +'Y-o-u, T-o-m-MAY!' + +'Ye-e-s!' shrill shriek from across the creek. + +'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. + +'Well--I karnt find the horse.' + +'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.' + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'How does that look, Joe? We'll soon get things ship-shape.' + +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. + +Somehow I didn't feel satisfied with the way things had gone. + + + + +II. 'Past Carin''. + + +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. + +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. + + * 'Graft', work. The term is now applied, in Australia, to + all sorts of work, from bullock-driving to writing poetry. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * 'Humpy', a rough hut. + +'Are you Mrs Wilson?' asked the boy. + +'Yes,' said Mary. + +'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.' + +'Piece of WHAT?' asked Mary. + +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. + +'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?' + +The boy blinked at her, and scratched his head. + +'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----' + +'Yes, yes,' said Mary, getting confused. 'But what I want to know is, +how do you manage when you sell it?' + +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----' + +'Yes, yes; but what I want to know is, how much am I to send your mother +for this?' + +'How much what?' + +'Money, of course, you stupid boy,' said Mary. 'You seem a very stupid +boy.' + +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. + +'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.) + +'Oh!' said Mary, 'I'm SO sorry. Thank your mother for me. She IS kind.' + +'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.' + +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. + +'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.' + +'But wait a minute--I've forgotten your mother's name,' said Mary. + +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. + +'Do you go to school?' asked Mary. There was a three-days-a-week school +over the ridges at Wall's station. + +'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.) + +'Finished you? How?' asked Mary. + +'Me edgercation, of course! How do yer expect me to start this horse +when yer keep talkin'?' + +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. + +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. + +And I'll bet he got there. But I'm doubtful if the old horse did. + +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. + +'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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +'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.' + +'I wouldn't 'a' told yer a lie; but I thought Jimmy would split on me, +Mrs Wilson,' said Annie. 'Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson.' + +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. + +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'. + +'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. + +'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.' + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +Some one might ask her, 'How's your son Jack, Mrs Spicer?' or, 'Heard of +Jack lately? and where is he now?' + +'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.' + +And she'd turn her haggard eyes in a helpless, hopeless sort of way +towards the west--towards 'up-country' and 'Out-Back'.* + + + * 'Out-Back' is always west of the Bushman, no matter how + far out he be. + + +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.' + +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-- + +'Thenk yer, Mr Wilson. Do yer think we're ever goin' to have any rain?' + +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-- + +'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.' + +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. + +'Jist tryin' ter keep the milkers alive till the rain comes.' + +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). + +'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?' + +They had a sense of the ridiculous, most of those poor sun-dried +Bushwomen. I fancy that that helped save them from madness. + +'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.' + +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. + +'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). + +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.' + + ***** + +After tea the first Sunday she came to see us, Mary asked-- + +'Don't you feel lonely, Mrs Spicer, when your husband goes away?' + +'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.' + +Mary sat silent for a minute thinking. Then Mrs Spicer roused herself-- + +'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.' + +But once or twice afterwards she referred to a time 'when Spicer was a +different man to what he was now.' + +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-- + +'What-did-you-bring-her-here-for? She's only a girl.' + +'I beg pardon, Mrs Spicer.' + +'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.' + +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. + +Her great trouble was that she 'couldn't git no reg'lar schoolin' for +the children.' + +'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.' + +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-- + +'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!' + +The poor little devil stammered something, and escaped. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Sometimes, after a long pause in the conversation, Mrs Spicer would say +suddenly-- + +'Oh, I don't think I'll come up next week, Mrs Wilson.' + +'Why, Mrs Spicer?' + +'Because the visits doesn't do me any good. I git the dismals +afterwards.' + +'Why, Mrs Spicer? What on earth do you mean?' + +'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. + +Mary thought her a little mad at times. But I seemed to understand. + +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-- + +'I wish you wouldn't come down any more till I'm on me feet, Mrs Wilson. +The children can do for me.' + +'Why, Mrs Spicer?' + +'Well, the place is in such a muck, and it hurts me.' + +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-- + +'Oh, marther! Here comes Mr and Mrs Wilson in their spring-cart.' + +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. + +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. + +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.' + +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.' + +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. + +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.' + +'Why! what on earth did they let the man hang for?' asked Mary. + +'To give him a good bellyful of it: they thought it would cure him of +tryin' to hang himself again.' + +'Well, that's the coolest thing I ever heard of,' said Mary. + +'That's jist what the magistrate said, Mrs Wilson,' said Mrs Spicer. + +'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-- + +'"For God's sake, woman, give me a drink!" + +'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." + +'I was so surprised that I didn't know what to say, so I jist said, +"Would you like some more coffee?" + +'"Yes, thenk yer," he said--"about two quarts." + +'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.' + +'Why, what did he stand on his head for?' asked Mary. + +'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.' + +'O Lord!' cried Mary. + +'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.' + +Mary stared at her, speechless. + +'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. + +'"Yer'll go agen when I tell yer not to," I'd say. + +'"Oh no, mother," they'd howl. + +'"Yer wanted ter see a man hangin'," I said. + +'"Oh, don't, mother! Don't talk about it." + +'"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?" + +'"Oh, don't, mother!" + +'"Yer run all the way there, I s'pose?" + +'"Don't, mother!" + +'"But yer run faster back, didn't yer?" + +'"Oh, don't, mother." + +'But,' said Mrs Spicer, in conclusion, 'I'd been down to see it myself +before they was up.' + +'And ain't you afraid to live alone here, after all these horrible +things?' asked Mary. + +'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.' + +'Haven't you got any friends in the district, Mrs Spicer?' + +'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.' + + ***** + +One day--I was on my way home with the team that day--Annie Spicer came +running up the creek in terrible trouble. + +'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. + +'What?' + +'It's true, Mrs Wilson.' + +'What for? What did the policeman say?' + +'He--he--he said, "I--I'm very sorry, Mrs Spicer; but--I--I want +William."' + +It turned out that William was wanted on account of a horse missed from +Wall's station and sold down-country. + +'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.' + +James put the horse to the cart and drove Mary down. + +Mary told me all about it when I came home. + +'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.' + +Later on Mary said-- + +'How the oaks are sighing to-night, Joe!' + + ***** + +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. + +'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.' + +Billy Wall managed it. The charge was withdrawn, and we got young Billy +Spicer off up-country. + +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. + +'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.' + +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. + +'I expected Mrs Spicer up to-day,' said Mary. 'She seems better lately.' + +'Why!' cried Maggie Charlsworth, 'if that ain't Annie coming running up +along the creek. Something's the matter!' + +We all jumped up and ran out. + +'What is it, Annie?' cried Mary. + +'Oh, Mrs Wilson! Mother's asleep, and we can't wake her!' + +'What?' + +'It's--it's the truth, Mrs Wilson.' + +'How long has she been asleep?' + +'Since lars' night.' + +'My God!' cried Mary, 'SINCE LAST NIGHT?' + +'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'.' + +'Was that all she said?' + +'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.' + +Mary wanted to go, but I wouldn't let her. James and I saddled our +horses and rode down the creek. + + ***** + +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. + + + + +A Double Buggy at Lahey's Creek. + + + + +I. Spuds, and a Woman's Obstinacy. + + +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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +'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.' + +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. + +'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.' + +'But I tell you the ground is not potato-ground,' I said. + +'How do you know? You haven't sown any there yet.' + +'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?' + +'But you haven't TRIED to grow potatoes there yet, Joe. How do you +know----' + +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. + +I took my pipe and went out to smoke and cool down. + +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-- + +'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.' + +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. + +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. + +'What is it, James?' I shouted, before he came up--but I saw he was +grinning. + +'Mary says to tell you not to forget to bring a hoe out with you.' + +'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.' + +'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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'I thought I'd make the boots easy for you, Joe,' said Mary. + +'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. + +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. + +'I thought you wanted old Corny to plough the ground,' she said. + +'I never said so.' + +'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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +II. Joe Wilson's Luck. + + +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. + +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.' + +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'. + +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. + +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. + +One evening--I was going down next day for a load of fencing-wire for +myself--Mary said,-- + +'Joe! do you know that the Matthews have got a new double buggy?' + +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. + +'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.' + +'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.' + +'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?' + +'Well,' said Mary, 'it was James who got the steers and the sheep.' + +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. + +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. + +When I went in she'd cried herself to sleep. I bent over and, 'Mary,' I +whispered. + +She seemed to wake up. + +'Joe--Joe!' she said. + +'What is it Mary?' I said. + +'I'm pretty well sure that old Spot's calf isn't in the pen. Make James +go at once!' + +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. + +We both laughed when I told her about it afterwards; but I didn't feel +like laughing just then. + +Later on in the night she called out in her sleep,-- + +'Joe--Joe! Put that buggy in the shed, or the sun will blister the +varnish!' + +I wish I could say that that was the last time I ever spoke unkindly to +Mary. + +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. + +When I was ready to start Mary said,-- + +'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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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,-- + +'Now if Mary had a comfortable buggy, she could drive in with the +children oftener. Then she wouldn't feel the loneliness so much.' + +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. + + + + +III. The Ghost of Mary's Sacrifice. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +While I was looking at it, Bill Galletly came in, and slapped me on the +back. + +'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.' + +He called her 'little Mary' because the Galletly family had known her +when she was a girl. + +I rubbed my head and looked at the buggy again. It was a great +temptation. + +'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.' + +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. + +Just then Robert Galletly came into the shop. He was rather quieter than +his brother, but the two were very much alike. + +'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.' + +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.' + +I pushed my hat forward and rubbed the back of my head and stared at the +buggy. + +'Come across to the Royal, Joe,' said Bob. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * 'Shout', to buy a round of drinks.--A. L., 1997. + + + + +IV. The Buggy Comes Home. + + +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. + +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-- + +'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.' + +'I want it to be a surprise,' I said. + +'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.' + +'Tell her you're going to get yours shod.' + +'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.' + +'Well, drive the other horse up the creek early, and pick him up as you +go.' + +'Yes. And she'll want to know what I want with two bridles. But I'll fix +her--YOU needn't worry.' + +'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.' + +'Oh!--orlright.' + +'And if you can, time yourself to get here in the cool of the evening, +or just about sunset.' + +'What for?' + +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. + +'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?' + +'Oh well,' I said, 'get here at midnight if you like.' + +We didn't say anything for a while--just sat and puffed at our pipes. +Then I said,-- + +'Well, what are you thinking about?' + +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,-- + +'Well, what am I to get out of the job, Joe?' + +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,-- + +'How much does Franca want for that gun?' + +'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.) + +'All right,' I said. 'Make the best bargain you can.' + +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. + +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. + +At tea-time I got Mary on to the buggy business. + +'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?' + +'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.' + +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. + +'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.' + +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. + +'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?' + +'Well, I've got nothing to say.' + +'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?' + +I said there was nothing the matter. + +'But there must be, to make you so unbearable. Have you been drinking, +Joe--or gambling?' + +I asked her what she'd accuse me of next. + +'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----' + +'Well, what is it?' + +'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----' + +'Well, what did he say?' + +'He--he' (she seemed a little hysterical, trying not to laugh)--'he said +"damn it!"' + +I had to laugh. Mary tried to keep serious, but it was no use. + +'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.' + +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. + +'What is it, Harry?' said Mary. + +'Buggy comin', I bin thinkit.' + +'Where?' + +He pointed up the creek. + +'Sure it's a buggy?' + +'Yes, missus.' + +'How many horses?' + +'One--two.' + +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. + +'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.' + +She stared at me, and I sat there, grinning like a fool. + +'Joe!' she said, 'whose buggy is that?' + +'Well, I suppose it's yours,' I said. + +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. + +'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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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,-- + +'What about my tea? I ain't had anything to speak of since I left +Cudgeegong. I want some grub.' + +Then Mary pulled herself together. + +'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.' + +'All right,' said James--'anything! Only get me some grub.' + +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. + +'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. + +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. + +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. + +And at last Mary said, 'Do you know, Joe, why, I feel to-night +just--just like I did the day we were married.' + +And somehow I had that strange, shy sort of feeling too. + + + + +The Writer Wants to Say a Word. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +In two or three short sketches in another book I hope to complete the +story of his life. + + + + +Part II. + + + + +The Golden Graveyard. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'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.) + +*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.' + +*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----?' + +This for the edification of the wife and of all within half a mile. + +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'. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +This was Dave's theory--drawn from a little experience and many long +yarns with old diggers:-- + +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.) + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'We'll work this thing on the strict Q.T.,' said Dave. + +He and Jim had a consultation by the camp fire outside their tent. Jim +grumbled, in conclusion,-- + +'Well, then, best go under Jimmy Middleton. It's the shortest and +straightest, and Jimmy's the freshest, anyway.' + +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. + +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. + +'Old Pinter', Ballarat digger--his theory on second and other bottoms +ran as follows:-- + +'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----' + +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. + +'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.' + +'And some one will come poking round, and look down the hole and see the +bottom,' said Jim Bently. + +'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.' + +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. + +'It would look better to have a whip-pole and a horse, but we can't +afford them just yet,' said Dave. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +''Ello, Dave!' said Pinter, after looking with mild surprise at the size +of Dave's waste-heap. 'Tryin' for the second bottom?' + +'Yes,' said Dave, guttural. + +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. + +Pinter straightened himself, blinking like an owl, and looked carelessly +over the graveyard. + +'Tryin' for a secon' bottom,' he reflected absently. 'Eh, Dave?' + +Dave only stood and looked black. + +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. + +'Kullers is safe,' reflected Pinter. + +'All right?' snapped Dave. 'I suppose we must let him into it.' + +'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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +''Ullo! you dar'?' + +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. + +'What's the matter?' asked Dave. 'Have you seen a ghost?' + +'I've seen the--the devil!' gasped Jim. 'I'm--I'm done with this here +ghoul business.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'What's up now?' demanded Dave apprehensively. + +'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.' + +'How the hell did she drop to it?' exclaimed Pinter. + +'Dunno,' said Jim. 'Anyway she's coming for us. Listen to her!' + +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. + +'Why didn't you fools make off into the Bush and give us a chance, +instead of giving her a lead here?' asked Dave. + +Jim and Kullers began to wish they had done so. + +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. + +'I wonder which shaf' she'll come down,' asked Kullers in a tone +befitting the place and occasion. + +'You'd better go and watch your shaft, Pinter,' said Dave, 'and Jim and +I'll watch mine.' + +'I--I won't,' said Pinter hurriedly. 'I'm--I'm a modest man.' + +Then they heard a clang in the direction of Pinter's shaft. + +'She's thrown her bottle down,' said Dave. + +Jim crawled along the drive a piece, urged by curiosity, and returned +hurriedly. + +'She's broke the pitchfork off short, to use in the drive, and I believe +she's coming down.' + +'Her crinoline'll handicap her,' said Pinter vacantly, 'that's a +comfort.' + +'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. + +'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. + +'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.' + +'And she's enough, without the neighbourhood,' reflected Pinter. + +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. + + + + +The Chinaman's Ghost. + + +'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.) + +'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.) + +'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. + +'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. + +'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. + +'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. + +'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. + +'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. + +'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. + +'"You seem to be a bit winded, Dave," said Jim Bently, "and mighty +thirsty. Did the Chinaman's ghost chase you?" + +'I told him not to talk rot, and went into the tent, and lay down on my +bunk, and had a good rest.' + + + + +The Loaded Dog. + + +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. + +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. + +Dave got an idea. + +'Why not blow the fish up in the big water-hole with a cartridge?' he +said. 'I'll try it.' + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'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. + +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. + +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. + +'Go away, Tommy,' said Jim feebly, 'go away.' + +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. + +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----' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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---- + +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. + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +Andy chained the dog up securely, and cooked some more chops, while Dave +went to help Jim out of the hole. + +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-- + +''El-lo, Da-a-ve! How's the fishin' getting on, Da-a-ve?' + + + + +Poisonous Jimmy Gets Left. + + + + +I. Dave Regan's Yarn. + + +'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. + +'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. + +'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. + +'"And Poisonous Jimmy is waiting for us," said one of them. + +'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. + +'"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." + +'"You've always said that, Jack," said the first drover. + +'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. + +'Just before we reached the shanty I got an idea. + +'"We'll plant our swags in the scrub," I said to Jim. + +'"What for?" said Jim. + +'"Never mind--you'll see," I said. + +'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. + +'"Poisonous" came out at once, with a smile on him that would have made +anybody home-sick. + +'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. + +'"Good day, mates," he said. + +'"Good day," we said. + +'"It's hot." + +'"It's hot." + +'We went into the bar, and Poisonous got behind the counter. + +'"What are you going to have?" he asked, rubbing up his glasses with a +rag. + +'We had two long-beers. + +'"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." + +'"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." + +'"I suppose you're waiting for your cheques?" he said, turning to fix +some bottles on the shelf. + +'"Yes," I said, "we are;" and I winked at Jim, and Jim winked back as +solemn as an owl. + +'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. + +'"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. + +'"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. + +'Poisonous filled our pewters again in an offhand way. + +'"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." + +'There was a general store back on the creek, near the drovers' camp. + +'"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." + +'"Thank you," said Jim, taking up the sovereign carelessly and dropping +it into his pocket. + +'"Well, Jim," I said, "suppose we get back to camp and see how the chaps +are getting on?" + +'"All right," said Jim. + +'"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. + +'We got on our horses, I holding the billy very carefully, and rode back +to where our swags were. + +'"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." + +'"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." + +'"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." + +'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. + +'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.' + + + + +II. Told by One of the Other Drovers. + + +'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. + +'"Good day, boys!" he says. + +'"Good day, Poisonous," we says. + +'"It's hot," he says. + +'"It's blanky hot," I says. + +'He seemed to expect us to get down. "Where are you off to?" he says. + +'"Mulgatown," I says. "It will be cooler there," and we sung out, +"So-long, Poisonous!" and rode on. + +'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. + +'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. + +'He was too mad and too winded to speak at first, so he rode along with +us a bit gasping: then he burst out. + +'"Where's them other two carnal blanks?" he shouted. + +'"What other two?" I asked. "We're all here. What's the matter with you +anyway?" + +'"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'----!" + +'Oh, but Poisonous Jimmy was wild. + +'"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." + +'"Pay for it!" yelled Jimmy. "I'll----well take it out of one of yer +bleedin' hides!" + +'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. + +'"Now, look here, Myles," said the boss (Jimmy's name was Myles)--"Now, +look here, Myles," sez the boss, "what's all this about?" + +'"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!" + +'"What was they like?" asks the boss. + +'"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." + +'"Now, what's this all about, you chaps?" sez the boss to us. + +'So we told him as much as we knowed about them two fellers. + +'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. + +'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. + +'They fined him ten bob.' + + + + +The Ghostly Door. + +Told by one of Dave's mates. + + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'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?' + + * 'Whare', 'whorrie', Maori name for house. + +I shifted my feet and presently moved the stool farther away from the +fire--it was too hot. + +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. + +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. + +Dave scratched his ear. 'That's rum,' he said. 'I could have sworn I +fastened that door. They must have left the cat behind.' + +'It looks like it,' I said. 'Neither of us has been on the boose +lately.' + +He got out of bed and up on his long hairy spindle-shanks. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'You shot the bolt OUTSIDE the catch,' I said, as he caught hold of the +door--like one grabs a craw-fish. + +'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. + +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. + +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. + +'What are you doing that for?' I asked. + +'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. + +'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. + +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. + +'What are you going to do, Dave?' I asked. + +'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.' + +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. + +'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. + +It was blowing hard, but not raining so much. + +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.' + +'What for?' I said. + +'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.' + +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. + +Dave scratched his head a good bit. + +'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.' + + + + +A Wild Irishman. + + +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. + +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. + +I make no attempt to give any one shade of the Irish brogue--it can't be +done in writing. + + +'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. + +'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-- + +'"Oi must be walkin' or foightin'!--Oi must be walkin' or foightin'!--Oi +must be walkin' or foightin'!" + +'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. + +'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. + +'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. + +'"B' God, there's the Flour o' Wheat comin' this minute," says Dinny +Murphy to Tom, "an' no one else." + +'"B' God, ye're right!" says Tom. + +'There were a lot of new chums in the big room at the back, drinking and +dancing and singing, and Tom says to Dinny-- + +'"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." + +'But Dinny wouldn't take him up. He knew the Flour. + +'"Good day, Tom! Good day, Dinny!" + +'"Good day to you, Flour!" + +'I was introduced. + +'"Well, boys, come along," says the Flour. + +'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. + +'"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?" + +'He shouted, and drank, and gambled, and danced, and sang, and fought +the new chums all night, and in the morning he said-- + +'"Well, boys, we had a grand time last night. Come and have a drink with +me." + +'And of course they went in and had a drink with him. + + ***** + +'Next morning the Flour was walking along the street, when he met a +drunken, disreputable old hag, known among the boys as the "Nipper". + +'"Good MORNING, me lovely Flour o' Wheat!" says she. + +'"Good MORNING, me lovely Nipper!" says the Flour. + +'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! + +'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. + +'"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." + +'But they didn't let it pass,--they fined her a quid. + +'And the Flour paid the fine. + +'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. + + ***** + +'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. + +'"What d'ye think of that?" he says, handing the summons across the bar. +"What d'ye think of me lovely Dinny Murphy now?" + +'"Why, what's this all about?" + +'"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." + +'"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?" + +'"That's what I want to know." + +'"What have you been doing to the man?" + +'"Divil a thing that I'm aware of." + +'The cousin rubbed his chin-tuft between his forefinger and thumb. + +'"Well, what am I to do about it?" asked the Flour impatiently. + +'"Do? Pay the man, of course?" + +'"How can I pay the lovely man when I haven't got the price of a drink +about me?" + +'The cousin scratched his chin. + +'"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." + +'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. + + . . . . . + +'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-- + +'"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?" + +'Or he'd pass a raffle, lottery, lucky-bag, or golden-barrel business of +some sort,-- + +'"No gamblin' for the Flour. I don't believe in their little shwindles. +It ought to be shtopped. Leadin' young people ashtray." + +'Or he'd pass an Englishman he didn't like,-- + +'"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!" + + ***** + +'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". + +'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. + +'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. + +'"There's something happened to the lovely man," said the Flour of Wheat +at last. "Some of us had better see about it." + +'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. + + +'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. + +'"Take your hats off and come in quietly, lads," said the Flour. "Here's +the lovely man lying dead in his bunk." + +'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. + +'One or two did object, but the Flour reasoned with them and there were +no sports. + +'And the Flour used to say, afterwards, "Ah, but it was a grand time we +had at the funeral when Duncan died at Duffers." + + . . . . . + +'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. + +'"Inside there--come out!" + +'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. + +'"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." + +'Then he shook his fist in the doctor's face and said-- + +'"If you let that lovely man die--look out!" + +'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-- + +'"If you let that lovely man die--mind!" + +'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. + +'"There," he said, "pour that into the lovely man." + +'Then he shook his fist at such members of the staff as were visible, +and said-- + +'"If you let that lovely man die--look out!" + +'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." + +'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. + +'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. + +'"Stay there, ye little whipper-snapper," said the Flour of Wheat; "you +let that lovely man die!" + +'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. + +'"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." + +'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. + +'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-- + +'"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!" + +'Then he went out--taking the coffin with him. + +'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-- + +'"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!" + +'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. + +'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. + +'"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." + +'Then he left for Th' Canary.' + + + + +The Babies in the Bush. + + + '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.' + + +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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + + '"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. + + ***** + + 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?" + +They don't matter much, do they, Jack?' + +'Damned if I think they do, Boss!' I'd say. + + '"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."' + +Once he repeated the poem containing the lines-- + + '"Love, when we wandered here together, + Hand in hand through the sparkling weather-- + God surely loved us a little then." + +Beautiful lines those, Jack. + + "Then skies were fairer and shores were firmer, + And the blue sea over the white sand rolled-- + Babble and prattle, and prattle and murmur'-- + +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. + +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-- + + '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!' + +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-- + +'Do you know Fisher, Jack--the man that owns these bullocks?' + +'I've heard of him,' I said. Fisher was a big squatter, with stations +both in New South Wales and in Queensland. + +'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.' + +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. + +'The Boss seems to have taken to you, Jack, all right.' + +'Think so?' I said. I thought I smelt jealousy and detected a sneer. + +'I'm sure of it. It's very seldom HE takes to any one.' + +I said nothing. + +Then after a while Andy said suddenly-- + +'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. + +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. + +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-- + +'Look here, Jack, you're going on to Sydney, aren't you?' + +'Yes; I'm going down to have a fly round.' + +'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?' + +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. + +'Come and have a drink, Boss,' I said. The agent had paid us off during +the day. + +He turned into a hotel with me. + +'I don't drink, Jack,' he said; 'but I'll take a glass with you.' + +'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. + +'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. + +'Well,' I said, 'I wish I could take a glass or leave it.' And I meant +it. + +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.' + +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-- + +'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.' + +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. + +'I want you to come along home with me, Jack,' he said; 'we'll fix you a +shake-down.' + +I forgot to tell you that he was married and lived in Bathurst. + +'But won't it put Mrs Head about?' + +'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.' + +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. + +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. + +'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.' + +'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. + +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. + +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. + +She seemed extra glad to see me. I thought at first that she was a bit +of a gusher. + +'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. + +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. + +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. + +'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. + +'Yes, Mrs Head. I've knocked round all about out there.' + +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. + +She smoothed her forehead, and clasped her hands in her lap. + +'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.' + +'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. + +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. + +'You know we had a station out on the Lachlan, Mr Ellis. Did Walter ever +tell you about the time we lived there?' + +'No,' I said, glancing at the Boss. 'I know you had a station there; +but, you know, the Boss doesn't talk much.' + +'Tell Jack, Maggie,' said the Boss; 'I don't mind.' + +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?' + +This was a facer. 'I--I beg pardon,' I commenced, when Andy gave me a +dig in the back. Then I saw it all. + +'No, Mrs Head. The Boss didn't tell me about that.' + +'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. + +'Of course I've heard of them, Mrs Head,' I said; 'but I can't swear +that I've seen one.' + +'Andy has. Haven't you, Andy?' + +'Of course I have, Mrs Head. Didn't I tell you all about it the last +time we were home?' + +'And didn't you ever tell Mr Ellis, Andy?' + +'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.' + +'Of course!' said Andy. + +'Did he tell you about finding a lost child and the fairy with it?' + +'Yes,' said Andy; 'I told him all about that.' + +'And the fairy was just going to take the child away when Andy found it, +and when the fairy saw Andy she flew away.' + +'Yes,' I said; 'that's what Andy told me.' + +'And what did you say the fairy was like, Andy?' asked Mrs Head, fixing +her eyes on his face. + +'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.' + +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. + +'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.' + +She pressed the tips of the fingers of both hands to her forehead, and +sat so for a while; then she roused herself again-- + +'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.' + +The old woman seemed to hesitate. + +'Go on, Auntie, and do what I ask you,' said Mrs Head. 'Don't be +foolish. You know I'm all right now.' + +'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?' + +'You were, Maggie,' said the Boss. 'But that's all past. You mustn't +think of that time any more.' + +'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.' + +'You were very foolish, Maggie,' said the Boss; 'but don't think about +that.' + +The old woman brought the portraits, a little boy and a little girl: +they must have been very pretty children. + +'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.' + +She put the portraits up on the mantel-shelf. + +'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?' + +'Yes, Maggie,' said the Boss. + +'You were away, Walter, when it happened.' + +'Yes, Maggie,' said the Boss--cheerfully, it seemed to me--'I was away.' + +'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?' + +'Yes, Maggie.' + +'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?' + +'Yes, Mrs Head.' + +'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?' + +'I remember, Maggie.' + +'"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?' + +'Of course I do, Maggie.' + +'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.' + +She was leaning forward with her hands clasping her knee, and telling me +all this with a strange sort of eagerness. + +'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.' + +'Except the fairies, Maggie,' said the Boss quickly. + +'Of course, Walter, except the fairies.' + +She pressed her fingers to her temples again for a minute. + +'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?' + +The Boss caught my eye, and frowned and shook his head slightly. + +'No. I'm sure they wouldn't, Mrs Head,' I said--'at least not from what +I know of them.' + +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-- + +'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. + +'Don't mind about that, Maggie,' said the Boss, hurriedly, stroking her +head. 'Tell Jack about the fairies.' + +'You were away at the time, Walter?' + +'Yes, Maggie.' + +'And we couldn't find you, Walter?' + +'No, Maggie,' very gently. He rested his elbow on his knee and his chin +on his hand, and looked into the fire. + +'It wasn't your fault, Walter; but if you had been at home do you think +the fairies would have taken the children?' + +'Of course they would, Maggie. They had to: the children were lost.' + +'And they're bringing the children home next year?' + +'Yes, Maggie--next year.' + +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. + +'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.' + +'No wonder you were, Mrs Head,' I said. 'It was terrible trouble.' + +'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.' + +'Of course you won't, Maggie.' + +'We're very happy now, aren't we, Walter?' + +'Of course we are, Maggie.' + +'And the children are coming back next year.' + +'Next year, Maggie.' + +He leaned over the fire and stirred it up. + +'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.' + +She paused and pressed her fingers to her temples again. Then she said +quickly-- + +'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.' + +'Who used to tell you that, Mrs Head?' I asked. + +'The Voices,' she said; 'you know about the Voices, Walter?' + +'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?' + +'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.' + +'Of course they could, Mrs Head,' I said. + +'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.' + +'Why!' I said, 'I've known the blacks to track a man after a week's +heavy rain.' + +She had her head between her fingers again, and when she looked up it +was in a scared way. + +'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?' + +He put his arm round her. Andy nudged me and got up. + +'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.' + +'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.' + +'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.' + +'Oh, I've enjoyed myself, Mrs Head,' I said; and Andy hooked me out. + +'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.' + +'It's all true about the children, then?' I asked. + +'It's cruel true,' said Andy. + +'And were the bodies never found?' + +'Yes;' then, after a long pause, 'I found them.' + +'You did!' + +'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.' + +'And you never told Mrs Head about the children being found?' + +'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.' + +'To England?' + +'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.' + +'And you never tried telling her that the children were found?' + +'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.' + +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. + +'The Boss was away when the children were lost?' + +'Yes,' said Andy. + +'Strange you couldn't find him.' + +'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.' + +'I feel damned sorry for the Boss,' I said. + +'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.' + +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. + +'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.' + +'She seems all right,' I said to Andy when we were in our room. + +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. + +'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.' + +Andy closed the door. His face was very miserable. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'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.' + +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. + +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-- + +'Look here, Boss, old chap! I'm damned sorry!' + +Our hands came together and gripped. The ghostly Australian daybreak was +over the Bathurst plains. + +We went on another hundred yards or so, and then the Boss said quietly-- + +'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.' + +I reached for his hand again, and gave it a grip. That was all I could +do for him. + +'Good-bye, Jack!' he said at the door of the brake-van. 'Good-bye, +Andy!--keep those bullocks on their feet.' + +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. + +'Does the boss never go to Sydney?' I asked. + +'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.' + +After a while I said, 'He told me about the drink, Andy--about his being +on the spree when the children were lost.' + +'Well, Jack,' said Andy, 'that's the thing that's been killing him ever +since, and it happened over ten years ago.' + + + + +A Bush Dance. + + + +'Tap, tap, tap, tap.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +On the rest of the stools, running end to end along the other wall, sat +about twenty more or less blooming chaps. + +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. + +'Tap, tap, tap.' + +The rows moved uneasily, and some of the girls turned pale faces +nervously towards the side-door, in the direction of the sound. + +'Tap--tap.' + +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. + +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.' + +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-- + +'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!' + +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-- + +'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!' + +The two girl friends came back. 'He sez to leave her to him,' they +whispered, in reply to an interrogatory glance from the schoolmistress. + +'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.' + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +'It's two horses, I tell you!' + +'It's three, you----!' + +'Lay you----!' + +'Put the stuff up!' + +A clack of gate thrown open. + +'Who is it, Tom?' + +Voices from gatewards, yelling, 'Johnny Mears! They've got Johnny +Mears!' + +Then rose yells, and a cheer such as is seldom heard in scrub-lands. + +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?' + +But from the schoolroom was heard the loud, free voice of Joe Matthews, +M.C.,-- + +'Take yer partners! Hurry up! Take yer partners! They've got Johnny +Mears with his fiddle!' + + + + +The Buck-Jumper. + +Saturday afternoon. + +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. + +'Do it for a quid, Jack?' asked one. + +'Damned if I will, Jim!' said the young man at the post. 'I'll do it for +a fiver--not a blanky sprat less.' + +Jim took off his hat and 'shoved' it round, and 'bobs' were 'chucked' +into it. The result was about thirty shillings. + +Jack glanced contemptuously into the crown of the hat. + +'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.' + +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. + +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. + +'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.' + +The sporting man was interested at once, and went out and joined the +Bushmen. + +'Well, chaps! what have you got on here?' he asked cheerily. + +'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.' + +'What's up with the horse?' inquired the big, red-faced man. 'It looks +quiet enough. Why, I'd ride it myself.' + +'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.' + +'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.' + +'He said he'd ride the horse inside the yard for a quid,' said Jim. + +'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.' + +'Well, how much do you want?' asked the man in the mushroom hat. + +'A fiver, I said,' replied Jack indifferently. 'And the blanky stuff in +my pocket before I get on the blanky horse.' + +'Are you frightened of us running away without paying you?' inquired one +of the passengers who had gathered round. + +'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?' + +'You wouldn't want 'em then,' suggested a passenger. 'Or, say!--we'd +leave the fiver with the publican to bury you.' + +Flash Jack ignored that passenger. He eyed his boots and softly whistled +a tune. + +'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.' + +The five pounds were got together. + +'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. + +'Quiet as an old cow!' snorted a passenger in disgust. 'I believe it's a +sell!' + +'Wait a bit,' said Jim to the passenger, 'wait a bit and you'll see.' + +They waited and saw. + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +'Those blanky Bushmen have got too much time to think.' + + ***** + +The Bushmen returned to the shanty as soon as the coach was out of +sight, and proceeded to 'knock down' the fiver. + + + + +Jimmy Grimshaw's Wooing. + + +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. + +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. + +Mrs Myers was reckoned a good catch in the district, but it soon seemed +that she was not to be caught. + +'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.' + +'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.' + +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. + +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. + +About the end of each shearing the sign was touched up, with an extra +coat of paint on the 'Margaret', whereat suitors looked hopeless. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.' + +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-- + +'By God! Jimmy'll do it.' (Applause.) + + ***** + +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. + +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?' + +'Yes, missus. Clean pfellar that.' + +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. + +'Good-day, mister,' she said, seeming to become aware of him for the +first time. + +'Good-day, missus!' + +'Hot!' + +'Hot!' + +Pause. + +'Trav'lin'?' + +'No, not particular!' + +She waited for him to explain. Myers was always explaining when he +wasn't raving. But the swagman smoked on. + +'Have a drink?' she suggested, to keep her end up. + +'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.' + +What a contrast to Myers! she thought. + +'Come and have some tea; it's ready.' + +'Thank you. I don't mind if I do.' + +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. + +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. + +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-- + + HALF-WAY HOUSE HOTEL, + BY + JAMES GRIMSHAW. + Good Stabling. + +The last time I saw Mrs Grimshaw she looked about thirty-five. + + + + +At Dead Dingo. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'Stumped?' inquired Jim. + +'Not a blanky, lurid deener!' drawled Bill. + +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. + +'Got anything?' asked Jim, fingering the cards again. + +Bill sucked in his cheeks, collecting the saliva with difficulty, and +spat out on to the verandah floor. + +'That's all I got,' he drawled. 'It's gone now.' + +Jim leaned back in his chair, twisted, yawned, and caught sight of the +dog. + +'That there dog yours?' he asked, brightening. + +They had evidently been strangers the day before, or as strange to each +other as Bushmen can be. + +Bill scratched behind his ear, and blinked at the dog. The dog woke +suddenly to a flea fact. + +'Yes,' drawled Bill, 'he's mine.' + +'Well, I'm going Out-Back, and I want a dog,' said Jim, gathering the +cards briskly. 'Half a quid agin the dog?' + +'Half a quid be----!' drawled Bill. 'Call it a quid?' + +'Half a blanky quid!' + +'A gory, lurid quid!' drawled Bill desperately, and he stooped over his +swag. + +But Jim's hands were itching in a ghastly way over the cards. + +'Alright. Call it a---- quid.' + +The drunkard on the sofa stirred, showed signs of waking, but died +again. Remember this, it might come in useful. + +Bill sat down to the table once more. + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +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. + +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. + +He lifted his head, looked at the girl across the top of the bar, and +formed with his lips, rather than spoke, the words-- + +'Put up a drink?'* + + * 'Put up a drink'--i.e., 'Give me a drink on credit', or + 'Chalk it up'. + +She shook her head tightly and went on reading. + +He staggered up, and, leaning on the bar, made desperate distress +signals with hand, eyes, and mouth. + +'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.' + +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. + +'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!' + +'Where the blazes is that there dog o' mine got to?' he muttered. 'Did +you see a dog?' + +'No! What do I want with your dog?' + +He whistled out in front again, and round each corner. Then he came back +with a decided step and tone. + +'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?' + +'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.' + +He stared at her blankly, with thunder gathering in the blankness. + +'What sort of a dog was it?' + +Dog described; the chain round the neck settled it. + +He scowled at her darkly. + +'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----' + +She was filling a pewter hastily. + +'Here! for God's sake have a drink an' stop yer row.' + +He drank with satisfaction. Then he hung on the bar with one elbow and +scowled out the door. + +'Which blanky way did them chaps go?' he growled. + +'The one that took the dog went towards Tinned Dog.' + +'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.' + +He drank again with deeper satisfaction, then he shuffled out, +muttering, swearing, and threatening louder every step, and took the +track to Tinned Dog. + + ***** + +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. + + + + +Telling Mrs Baker. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +'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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'How could I face his wife if I went home without him?' asked Andy, 'or +any of his old mates?' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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.' + +'Damned if I will!' I said. + +'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.' + +I'd never seen Andy show so much emotion. + +'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. + +'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?' + +I'd been thinking while I listened, and an idea struck me. + +'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.' + +'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.' + +'But she's sure to hear the truth sooner or later,' I said, 'the Boss +was so well known.' + +'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.' + +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. + +'What are you doing, Andy?' I asked. + +'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.' + +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. + +'And one of those men, at least, was an old mate of his!' said Andy, in +a tone of disgust. + +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. + +'Such is life!' said Andy, with a yawn that might have been half a sigh. + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +'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-- + +'Suppose we go and have another drink first, Andy? We might be kept in +there an hour or two.' + +'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.' + +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-- + +'How do you feel now, Jack?' + +'Oh, I'M all right,' I said. + +'For God's sake!' said Andy, 'don't put your foot in it and make a mess +of it.' + +'I won't, if you don't.' + +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-- + +'For God's sake stick to me now, Jack!' + +'I'll stick all right,' I said--'you've been having too much beer, +Andy.' + +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. + +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. + +'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.' + +'We were just coming when we got your message,' said Andy. 'We'd have +come before, only we had to see to the horses.' + +'It's very kind of you, I'm sure,' said Mrs Baker. + +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. + +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. + +'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.' + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +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. + +'I'm so glad you've come, Andy!' said Bobby. + +'Are you, Bobby?' + +'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. + +'Yes,' said Andy. + +'He went up among the stars, didn't he?' + +'Yes,' said Andy. + +'And he isn't coming back to Bobby any more?' + +'No,' said Andy. 'But Bobby's going to him by-and-by.' + +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. + +Andy looked miserable. 'I wish to God I was off this job!' he whispered +to me. + +'Is that the girl that writes the stories?' I asked. + +'Yes,' he said, staring at me in a hopeless sort of way, 'and poems +too.' + +'Is Bobby going up among the stars?' asked Bobby. + +'Yes,' said Andy--'if Bobby's good.' + +'And auntie?' + +'Yes.' + +'And mumma?' + +'Yes.' + +'Are you going, Andy?' + +'Yes,' said Andy hopelessly. + +'Did you see daddy go up amongst the stars, Andy?' + +'Yes,' said Andy, 'I saw him go up.' + +'And he isn't coming down again any more?' + +'No,' said Andy. + +'Why isn't he?' + +'Because he's going to wait up there for you and mumma, Bobby.' + +There was a long pause, and then Bobby asked-- + +'Are you going to give me a shilling, Andy?' with the same expression of +innocent wonder in his eyes. + +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. + +'Brace up now, Jack, and keep your wits about you,' whispered Andy to me +just before they came in. + +'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.' + +Andy told her about the Boss not being well after he crossed the border. + +'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. + +'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. + +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. + +'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. + +'More like thirty-five,' I said, waking up. + +Miss Standish fixed her eyes on me, and I had another look at Wellington +and Blucher. + +'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.' + +'I know it,' said Mrs Baker. 'Nobody could help liking him. He was one +of the kindest men that ever lived.' + +'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.' + +'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?' + +'He wouldn't take a penny, Mrs Baker.' + +'He must have been a good true man. I wish I could thank him.' + +'Oh, Ned thanked him for you,' said Andy, though without meaning more +than he said. + +'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.' + +'He never touched a drop after he left Solong, I can assure you, Mrs +Baker,' said Andy quickly. + +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. + +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. + +'Brace up now, Jack,' whispered Andy to me, 'the worst is coming.' + +When they came in again Mrs Baker made Andy go on with his story. + +'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.' + +Mrs Baker was crying softly. Andy got the packet half out of his pocket, +but shoved it back again. + +'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. + +'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. + +'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?' + +'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.' + +'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.' + +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. + +'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.' + +Andy caught her sister's eye and jerked his head towards the door to let +her know he wanted to speak to her outside. + +'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. + +She came out to the gate with us, and Andy gave her the packet. + +'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.' + +'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?' + +'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.' + +'Tell me all,' she said. 'It would be better for me to know.' + +'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. + +'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. + +'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. + +I don't think it did either of us any harm. + + + + +A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs. + + +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. + +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. + +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'. + +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. + +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. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'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.' + +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. + +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.' + +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.' + +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.' + +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. + +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. + + +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. + +On the morning of Job's accident, and after a long brooding silence, +Doc. Wild suddenly said to Mac. Falconer-- + +'Git the hosses, Mac. We'll go to the station.' + +Mac., used to the doctor's eccentricities, went to see about the horses. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +'Dead beast there!' said Mac. out of his Bushcraft. + +'No--dying,' said Doc. Wild, with less Bush experience but more +intellect. + +'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!' + +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. + +'We'll go and see, if you like,' suggested Doc. Wild. + +They turned out across the flat, the horses picking their way amongst +the dried tufts and fallen branches. + +'Theer ain't no sign o' cattle theer,' said the doctor; 'more likely a +ewe in trouble about her lamb.' + +'Oh, the blanky dingoes at the sheep,' said Mac. 'I wish we had a +gun--might get a shot at them.' + +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. + +'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,-- + + '"The crows kept flyin' up, boys! + The crows kept flyin' up! + The dog, he seen and whimpered, boys, + Though he was but a pup."' + +'It must be something or other,' muttered Mac. 'Look at them blanky +crows!' + + '"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!"' + +'My God! what's that?' cried Mac., who was a little in advance and rode +a tall horse. + +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. + +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. + +'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!' + +'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.' + +Mac. mounted and rode off at a break-neck pace. + +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.' + +But as Job came round a little Doc. Wild was enlightened. + +'Where's the filly?' cried Job suddenly between groans. + +'She's all right,' said the doctor. + +'Stop her!' cried Job, struggling to rise--'stop her!--oh God! my leg.' + +'Keep quiet, you fool!' + +'Stop her!' yelled Job. + +'Why stop her?' asked the doctor. 'She won't go fur,' he added. + +'She'll go home to Gerty,' shouted Job. 'For God's sake stop her!' + +'O--h!' drawled the doctor to himself. 'I might have guessed that. And I +ought to know men.' + +'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.' + +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. + +'That's all I kin do for him for the present.' + +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-- + +'What's Job been doing now?' (Job, by the way, had never been remarkable +for doing anything.) + +'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.' + +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. + +'Lucky we got him before the ants did,' muttered the doctor. Then he had +an inspiration-- + +'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.' + +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. + +He rode off at a gallop. The burden of Job's raving, all the way, rested +on the dead filly-- + +'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. + +'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.' + +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. + +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. + +Doc. Wild stayed round until he saw Job comfortably moved to the +homestead, then he prepared to depart. + +'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.' + +'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.' + +And he left for Poisonous Jimmy's. + + + + +The Little World Left Behind. + + +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. + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +The Never-Never Country. + + + 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. + + + +[End of original text.] + + + +***** + + + +A Note on the Author and the Text: + + +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. + + + 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) + + +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...." + +Alan Light, Monroe, North Carolina, June 1997. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Joe Wilson and His Mates, by Henry Lawson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES *** + +***** This file should be named 1036.txt or 1036.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/3/1036/ + +Produced by Alan R. Light, and Gary M. 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B. `Banjo' Paterson, Adam Lindsay Gordon, Henry Kendall. + + + + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check + +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + + + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. + +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an + +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + + + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + + + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + + + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + + + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and + +further information is included below. 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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. + + + + + + + + + + + +Joe Wilson and his mates, by Henry Lawson + + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are marked by tildes (~). + +Some obvious errors may have been corrected.] + + + + + + + + + + + +Introduction: + + + + + +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. + + + + + + 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) + + + + + +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. . . ." + + + + . . . . . + + + +An incomplete glossary of Australian, British, or antique terms and concepts + +which may prove helpful to understanding this book: + + + + + +"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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +Old-fashioned child: A child that acts old for their age. + + Americans would say `Precocious'. + + + +'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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +Tucker: Food. + + + +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. + + + +Sly-grog-shop: An unlicensed bar or liquor-store. + + + +Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + + + + -- Alan Light, Monroe, North Carolina, June 1997. + +============================================================================== + + + + + + + + + + + +Joe Wilson and his mates + + + + + + + + + + + +JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES + + + +By Henry Lawson + + + +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. + + + + + + + + + + + + The Author's Farewell to the Bushmen. + + + + + + + +~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. + + + + + + + + + + + +Contents. + + + + + + + +Prefatory Verses -- + + The Author's Farewell to the Bushmen. + + + + + + Part I. + + + +Joe Wilson's Courtship. + +Brighten's Sister-In-Law. + +`Water Them Geraniums'. + + I. A Lonely Track. + + II. `Past Carin''. + +A Double Buggy at Lahey's Creek. + + I. Spuds, and a Woman's Obstinacy. + + II. Joe Wilson's Luck. + + III. The Ghost of Mary's Sacrifice. + + IV. The Buggy Comes Home. + + + + + + Part II. + + + +The Golden Graveyard. + +The Chinaman's Ghost. + +The Loaded Dog. + +Poisonous Jimmy Gets Left. + + I. Dave Regan's Yarn. + + II. Told by One of the Other Drovers. + +The Ghostly Door. + +A Wild Irishman. + +The Babies in the Bush. + +A Bush Dance. + +The Buck-Jumper. + +Jimmy Grimshaw's Wooing. + +At Dead Dingo. + +Telling Mrs Baker. + +A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs. + +The Little World Left Behind. + + + + + +Concluding Verses -- + + The Never-Never Country. + + + + + + + + + + + + ------------------------ + + + + JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES + + + + ------------------------ + + + + + + + + + + + + Part I. + + + + + + + + + + + +Joe Wilson's Courtship. + + + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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 ----! + + + +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. + + + +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! + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +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! + + + +`My wife knows little 'Possum,' said Jack. `I'll get her + +to ask her out to our place and let you know.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +`For God's sake shut up, Jack,' I said. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + +`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 -- + + + +`Make a looking-glass of that window, Joe,' he said. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +Presently Jack came round, and Mary disappeared. + + + +`Well?' he whispered. + + + +`You're a fool, Jack,' I said. `She's only interested in the old house + +being pulled down.' + + + +`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.' + + + +`You seem mighty interested in the business,' I said. + + + +`Yes,' said Jack. `This sort of thing just suits a man of my rank + +in times of peace.' + + + +`What made you think of the window?' I asked. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +I didn't hear Mary at first. I hoped Jack would come round and help me + +out of the fix, but he didn't. + + + +`Mr -- Mr Wilson!' said Mary. She had a sweet voice. + + + +I turned round. + + + +`I thought you and Mr Barnes might like a cup of tea.' + + + +`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. + + + +`Oh! did you hurt yourself, Mr Wilson?' cried Mary. + + + +`Hurt myself! Oh no, not at all, thank you,' I blurted out. + +`It takes more than that to hurt me.' + + + +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. + + + +I pulled myself together when I got to where Jack was. + + + +`Here, Jack!' I said. `I've struck something all right; + +here's some tea and brownie -- we'll hang out here all right.' + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + +`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.' + + + +He gave me time to think over that. + + + +`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.' + + + +Then a thought struck me. I ought to have known Jack well enough + +to have thought of it before. + + + +`Look here, Jack,' I said. `What have you been saying to that girl about me?' + + + +`Oh, not much,' said Jack. `There isn't much to say about you.' + + + +`What did you tell her?' + + + +`Oh, nothing in particular. She'd heard all about you before.' + + + +`She hadn't heard much good, I suppose,' I said. + + + +`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.' + + + +`What did you tell her?' I said. `That's what I want to know.' + + + +`Well, to tell the truth, I didn't tell her anything much. + +I only answered questions.' + + + +`And what questions did she ask?' + + + +`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.' + + + +`Look here, Jack,' I said, `I've two minds to punch your head.' + + + +`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.' + + + +`What next?' + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`Did you tell her I was in jail?' I growled. + + + +`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.' + + + +We smoked a while. + + + +`And was that all she said?' I asked. + + + +`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?"' + + + +`And what did you say?' I growled. + + + +`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.' + + + +I wouldn't take back the tray -- but that didn't mend matters, + +for Jack took it back himself. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`Go and help her, you capital Idiot!' he said, and I made the plunge. + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`There's only a few more things in the basket, Miss Brand,' I said. + +`You can't reach -- I'll fix 'em up.' + + + +She seemed to give a little gasp. + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`Excuse me, Mr Wilson,' she said, `but those things are not ready yet!' + +and she marched into the wash-house. + + + +`Ah well! you've got a little temper of your own,' I thought to myself. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + +`Do you play draughts, Mr Barnes?' + + + +`No,' said Jack. + + + +`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. + + + +`Yes,' I said, `I do a little.' Then there was a silence, + +and I had to say something else. + + + +`Do you play draughts, Miss Brand?' I asked. + + + +`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.' + + + +I saw Jack winking at me urgently. + + + +`I'll play a game with you, if you like,' I said, `but I ain't + +much of a player.' + + + +`Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson! When shall you have an evening to spare?' + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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! + + + +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). + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +And next day there was a little table in my room with a crocheted cover + +and a looking-glass. + + + +I noticed the other girls began to act mysterious and giggle when I was round, + +but Mary didn't seem aware of it. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +I felt better next morning, and reckoned I was cured. + +I ran against Mary accidentally and had to say something. + + + +`How did you enjoy yourself yesterday evening, Miss Brand?' I asked. + + + +`Oh, very well, thank you, Mr Wilson,' she said. Then she asked, + +`How did you enjoy yourself, Mr Wilson?' + + + +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 -- + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + + + +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. + + + +`What the hell's Romany trying to do?' said Jimmy Nowlett. + +`He couldn't have fell off his horse -- or else he's drunk.' + + + +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. + + + +`What did you git down so sudden for, Romany?' asked Jim Bullock presently. + +`Did you hurt yerself on the pommel?' + + + +`Why didn't you ask the horse to go round?' asked Dave Regan. + + + +`I'd only like to know who put up that bleeding wire!' growled Romany. + + + +`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.' + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +But they saw that Romany was getting nasty, and they wanted him + +to play the fiddle next night, so they dropped it. + + + +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. + + + +`That gal's got a nice voice,' said Jimmy Nowlett. + + + +`Nice voice!' snarled Romany, who'd been waiting for a chance to be nasty. + +`Why, I've heard a tom-cat sing better.' + + + +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 -- + + + +`I suppose you got bit too in that quarter, Romany?' + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +`You're a damned crawler, Romany!' I said. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +I felt Jack breathing quick and trembling as he lifted me up. + + + +`How are you, Joe?' he whispered. + + + +`I'm all right,' I said. + + + +`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!' + + + +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. + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +That showed how little even Jack, my old mate, understood me. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +I went down again, but Jack told me afterwards that he ~felt~ I was all right + +when he lifted me. + + + +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. + + + +`I've done,' he said. `I've twisted my ankle.' He'd caught his heel + +against a tuft of grass. + + + +`Shake hands,' yelled Jimmy Nowlett. + + + +I stepped forward, but Romany took his coat and limped to his horse. + + + +`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. + + + +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 -- + + + +`If I thought that, I'd kill him.' + + + +`What is it?' asked Jack. + + + +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. + + + +`Why did you let your man fight with a butcher's knife in his belt?' + +asked Jimmy Nowlett. + + + +But the knife could easily have fallen out when Romany fell, + +and we decided it that way. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`What's up, Jack?' I asked. + + + +`Nothing,' said Jack. + + + +`What's up, you old fool?' I said. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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.' + + + +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. + + + +`What is it, Jack?' I asked. + + + +`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.' + + + +Presently there was another hush outside, and a saucer + +with vinegar and brown paper was handed in. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`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. + + + +`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.' + + + +`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. + + + +`Well, that's a rum start!' I said. + + + +`Yes, it is,' said Jack; `it's very funny. Well, how's your face + +this morning, Joe?' + + + +He seemed a lot more serious than usual. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +When we'd done in the shed, Jack took me aside and said -- + + + +`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.' + + + +`But how am I to get her out?' I said. + + + +`Never you mind. You be mooching round down by the big peppermint-tree + +near the river-gate, say about half-past ten.' + + + +`What good'll that do?' + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`Oh, is that you, Mr Wilson?' said a timid little voice. + + + +`Yes,' I said. `Is that you, Mary?' + + + +And she said yes. It was the first time I called her Mary, + +but she did not seem to notice it. + + + +`Did I frighten you?' I asked. + + + +`No -- yes -- just a little,' she said. `I didn't know + +there was any one ----' then she stopped. + + + +`Why aren't you dancing?' I asked her. + + + +`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.' + + + +`Yes,' I said, `it must be hot in the wool-shed.' + + + +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. + + + +`How beautiful the moonlight looks on the willows!' she said. + + + +`Yes,' I said, `doesn't it? Supposing we have a stroll by the river.' + + + +`Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson. I'd like it very much.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`Suppose we sit down for a while, Mary,' I said. + + + +`If you like, Mr Wilson,' she said. + + + +There was about a foot of log between us. + + + +`What a beautiful night!' she said. + + + +`Yes,' I said, `isn't it?' + + + +Presently she said, `I suppose you know I'm going away next month, Mr Wilson?' + + + +I felt suddenly empty. `No,' I said, `I didn't know that.' + + + +`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.' + + + +We didn't say anything for a good while. + + + +`I suppose you won't be sorry to go, Miss Brand?' I said. + + + +`I -- I don't know,' she said. `Everybody's been so kind to me here.' + + + +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. + + + +`So you think you'll be sorry to go away?' I said. + + + +`Yes, Mr Wilson. I suppose I'll fret for a while. It's been my home, + +you know.' + + + +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. + + + +`Ah, well,' I said, `I suppose I'll be on the wallaby again next week.' + + + +`Will you, Mr Wilson?' she said. Her voice seemed very soft. + + + +I slipped my arm round her waist, under her arm. My heart was going + +like clockwork now. + + + +Presently she said -- + + + +`Don't you think it's time to go back now, Mr Wilson?' + + + +`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. + + + +`Mary,' I said. + + + +`Yes,' she said. + + + +`Call me Joe,' I said. + + + +`I -- I don't like to,' she said. `I don't think it would be right.' + + + +So I just turned her face round and kissed her. She clung to me and cried. + + + +`What is it, Mary?' I asked. + + + +She only held me tighter and cried. + + + +`What is it, Mary?' I said. `Ain't you well? Ain't you happy?' + + + +`Yes, Joe,' she said, `I'm very happy.' Then she said, `Oh, your poor face! + +Can't I do anything for it?' + + + +`No,' I said. `That's all right. My face doesn't hurt me a bit now.' + + + +But she didn't seem right. + + + +`What is it, Mary?' I said. `Are you tired? You didn't sleep + +last night ----' Then I got an inspiration. + + + +`Mary,' I said, `what were you doing out with the gun this morning?' + + + +And after some coaxing it all came out, a bit hysterical. + + + +`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.' + + + +Then I got as much of her as I could into my arms. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`Mary,' I whispered, `put your arms round my neck and kiss me.' + + + +She put her arms round my neck, but she didn't kiss me; she only hid her face. + + + +`Kiss me, Mary!' I said. + + + +`I -- I don't like to,' she whispered. + + + +`Why not, Mary?' + + + +Then I felt her crying or laughing, or half crying and half laughing. + +I'm not sure to this day which it was. + + + +`Why won't you kiss me, Mary? Don't you love me?' + + + +`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.' + + + +Then it dawned on me! I'd forgot all about proposing. + + + +`Mary,' I said, `would you marry a chap like me?' + + + +And that was all right. + + + + . . . . . + + + +Next morning Mary cleared out my room and sorted out my things, + +and didn't take the slightest notice of the other girls' astonishment. + + + +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. + + + +`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. + + + +`No,' I said; `it's not that, Boss.' + + + +`Well, what is it, Joe?' + + + +`I -- well the fact is, I want little Mary.' + + + +He puffed at his pipe for a long time, then I thought he spoke. + + + +`What did you say, Boss?' I said. + + + +`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.' + + + +I waited a good while for him to speak. + + + +`Well, Boss,' I said, `what about Mary?' + + + +`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.' + + + + + + + + + +Brighten's Sister-In-Law. + + + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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!' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +Jim got on all right for a while: we used to watch him well, + +and have his teeth lanced in time. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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!' + + + +I used to cut myself a good deal: I was always impatient over shaving. + + + +Then he went in to interview his mother about it. She understood his lingo + +better than I did. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +For the first hour or so, along the road, he was telling me + +all about his adventures at his auntie's. + + + +`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!' + + + +I was taking out a cattle-pup for a drover I knew, and the pup took up + +a good deal of Jim's time. + + + +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 -- + + + +`What are you jerking your shoulders and coughing, and grunting, + +and going on that way for, dad? Why don't you tell me something?' + + + +`Tell you what, Jim?' + + + +`Tell me some talk.' + + + +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 -- + + + +`I'm glad you took me home with you, dad. You'll get to know Jim.' + + + +`What!' I said. + + + +`You'll get to know Jim.' + + + +`But don't I know you already?' + + + +`No, you don't. You never has time to know Jim at home.' + + + +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.' + + + +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! + + + +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?' + + + +But I didn't think she'd understand. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`Dad!' he said presently -- `Dad! do you think I'll ever grow up to be a man?' + + + +`Wh--why, Jim?' I gasped. + + + +`Because I don't want to.' + + + +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. + + + +`Jim,' I said, to break the silence, `do you hear what the she-oaks say?' + + + +`No, I don't. Is they talking?' + + + +`Yes,' I said, without thinking. + + + +`What is they saying?' he asked. + + + +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 -- + + + +`Don't cook too much, dad -- I mightn't be hungry.' + + + +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 -- + + + +`I ain't hungry, dad! You'll have to eat it all.' + + + +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. + + + +`Sick, Jim?' I asked. + + + +`No, dad, I ain't sick; I don't know what's the matter with me.' + + + +`Have some tea, sonny?' + + + +`Yes, dad.' + + + +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. + + + +`Jim's tired, dad,' he said. + + + +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. + + + +`How do you feel now, sonny?' + + + +It seemed a minute before he heard me and turned from the stars. + + + +`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. + + + +`Kiss me 'night-night, daddy,' he said. + + + +I'd rather he hadn't asked me -- it was a bad sign. As I was going + +to the fire he called me back. + + + +`What is it, Jim?' + + + +`Get me my things and the cattle-pup, please, daddy.' + + + +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. + + + +`Are you quite warm enough, Jim?' + + + +`Yes, dad.' + + + +I started to walk up and down -- I always did this when I was extra worried. + + + +I was frightened now about Jim, though I tried to hide the fact from myself. + +Presently he called me again. + + + +`What is it, Jim?' + + + +`Take the blankets off me, fahver -- Jim's sick!' (They'd been teaching him + +to say father.) + + + +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 -- + + + +`Take the blankets off me, muvver -- I'm dying.' + + + +And I couldn't get that out of my head. + + + +I threw back a fold of the 'possum rug, and felt Jim's head -- + +he seemed cool enough. + + + +`Where do you feel bad, sonny?' + + + +No answer for a while; then he said suddenly, but in a voice + +as if he were talking in his sleep -- + + + +`Put my boots on, please, daddy. I want to go home to muvver!' + + + +I held his hand, and comforted him for a while; then he slept -- + +in a restless, feverish sort of way. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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 ---- + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + +`Who's there?' + + + +`It's me. Joe Wilson. I want your sister-in-law -- I've got the boy -- + +he's sick and dying!' + + + +Brighten came out, pulling up his moleskins. `What boy?' he asked. + + + +`Here, take him,' I shouted, `and let me get down.' + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`Here, that tin of mustard -- there on the shelf!' she shouted to me. + + + +She knocked the lid off the tin on the edge of the tub, + +and went on splashing and spanking Jim. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +I dropped on the stool by the table. + + + +`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.' + + + +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 -- + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +Suddenly she glanced round and said -- in a tone as if I was her husband + +and she didn't think much of me -- + + + +`Why don't you eat something?' + + + +`Beg pardon?' + + + +`Eat something!' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +I looked away quick, feeling full up myself. And presently + +(I hadn't seen her look round) she said -- + + + +`Go to bed.' + + + +`Beg pardon?' (Her face was the same as before the tears.) + + + +`Go to bed. There's a bed made for you inside on the sofa.' + + + +`But -- the team -- I must ----' + + + +`What?' + + + +`The team. I left it at the camp. I must look to it.' + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +-- + +* Maize or Indian corn -- wheat is never called corn in Australia. + +-- + + + +As I started to go in I heard Brighten's sister-in-law say, + +suddenly and sharply -- + + + +`Take ~that~ away, Jessie.' + + + +And presently I saw Mrs Brighten go into the house with the black bottle. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`And now,' says Jim, `I want to go home to "muffer" in "The Same Ol' Fling".' + + + +`What?' + + + +Jim repeated. + + + +`Oh! "The Same Old Thing", -- the waggon.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`Here, take him,' she said. + + + +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. + + + +`You'd better make a start,' she said. `You want to get home early + +with that boy.' + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +`Will you come to see us?' + + + +`Some day,' she said. + + + +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. + + + + + +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!' + + + +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. + + + + + + + + + +`Water Them Geraniums'. + + + + + + + + I. A Lonely Track. + + + + + +The time Mary and I shifted out into the Bush from Gulgong + +to `settle on the land' at Lahey's Creek. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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.' + + + +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. + + + +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! ---- + + + +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.' + + + +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. + + + +The sun was going down when Mary called out -- + + + +`There's our place, Joe!' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +Mary sat still by the fire, and presently I saw her chin tremble. + + + +`What is it, Mary?' + + + +She turned her face farther from me. I felt tired, disappointed, + +and irritated -- suffering from a reaction. + + + +`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?' + + + +`You know very well, Joe.' + + + +`But I ~don't~ know,' I said. I knew too well. + + + +She said nothing. + + + +`Look here, Mary,' I said, putting my hand on her shoulder, + +`don't go on like that; tell me what's the matter?' + + + +`It's only this,' she said suddenly, `I can't stand this life here; + +it will kill me!' + + + +I had a pannikin of tea in my hand, and I banged it down on the table. + + + +`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?' + + + +`And what sort of a place was Gulgong, Joe?' asked Mary quietly. + + + +(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.) + + + +`Well, why didn't you come to Sydney, as I wanted you to?' I asked Mary. + + + +`You know very well, Joe,' said Mary quietly. + + + +(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.) + + + +`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.' + + + +`As long as you take a glass there is danger,' she said. + + + +`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. + + + +`Well,' she said, `why weren't you more decided?' + + + +I'd sat down, but I jumped to my feet then. + + + +`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.' + + + +`So am I, Joe,' said Mary wearily. + + + +We quarrelled badly then -- that first hour in our new home. + +I know now whose fault it was. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + +`Why did I bring her here?' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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'. + + + +`You, An-nay!' (Annie.) + + + +`Ye-es' (from somewhere in the gloom). + + + +`Didn't I tell yer to water them geraniums!' + + + +`Well, didn't I?' + + + +`Don't tell lies or I'll break yer young back!' + + + +`I did, I tell yer -- the water won't soak inter the ashes.' + + + +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. + + + +Then the woman's voice again -- + + + +`You, Tom-may!' (Tommy.) + + + +Silence, save for an echo on the ridge. + + + +`Y-o-u, T-o-m-~may!~' + + + +`Ye-e-s!' shrill shriek from across the creek. + + + +`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. + + + +`Well -- I karnt find the horse.' + + + +`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.' + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`How does that look, Joe? We'll soon get things ship-shape.' + + + +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. + + + +Somehow I didn't feel satisfied with the way things had gone. + + + + + + + + II. `Past Carin''. + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +-- + +* `Graft', work. The term is now applied, in Australia, to all sorts of work, + + from bullock-driving to writing poetry. + +-- + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +-- + +* `Humpy', a rough hut. + +-- + + + +`Are you Mrs Wilson?' asked the boy. + + + +`Yes,' said Mary. + + + +`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.' + + + +`Piece of ~what?~' asked Mary. + + + +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. + + + +`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?' + + + +The boy blinked at her, and scratched his head. + + + +`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 ----' + + + +`Yes, yes,' said Mary, getting confused. `But what I want to know is, + +how do you manage when you sell it?' + + + +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 ----' + + + +`Yes, yes; but what I want to know is, how much am I to send your mother + +for this?' + + + +`How much what?' + + + +`Money, of course, you stupid boy,' said Mary. `You seem a very stupid boy.' + + + +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. + + + +`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.) + + + +`Oh!' said Mary, `I'm ~so~ sorry. Thank your mother for me. She ~is~ kind.' + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +`But wait a minute -- I've forgotten your mother's name,' said Mary. + + + +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. + + + +`Do you go to school?' asked Mary. There was a three-days-a-week school + +over the ridges at Wall's station. + + + +`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.) + + + +`Finished you? How?' asked Mary. + + + +`Me edgercation, of course! How do yer expect me to start this horse + +when yer keep talkin'?' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +And I'll bet he got there. But I'm doubtful if the old horse did. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + +`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.' + + + +`I wouldn't 'a' told yer a lie; but I thought Jimmy would split on me, + +Mrs Wilson,' said Annie. `Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson.' + + + +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. + + + +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'. + + + +`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. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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.' + + + +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. + + + +Some one might ask her, `How's your son Jack, Mrs Spicer?' + +or, `Heard of Jack lately? and where is he now?' + + + +`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.' + + + +And she'd turn her haggard eyes in a helpless, hopeless sort of way + +towards the west -- towards `up-country' and `Out-Back'.* + + + +-- + +* `Out-Back' is always west of the Bushman, no matter how far out he be. + +-- + + + +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.' + + + +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 -- + + + +`Thenk yer, Mr Wilson. Do yer think we're ever goin' to have any rain?' + + + +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 -- + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`Jist tryin' ter keep the milkers alive till the rain comes.' + + + +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). + + + +`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?' + + + +They had a sense of the ridiculous, most of those poor sun-dried Bushwomen. + +I fancy that that helped save them from madness. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`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). + + + +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.' + + + + . . . . . + + + +After tea the first Sunday she came to see us, Mary asked -- + + + +`Don't you feel lonely, Mrs Spicer, when your husband goes away?' + + + +`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.' + + + +Mary sat silent for a minute thinking. Then Mrs Spicer roused herself -- + + + +`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.' + + + +But once or twice afterwards she referred to a time `when Spicer was + +a different man to what he was now.' + + + +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 -- + + + +`What-did-you-bring-her-here-for? She's only a girl.' + + + +`I beg pardon, Mrs Spicer.' + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +Her great trouble was that she `couldn't git no reg'lar schoolin' + +for the children.' + + + +`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.' + + + +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 -- + + + +`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!' + + + +The poor little devil stammered something, and escaped. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +Sometimes, after a long pause in the conversation, Mrs Spicer + +would say suddenly -- + + + +`Oh, I don't think I'll come up next week, Mrs Wilson.' + + + +`Why, Mrs Spicer?' + + + +`Because the visits doesn't do me any good. I git the dismals afterwards.' + + + +`Why, Mrs Spicer? What on earth do you mean?' + + + +`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. + + + +Mary thought her a little mad at times. But I seemed to understand. + + + +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 -- + + + +`I wish you wouldn't come down any more till I'm on me feet, Mrs Wilson. + +The children can do for me.' + + + +`Why, Mrs Spicer?' + + + +`Well, the place is in such a muck, and it hurts me.' + + + +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 -- + + + +`Oh, marther! Here comes Mr and Mrs Wilson in their spring-cart.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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.' + + + +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.' + + + +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. + + + +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.' + + + +`Why! what on earth did they let the man hang for?' asked Mary. + + + +`To give him a good bellyful of it: they thought it would cure him + +of tryin' to hang himself again.' + + + +`Well, that's the coolest thing I ever heard of,' said Mary. + + + +`That's jist what the magistrate said, Mrs Wilson,' said Mrs Spicer. + + + +`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 -- + + + +`"For God's sake, woman, give me a drink!" + + + +`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." + + + +`I was so surprised that I didn't know what to say, so I jist said, + +"Would you like some more coffee?" + + + +`"Yes, thenk yer," he said -- "about two quarts." + + + +`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.' + + + +`Why, what did he stand on his head for?' asked Mary. + + + +`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.' + + + +`O Lord!' cried Mary. + + + +`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.' + + + +Mary stared at her, speechless. + + + +`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. + + + +`"Yer'll go agen when I tell yer not to," I'd say. + + + +`"Oh no, mother," they'd howl. + + + +`"Yer wanted ter see a man hangin'," I said. + + + +`"Oh, don't, mother! Don't talk about it." + + + +`"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?" + + + +`"Oh, don't, mother!" + + + +`"Yer run all the way there, I s'pose?" + + + +`"Don't, mother!" + + + +`"But yer run faster back, didn't yer?" + + + +`"Oh, don't, mother." + + + +`But,' said Mrs Spicer, in conclusion, `I'd been down to see it myself + +before they was up.' + + + +`And ain't you afraid to live alone here, after all these horrible things?' + +asked Mary. + + + +`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.' + + + +`Haven't you got any friends in the district, Mrs Spicer?' + + + +`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.' + + + + . . . . . + + + +One day -- I was on my way home with the team that day -- + +Annie Spicer came running up the creek in terrible trouble. + + + +`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. + + + +`What?' + + + +`It's true, Mrs Wilson.' + + + +`What for? What did the policeman say?' + + + +`He -- he -- he said, "I -- I'm very sorry, Mrs Spicer; + +but -- I -- I want William."' + + + +It turned out that William was wanted on account of a horse + +missed from Wall's station and sold down-country. + + + +`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.' + + + +James put the horse to the cart and drove Mary down. + + + +Mary told me all about it when I came home. + + + +`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.' + + + +Later on Mary said -- + + + +`How the oaks are sighing to-night, Joe!' + + + + . . . . . + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +Billy Wall managed it. The charge was withdrawn, and we got + +young Billy Spicer off up-country. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`I expected Mrs Spicer up to-day,' said Mary. `She seems better lately.' + + + +`Why!' cried Maggie Charlsworth, `if that ain't Annie coming running up + +along the creek. Something's the matter!' + + + +We all jumped up and ran out. + + + +`What is it, Annie?' cried Mary. + + + +`Oh, Mrs Wilson! Mother's asleep, and we can't wake her!' + + + +`What?' + + + +`It's -- it's the truth, Mrs Wilson.' + + + +`How long has she been asleep?' + + + +`Since lars' night.' + + + +`My God!' cried Mary, `~since last night?~' + + + +`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'.' + + + +`Was that all she said?' + + + +`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.' + + + +Mary wanted to go, but I wouldn't let her. James and I saddled our horses + +and rode down the creek. + + + + . . . . . + + + +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. + + + + + + + + + +A Double Buggy at Lahey's Creek. + + + + + + + + I. Spuds, and a Woman's Obstinacy. + + + + + +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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +`But I tell you the ground is not potato-ground,' I said. + + + +`How do you know? You haven't sown any there yet.' + + + +`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?' + + + +`But you haven't ~tried~ to grow potatoes there yet, Joe. + +How do you know ----' + + + +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. + + + +I took my pipe and went out to smoke and cool down. + + + +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 -- + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`What is it, James?' I shouted, before he came up -- but I saw + +he was grinning. + + + +`Mary says to tell you not to forget to bring a hoe out with you.' + + + +`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.' + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`I thought I'd make the boots easy for you, Joe,' said Mary. + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +`I thought you wanted old Corny to plough the ground,' she said. + + + +`I never said so.' + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + + + + + + II. Joe Wilson's Luck. + + + + + +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. + + + +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.' + + + +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'. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +One evening -- I was going down next day for a load of fencing-wire + +for myself -- Mary said, -- + + + +`Joe! do you know that the Matthews have got a new double buggy?' + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +`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.' + + + +`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?' + + + +`Well,' said Mary, `it was James who got the steers and the sheep.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +When I went in she'd cried herself to sleep. I bent over and, `Mary,' + +I whispered. + + + +She seemed to wake up. + + + +`Joe -- Joe!' she said. + + + +`What is it Mary?' I said. + + + +`I'm pretty well sure that old Spot's calf isn't in the pen. + +Make James go at once!' + + + +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. + + + +We both laughed when I told her about it afterwards; but I didn't feel + +like laughing just then. + + + +Later on in the night she called out in her sleep, -- + + + +`Joe -- Joe! Put that buggy in the shed, or the sun will blister + +the varnish!' + + + +I wish I could say that that was the last time I ever spoke unkindly to Mary. + + + +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. + + + +When I was ready to start Mary said, -- + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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, -- + + + +`Now if Mary had a comfortable buggy, she could drive in + +with the children oftener. Then she wouldn't feel the loneliness so much.' + + + +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. + + + + + + + + III. The Ghost of Mary's Sacrifice. + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +While I was looking at it, Bill Galletly came in, and slapped me on the back. + + + +`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.' + + + +He called her `little Mary' because the Galletly family had known her + +when she was a girl. + + + +I rubbed my head and looked at the buggy again. It was a great temptation. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +Just then Robert Galletly came into the shop. He was rather quieter + +than his brother, but the two were very much alike. + + + +`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.' + + + +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.' + + + +I pushed my hat forward and rubbed the back of my head and stared + +at the buggy. + + + +`Come across to the Royal, Joe,' said Bob. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +-- + +* `Shout', to buy a round of drinks. -- A. L., 1997. + +-- + + + + + + + + IV. The Buggy Comes Home. + + + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + +`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.' + + + +`I want it to be a surprise,' I said. + + + +`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.' + + + +`Tell her you're going to get yours shod.' + + + +`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.' + + + +`Well, drive the other horse up the creek early, and pick him up as you go.' + + + +`Yes. And she'll want to know what I want with two bridles. + +But I'll fix her -- ~you~ needn't worry.' + + + +`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.' + + + +`Oh! -- orlright.' + + + +`And if you can, time yourself to get here in the cool of the evening, + +or just about sunset.' + + + +`What for?' + + + +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. + + + +`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?' + + + +`Oh well,' I said, `get here at midnight if you like.' + + + +We didn't say anything for a while -- just sat and puffed at our pipes. + +Then I said, -- + + + +`Well, what are you thinking about?' + + + +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, -- + + + +`Well, what am I to get out of the job, Joe?' + + + +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, -- + + + +`How much does Franca want for that gun?' + + + +`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.) + + + +`All right,' I said. `Make the best bargain you can.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +At tea-time I got Mary on to the buggy business. + + + +`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?' + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`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?' + + + +`Well, I've got nothing to say.' + + + +`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?' + + + +I said there was nothing the matter. + + + +`But there must be, to make you so unbearable. Have you been drinking, Joe -- + +or gambling?' + + + +I asked her what she'd accuse me of next. + + + +`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 ----' + + + +`Well, what is it?' + + + +`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 ----' + + + +`Well, what did he say?' + + + +`He -- he' (she seemed a little hysterical, trying not to laugh) -- + +`he said "damn it!"' + + + +I had to laugh. Mary tried to keep serious, but it was no use. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`What is it, Harry?' said Mary. + + + +`Buggy comin', I bin thinkit.' + + + +`Where?' + + + +He pointed up the creek. + + + +`Sure it's a buggy?' + + + +`Yes, missus.' + + + +`How many horses?' + + + +`One -- two.' + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +She stared at me, and I sat there, grinning like a fool. + + + +`Joe!' she said, `whose buggy is that?' + + + +`Well, I suppose it's yours,' I said. + + + +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. + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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, -- + + + +`What about my tea? I ain't had anything to speak of since I left Cudgeegong. + +I want some grub.' + + + +Then Mary pulled herself together. + + + +`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.' + + + +`All right,' said James -- `anything! Only get me some grub.' + + + +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. + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +And at last Mary said, `Do you know, Joe, why, I feel to-night just -- + +just like I did the day we were married.' + + + +And somehow I had that strange, shy sort of feeling too. + + + + + + + + + +The Writer Wants to Say a Word. + + + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +In two or three short sketches in another book I hope to complete + +the story of his life. + + + + + + + + + + + + Part II. + + + + + + + + + + + +The Golden Graveyard. + + + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`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.) + + + +~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.' + + + +~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 ----?' + + + +This for the edification of the wife and of all within half a mile. + + + +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'. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +This was Dave's theory -- drawn from a little experience and many long yarns + +with old diggers: -- + + + +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.) + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`We'll work this thing on the strict Q.T.,' said Dave. + + + +He and Jim had a consultation by the camp fire outside their tent. + +Jim grumbled, in conclusion, -- + + + +`Well, then, best go under Jimmy Middleton. It's the shortest + +and straightest, and Jimmy's the freshest, anyway.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`Old Pinter', Ballarat digger -- his theory on second and other bottoms + +ran as follows: -- + + + +`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 ----' + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +`And some one will come poking round, and look down the hole + +and see the bottom,' said Jim Bently. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`It would look better to have a whip-pole and a horse, + +but we can't afford them just yet,' said Dave. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`'Ello, Dave!' said Pinter, after looking with mild surprise + +at the size of Dave's waste-heap. `Tryin' for the second bottom?' + + + +`Yes,' said Dave, guttural. + + + +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. + + + +Pinter straightened himself, blinking like an owl, and looked carelessly + +over the graveyard. + + + +`Tryin' for a secon' bottom,' he reflected absently. `Eh, Dave?' + + + +Dave only stood and looked black. + + + +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. + + + +`Kullers is safe,' reflected Pinter. + + + +`All right?' snapped Dave. `I suppose we must let him into it.' + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + +`'Ullo! you dar'?' + + + +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. + + + +`What's the matter?' asked Dave. `Have you seen a ghost?' + + + +`I've seen the -- the devil!' gasped Jim. `I'm -- I'm done with this here + +ghoul business.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`What's up now?' demanded Dave apprehensively. + + + +`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.' + + + +`How the hell did she drop to it?' exclaimed Pinter. + + + +`Dunno,' said Jim. `Anyway she's coming for us. Listen to her!' + + + +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. + + + +`Why didn't you fools make off into the Bush and give us a chance, + +instead of giving her a lead here?' asked Dave. + + + +Jim and Kullers began to wish they had done so. + + + +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. + + + +`I wonder which shaf' she'll come down,' asked Kullers + +in a tone befitting the place and occasion. + + + +`You'd better go and watch your shaft, Pinter,' said Dave, + +`and Jim and I'll watch mine.' + + + +`I -- I won't,' said Pinter hurriedly. `I'm -- I'm a modest man.' + + + +Then they heard a clang in the direction of Pinter's shaft. + + + +`She's thrown her bottle down,' said Dave. + + + +Jim crawled along the drive a piece, urged by curiosity, + +and returned hurriedly. + + + +`She's broke the pitchfork off short, to use in the drive, + +and I believe she's coming down.' + + + +`Her crinoline'll handicap her,' said Pinter vacantly, `that's a comfort.' + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`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.' + + + +`And she's enough, without the neighbourhood,' reflected Pinter. + + + +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. + + + + + + + + + +The Chinaman's Ghost. + + + + + + + +`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.) + + + +`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.) + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`"You seem to be a bit winded, Dave," said Jim Bently, "and mighty thirsty. + +Did the Chinaman's ghost chase you?" + + + +`I told him not to talk rot, and went into the tent, and lay down on my bunk, + +and had a good rest.' + + + + + + + + + +The Loaded Dog. + + + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +Dave got an idea. + + + +`Why not blow the fish up in the big water-hole with a cartridge?' he said. + +`I'll try it.' + + + +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. + + + +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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`Go away, Tommy,' said Jim feebly, `go away.' + + + +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. + + + +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 ----' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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 ---- + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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.' + + + +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. + + + +Andy chained the dog up securely, and cooked some more chops, + +while Dave went to help Jim out of the hole. + + + +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 -- + + + +`'El-lo, Da-a-ve! How's the fishin' getting on, Da-a-ve?' + + + + + + + + + +Poisonous Jimmy Gets Left. + + + + + + + + I. Dave Regan's Yarn. + + + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`"And Poisonous Jimmy is waiting for us," said one of them. + + + +`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. + + + +`"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." + + + +`"You've always said that, Jack," said the first drover. + + + +`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. + + + +`Just before we reached the shanty I got an idea. + + + +`"We'll plant our swags in the scrub," I said to Jim. + + + +`"What for?" said Jim. + + + +`"Never mind -- you'll see," I said. + + + +`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. + + + +`"Poisonous" came out at once, with a smile on him that would have made + +anybody home-sick. + + + +`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. + + + +`"Good day, mates," he said. + + + +`"Good day," we said. + + + +`"It's hot." + + + +`"It's hot." + + + +`We went into the bar, and Poisonous got behind the counter. + + + +`"What are you going to have?" he asked, rubbing up his glasses with a rag. + + + +`We had two long-beers. + + + +`"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." + + + +`"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." + + + +`"I suppose you're waiting for your cheques?" he said, turning to fix + +some bottles on the shelf. + + + +`"Yes," I said, "we are;" and I winked at Jim, and Jim winked back + +as solemn as an owl. + + + +`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. + + + +`"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. + + + +`"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. + + + +`Poisonous filled our pewters again in an offhand way. + + + +`"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." + + + +`There was a general store back on the creek, near the drovers' camp. + + + +`"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." + + + +`"Thank you," said Jim, taking up the sovereign carelessly and dropping it + +into his pocket. + + + +`"Well, Jim," I said, "suppose we get back to camp and see how the chaps + +are getting on?" + + + +`"All right," said Jim. + + + +`"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. + + + +`We got on our horses, I holding the billy very carefully, and rode back + +to where our swags were. + + + +`"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." + + + +`"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." + + + +`"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." + + + +`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. + + + +`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.' + + + + + + + + II. Told by One of the Other Drovers. + + + + + +`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. + + + +`"Good day, boys!" he says. + + + +`"Good day, Poisonous," we says. + + + +`"It's hot," he says. + + + +`"It's blanky hot," I says. + + + +`He seemed to expect us to get down. "Where are you off to?" he says. + + + +`"Mulgatown," I says. "It will be cooler there," and we sung out, + +"So-long, Poisonous!" and rode on. + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`He was too mad and too winded to speak at first, so he rode + +along with us a bit gasping: then he burst out. + + + +`"Where's them other two carnal blanks?" he shouted. + + + +`"What other two?" I asked. "We're all here. What's the matter + +with you anyway?" + + + +`"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' ----!" + + + +`Oh, but Poisonous Jimmy was wild. + + + +`"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." + + + +`"Pay for it!" yelled Jimmy. "I'll ---- well take it + +out of one of yer bleedin' hides!" + + + +`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. + + + +`"Now, look here, Myles," said the boss (Jimmy's name was Myles) -- + +"Now, look here, Myles," sez the boss, "what's all this about?" + + + +`"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!" + + + +`"What was they like?" asks the boss. + + + +`"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." + + + +`"Now, what's this all about, you chaps?" sez the boss to us. + + + +`So we told him as much as we knowed about them two fellers. + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`They fined him ten bob.' + + + + + + + + + +The Ghostly Door. + + + + Told by one of Dave's mates. + + + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`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?' + + + +-- + +* `Whare', `whorrie', Maori name for house. + +-- + + + +I shifted my feet and presently moved the stool farther away from the fire -- + +it was too hot. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +Dave scratched his ear. `That's rum,' he said. `I could have sworn + +I fastened that door. They must have left the cat behind.' + + + +`It looks like it,' I said. `Neither of us has been on the boose lately.' + + + +He got out of bed and up on his long hairy spindle-shanks. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`You shot the bolt ~outside~ the catch,' I said, as he caught hold of the door + +-- like one grabs a craw-fish. + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`What are you doing that for?' I asked. + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +`What are you going to do, Dave?' I asked. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`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. + + + +It was blowing hard, but not raining so much. + + + +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.' + + + +`What for?' I said. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +Dave scratched his head a good bit. + + + +`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.' + + + + + + + + + +A Wild Irishman. + + + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +I make no attempt to give any one shade of the Irish brogue -- + +it can't be done in writing. + + + + + +`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. + + + +`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 -- + + + +`"Oi must be walkin' or foightin'! -- Oi must be walkin' or foightin'! -- + +Oi must be walkin' or foightin'!" + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`"B' God, there's the Flour o' Wheat comin' this minute," + +says Dinny Murphy to Tom, "an' no one else." + + + +`"B' God, ye're right!" says Tom. + + + +`There were a lot of new chums in the big room at the back, + +drinking and dancing and singing, and Tom says to Dinny -- + + + +`"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." + + + +`But Dinny wouldn't take him up. He knew the Flour. + + + +`"Good day, Tom! Good day, Dinny!" + + + +`"Good day to you, Flour!" + + + +`I was introduced. + + + +`"Well, boys, come along," says the Flour. + + + +`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. + + + +`"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?" + + + +`He shouted, and drank, and gambled, and danced, and sang, + +and fought the new chums all night, and in the morning he said -- + + + +`"Well, boys, we had a grand time last night. Come and have a drink with me." + + + +`And of course they went in and had a drink with him. + + + + . . . . . + + + +`Next morning the Flour was walking along the street, when he met a drunken, + +disreputable old hag, known among the boys as the "Nipper". + + + +`"Good ~morning~, me lovely Flour o' Wheat!" says she. + + + +`"Good ~morning~, me lovely Nipper!" says the Flour. + + + +`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! + + + +`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. + + + +`"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." + + + +`But they didn't let it pass, -- they fined her a quid. + + + +`And the Flour paid the fine. + + + +`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. + + + + . . . . . + + + +`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. + + + +`"What d'ye think of that?" he says, handing the summons across the bar. + +"What d'ye think of me lovely Dinny Murphy now?" + + + +`"Why, what's this all about?" + + + +`"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." + + + +`"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?" + + + +`"That's what I want to know." + + + +`"What have you been doing to the man?" + + + +`"Divil a thing that I'm aware of." + + + +`The cousin rubbed his chin-tuft between his forefinger and thumb. + + + +`"Well, what am I to do about it?" asked the Flour impatiently. + + + +`"Do? Pay the man, of course?" + + + +`"How can I pay the lovely man when I haven't got the price of a drink + +about me?" + + + +`The cousin scratched his chin. + + + +`"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." + + + +`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. + + + + . . . . . + + + +`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 -- + + + +`"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?" + + + +`Or he'd pass a raffle, lottery, lucky-bag, or golden-barrel business + +of some sort, -- + + + +`"No gamblin' for the Flour. I don't believe in their little shwindles. + +It ought to be shtopped. Leadin' young people ashtray." + + + +`Or he'd pass an Englishman he didn't like, -- + + + +`"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!" + + + + . . . . . + + + +`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". + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`"There's something happened to the lovely man," said the Flour of Wheat + +at last. "Some of us had better see about it." + + + +`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. + + + + + +`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. + + + +`"Take your hats off and come in quietly, lads," said the Flour. + +"Here's the lovely man lying dead in his bunk." + + + +`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. + + + +`One or two did object, but the Flour reasoned with them + +and there were no sports. + + + +`And the Flour used to say, afterwards, "Ah, but it was a grand time + +we had at the funeral when Duncan died at Duffers." + + + + . . . . . + + + +`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. + + + +`"Inside there -- come out!" + + + +`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. + + + +`"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." + + + +`Then he shook his fist in the doctor's face and said -- + + + +`"If you let that lovely man die -- look out!" + + + +`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 -- + + + +`"If you let that lovely man die -- mind!" + + + +`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. + + + +`"There," he said, "pour that into the lovely man." + + + +`Then he shook his fist at such members of the staff as were visible, + +and said -- + + + +`"If you let that lovely man die -- look out!" + + + +`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." + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`"Stay there, ye little whipper-snapper," said the Flour of Wheat; + +"you let that lovely man die!" + + + +`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. + + + +`"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." + + + +`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. + + + +`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 -- + + + +`"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!" + + + +`Then he went out -- taking the coffin with him. + + + +`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 -- + + + +`"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!" + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`"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." + + + +`Then he left for Th' Canary.' + + + + + + + + + +The Babies in the Bush. + + + + `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.' + + + + + + + +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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + + `"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. + + + + . . . . . + + + + 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?" + + + +They don't matter much, do they, Jack?' + + + +`Damned if I think they do, Boss!' I'd say. + + + + `"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."' + + + +Once he repeated the poem containing the lines -- + + + + `"Love, when we wandered here together, + + Hand in hand through the sparkling weather -- + + God surely loved us a little then." + + + +Beautiful lines those, Jack. + + + + "Then skies were fairer and shores were firmer, + + And the blue sea over the white sand rolled -- + + Babble and prattle, and prattle and murmur' -- + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + + `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!' + + + +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 -- + + + +`Do you know Fisher, Jack -- the man that owns these bullocks?' + + + +`I've heard of him,' I said. Fisher was a big squatter, + +with stations both in New South Wales and in Queensland. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`The Boss seems to have taken to you, Jack, all right.' + + + +`Think so?' I said. I thought I smelt jealousy and detected a sneer. + + + +`I'm sure of it. It's very seldom ~he~ takes to any one.' + + + +I said nothing. + + + +Then after a while Andy said suddenly -- + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + +`Look here, Jack, you're going on to Sydney, aren't you?' + + + +`Yes; I'm going down to have a fly round.' + + + +`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?' + + + +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. + + + +`Come and have a drink, Boss,' I said. The agent had paid us off + +during the day. + + + +He turned into a hotel with me. + + + +`I don't drink, Jack,' he said; `but I'll take a glass with you.' + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`Well,' I said, `I wish I could take a glass or leave it.' And I meant it. + + + +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.' + + + +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 -- + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`I want you to come along home with me, Jack,' he said; + +`we'll fix you a shake-down.' + + + +I forgot to tell you that he was married and lived in Bathurst. + + + +`But won't it put Mrs Head about?' + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +She seemed extra glad to see me. I thought at first + +that she was a bit of a gusher. + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`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. + + + +`Yes, Mrs Head. I've knocked round all about out there.' + + + +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. + + + +She smoothed her forehead, and clasped her hands in her lap. + + + +`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.' + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +`You know we had a station out on the Lachlan, Mr Ellis. + +Did Walter ever tell you about the time we lived there?' + + + +`No,' I said, glancing at the Boss. `I know you had a station there; + +but, you know, the Boss doesn't talk much.' + + + +`Tell Jack, Maggie,' said the Boss; `I don't mind.' + + + +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?' + + + +This was a facer. `I -- I beg pardon,' I commenced, when Andy gave me + +a dig in the back. Then I saw it all. + + + +`No, Mrs Head. The Boss didn't tell me about that.' + + + +`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. + + + +`Of course I've heard of them, Mrs Head,' I said; `but I can't swear + +that I've seen one.' + + + +`Andy has. Haven't you, Andy?' + + + +`Of course I have, Mrs Head. Didn't I tell you all about it + +the last time we were home?' + + + +`And didn't you ever tell Mr Ellis, Andy?' + + + +`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.' + + + +`Of course!' said Andy. + + + +`Did he tell you about finding a lost child and the fairy with it?' + + + +`Yes,' said Andy; `I told him all about that.' + + + +`And the fairy was just going to take the child away when Andy found it, + +and when the fairy saw Andy she flew away.' + + + +`Yes,' I said; `that's what Andy told me.' + + + +`And what did you say the fairy was like, Andy?' asked Mrs Head, + +fixing her eyes on his face. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +She pressed the tips of the fingers of both hands to her forehead, + +and sat so for a while; then she roused herself again -- + + + +`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.' + + + +The old woman seemed to hesitate. + + + +`Go on, Auntie, and do what I ask you,' said Mrs Head. `Don't be foolish. + +You know I'm all right now.' + + + +`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?' + + + +`You were, Maggie,' said the Boss. `But that's all past. + +You mustn't think of that time any more.' + + + +`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.' + + + +`You were very foolish, Maggie,' said the Boss; `but don't think about that.' + + + +The old woman brought the portraits, a little boy and a little girl: + +they must have been very pretty children. + + + +`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.' + + + +She put the portraits up on the mantel-shelf. + + + +`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?' + + + +`Yes, Maggie,' said the Boss. + + + +`You were away, Walter, when it happened.' + + + +`Yes, Maggie,' said the Boss -- cheerfully, it seemed to me -- `I was away.' + + + +`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?' + + + +`Yes, Maggie.' + + + +`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?' + + + +`Yes, Mrs Head.' + + + +`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?' + + + +`I remember, Maggie.' + + + +`"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?' + + + +`Of course I do, Maggie.' + + + +`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.' + + + +She was leaning forward with her hands clasping her knee, + +and telling me all this with a strange sort of eagerness. + + + +`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.' + + + +`Except the fairies, Maggie,' said the Boss quickly. + + + +`Of course, Walter, except the fairies.' + + + +She pressed her fingers to her temples again for a minute. + + + +`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?' + + + +The Boss caught my eye, and frowned and shook his head slightly. + + + +`No. I'm sure they wouldn't, Mrs Head,' I said -- `at least + +not from what I know of them.' + + + +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 -- + + + +`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. + + + +`Don't mind about that, Maggie,' said the Boss, hurriedly, stroking her head. + +`Tell Jack about the fairies.' + + + +`You were away at the time, Walter?' + + + +`Yes, Maggie.' + + + +`And we couldn't find you, Walter?' + + + +`No, Maggie,' very gently. He rested his elbow on his knee and his chin + +on his hand, and looked into the fire. + + + +`It wasn't your fault, Walter; but if you had been at home + +do you think the fairies would have taken the children?' + + + +`Of course they would, Maggie. They had to: the children were lost.' + + + +`And they're bringing the children home next year?' + + + +`Yes, Maggie -- next year.' + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +`No wonder you were, Mrs Head,' I said. `It was terrible trouble.' + + + +`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.' + + + +`Of course you won't, Maggie.' + + + +`We're very happy now, aren't we, Walter?' + + + +`Of course we are, Maggie.' + + + +`And the children are coming back next year.' + + + +`Next year, Maggie.' + + + +He leaned over the fire and stirred it up. + + + +`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.' + + + +She paused and pressed her fingers to her temples again. + +Then she said quickly -- + + + +`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.' + + + +`Who used to tell you that, Mrs Head?' I asked. + + + +`The Voices,' she said; `you know about the Voices, Walter?' + + + +`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?' + + + +`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.' + + + +`Of course they could, Mrs Head,' I said. + + + +`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.' + + + +`Why!' I said, `I've known the blacks to track a man + +after a week's heavy rain.' + + + +She had her head between her fingers again, and when she looked up + +it was in a scared way. + + + +`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?' + + + +He put his arm round her. Andy nudged me and got up. + + + +`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.' + + + +`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.' + + + +`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.' + + + +`Oh, I've enjoyed myself, Mrs Head,' I said; and Andy hooked me out. + + + +`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.' + + + +`It's all true about the children, then?' I asked. + + + +`It's cruel true,' said Andy. + + + +`And were the bodies never found?' + + + +`Yes;' then, after a long pause, `I found them.' + + + +`You did!' + + + +`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.' + + + +`And you never told Mrs Head about the children being found?' + + + +`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.' + + + +`To England?' + + + +`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.' + + + +`And you never tried telling her that the children were found?' + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`The Boss was away when the children were lost?' + + + +`Yes,' said Andy. + + + +`Strange you couldn't find him.' + + + +`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.' + + + +`I feel damned sorry for the Boss,' I said. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +`She seems all right,' I said to Andy when we were in our room. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +Andy closed the door. His face was very miserable. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + +`Look here, Boss, old chap! I'm damned sorry!' + + + +Our hands came together and gripped. The ghostly Australian daybreak + +was over the Bathurst plains. + + + +We went on another hundred yards or so, and then the Boss said quietly -- + + + +`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.' + + + +I reached for his hand again, and gave it a grip. That was all I could do + +for him. + + + +`Good-bye, Jack!' he said at the door of the brake-van. `Good-bye, Andy! -- + +keep those bullocks on their feet.' + + + +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. + + + +`Does the boss never go to Sydney?' I asked. + + + +`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.' + + + +After a while I said, `He told me about the drink, Andy -- + +about his being on the spree when the children were lost.' + + + +`Well, Jack,' said Andy, `that's the thing that's been killing him ever since, + +and it happened over ten years ago.' + + + + + + + + + +A Bush Dance. + + + + + + + +`Tap, tap, tap, tap.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +On the rest of the stools, running end to end along the other wall, + +sat about twenty more or less blooming chaps. + + + +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. + + + +`Tap, tap, tap.' + + + +The rows moved uneasily, and some of the girls turned pale faces nervously + +towards the side-door, in the direction of the sound. + + + +`Tap -- tap.' + + + +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. + + + +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.' + + + +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 -- + + + +`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!' + + + +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 -- + + + +`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!' + + + +The two girl friends came back. `He sez to leave her to him,' they whispered, + +in reply to an interrogatory glance from the schoolmistress. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + +`It's two horses, I tell you!' + + + +`It's three, you ----!' + + + +`Lay you ----!' + + + +`Put the stuff up!' + + + +A clack of gate thrown open. + + + +`Who is it, Tom?' + + + +Voices from gatewards, yelling, `Johnny Mears! They've got Johnny Mears!' + + + +Then rose yells, and a cheer such as is seldom heard in scrub-lands. + + + +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?' + + + +But from the schoolroom was heard the loud, free voice + +of Joe Matthews, M.C., -- + + + +`Take yer partners! Hurry up! Take yer partners! They've got Johnny Mears + +with his fiddle!' + + + + + + + + + +The Buck-Jumper. + + + + + + + +Saturday afternoon. + + + +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 Gr|aeco-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. + + + +`Do it for a quid, Jack?' asked one. + + + +`Damned if I will, Jim!' said the young man at the post. + +`I'll do it for a fiver -- not a blanky sprat less.' + + + +Jim took off his hat and `shoved' it round, and `bobs' were `chucked' into it. + +The result was about thirty shillings. + + + +Jack glanced contemptuously into the crown of the hat. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +The sporting man was interested at once, and went out and joined the Bushmen. + + + +`Well, chaps! what have you got on here?' he asked cheerily. + + + +`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.' + + + +`What's up with the horse?' inquired the big, red-faced man. + +`It looks quiet enough. Why, I'd ride it myself.' + + + +`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.' + + + +`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.' + + + +`He said he'd ride the horse inside the yard for a quid,' said Jim. + + + +`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.' + + + +`Well, how much do you want?' asked the man in the mushroom hat. + + + +`A fiver, I said,' replied Jack indifferently. `And the blanky stuff + +in my pocket before I get on the blanky horse.' + + + +`Are you frightened of us running away without paying you?' + +inquired one of the passengers who had gathered round. + + + +`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?' + + + +`You wouldn't want 'em then,' suggested a passenger. `Or, say! -- + +we'd leave the fiver with the publican to bury you.' + + + +Flash Jack ignored that passenger. He eyed his boots and softly whistled + +a tune. + + + +`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.' + + + +The five pounds were got together. + + + +`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. + + + +`Quiet as an old cow!' snorted a passenger in disgust. + +`I believe it's a sell!' + + + +`Wait a bit,' said Jim to the passenger, `wait a bit and you'll see.' + + + +They waited and saw. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + +`Those blanky Bushmen have got too much time to think.' + + + + . . . . . + + + +The Bushmen returned to the shanty as soon as the coach was out of sight, + +and proceeded to `knock down' the fiver. + + + + + + + + + +Jimmy Grimshaw's Wooing. + + + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +Mrs Myers was reckoned a good catch in the district, but it soon seemed + +that she was not to be caught. + + + +`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.' + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +About the end of each shearing the sign was touched up, with an extra + +coat of paint on the `Margaret', whereat suitors looked hopeless. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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.' + + + +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 -- + + + +`By God! Jimmy'll do it.' (Applause.) + + + + . . . . . + + + +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. + + + +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?' + + + +`Yes, missus. Clean pfellar that.' + + + +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. + + + +`Good-day, mister,' she said, seeming to become aware of him + +for the first time. + + + +`Good-day, missus!' + + + +`Hot!' + + + +`Hot!' + + + +Pause. + + + +`Trav'lin'?' + + + +`No, not particular!' + + + +She waited for him to explain. Myers was always explaining + +when he wasn't raving. But the swagman smoked on. + + + +`Have a drink?' she suggested, to keep her end up. + + + +`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.' + + + +What a contrast to Myers! she thought. + + + +`Come and have some tea; it's ready.' + + + +`Thank you. I don't mind if I do.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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 -- + + + + HALF-WAY HOUSE HOTEL, + + BY + + JAMES GRIMSHAW. + + ~Good Stabling.~ + + + +The last time I saw Mrs Grimshaw she looked about thirty-five. + + + + + + + + + +At Dead Dingo. + + + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`Stumped?' inquired Jim. + + + +`Not a blanky, lurid deener!' drawled Bill. + + + +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. + + + +`Got anything?' asked Jim, fingering the cards again. + + + +Bill sucked in his cheeks, collecting the saliva with difficulty, + +and spat out on to the verandah floor. + + + +`That's all I got,' he drawled. `It's gone now.' + + + +Jim leaned back in his chair, twisted, yawned, and caught sight of the dog. + + + +`That there dog yours?' he asked, brightening. + + + +They had evidently been strangers the day before, or as strange to each other + +as Bushmen can be. + + + +Bill scratched behind his ear, and blinked at the dog. + +The dog woke suddenly to a flea fact. + + + +`Yes,' drawled Bill, `he's mine.' + + + +`Well, I'm going Out-Back, and I want a dog,' said Jim, + +gathering the cards briskly. `Half a quid agin the dog?' + + + +`Half a quid be ----!' drawled Bill. `Call it a quid?' + + + +`Half a blanky quid!' + + + +`A gory, lurid quid!' drawled Bill desperately, and he stooped over his swag. + + + +But Jim's hands were itching in a ghastly way over the cards. + + + +`Alright. Call it a ---- quid.' + + + +The drunkard on the sofa stirred, showed signs of waking, but died again. + +Remember this, it might come in useful. + + + +Bill sat down to the table once more. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + + . . . . . + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +He lifted his head, looked at the girl across the top of the bar, + +and formed with his lips, rather than spoke, the words -- + + + +`Put up a drink?'* + + + +-- + +* `Put up a drink' -- i.e., `Give me a drink on credit', or `Chalk it up'. + +-- + + + +She shook her head tightly and went on reading. + + + +He staggered up, and, leaning on the bar, made desperate distress signals + +with hand, eyes, and mouth. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`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!' + + + +`Where the blazes is that there dog o' mine got to?' he muttered. + +`Did you see a dog?' + + + +`No! What do I want with your dog?' + + + +He whistled out in front again, and round each corner. Then he came back + +with a decided step and tone. + + + +`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?' + + + +`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.' + + + +He stared at her blankly, with thunder gathering in the blankness. + + + +`What sort of a dog was it?' + + + +Dog described; the chain round the neck settled it. + + + +He scowled at her darkly. + + + +`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 ----' + + + +She was filling a pewter hastily. + + + +`Here! for God's sake have a drink an' stop yer row.' + + + +He drank with satisfaction. Then he hung on the bar with one elbow + +and scowled out the door. + + + +`Which blanky way did them chaps go?' he growled. + + + +`The one that took the dog went towards Tinned Dog.' + + + +`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.' + + + +He drank again with deeper satisfaction, then he shuffled out, + +muttering, swearing, and threatening louder every step, and took the track + +to Tinned Dog. + + + + -------------------- + + + +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. + + + + + + + + + +Telling Mrs Baker. + + + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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." + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`How could I face his wife if I went home without him?' asked Andy, + +`or any of his old mates?' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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? + + + +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.' + + + +`Damned if I will!' I said. + + + +`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.' + + + +I'd never seen Andy show so much emotion. + + + +`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. + + + +`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?' + + + +I'd been thinking while I listened, and an idea struck me. + + + +`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.' + + + +`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.' + + + +`But she's sure to hear the truth sooner or later,' I said, + +`the Boss was so well known.' + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`What are you doing, Andy?' I asked. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`And one of those men, at least, was an old mate of his!' said Andy, + +in a tone of disgust. + + + +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. + + + +`Such is life!' said Andy, with a yawn that might have been half a sigh. + + + +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. + + + +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.' + + + +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. + + + +`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 -- + + + +`Suppose we go and have another drink first, Andy? We might be kept in there + +an hour or two.' + + + +`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.' + + + +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 -- + + + +`How do you feel now, Jack?' + + + +`Oh, ~I'm~ all right,' I said. + + + +`For God's sake!' said Andy, `don't put your foot in it + +and make a mess of it.' + + + +`I won't, if you don't.' + + + +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 -- + + + +`For God's sake stick to me now, Jack!' + + + +`I'll stick all right,' I said -- `you've been having too much beer, Andy.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +`We were just coming when we got your message,' said Andy. + +`We'd have come before, only we had to see to the horses.' + + + +`It's very kind of you, I'm sure,' said Mrs Baker. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`I'm so glad you've come, Andy!' said Bobby. + + + +`Are you, Bobby?' + + + +`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. + + + +`Yes,' said Andy. + + + +`He went up among the stars, didn't he?' + + + +`Yes,' said Andy. + + + +`And he isn't coming back to Bobby any more?' + + + +`No,' said Andy. `But Bobby's going to him by-and-by.' + + + +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. + + + +Andy looked miserable. `I wish to God I was off this job!' + +he whispered to me. + + + +`Is that the girl that writes the stories?' I asked. + + + +`Yes,' he said, staring at me in a hopeless sort of way, `and poems too.' + + + +`Is Bobby going up among the stars?' asked Bobby. + + + +`Yes,' said Andy -- `if Bobby's good.' + + + +`And auntie?' + + + +`Yes.' + + + +`And mumma?' + + + +`Yes.' + + + +`Are you going, Andy?' + + + +`Yes,' said Andy hopelessly. + + + +`Did you see daddy go up amongst the stars, Andy?' + + + +`Yes,' said Andy, `I saw him go up.' + + + +`And he isn't coming down again any more?' + + + +`No,' said Andy. + + + +`Why isn't he?' + + + +`Because he's going to wait up there for you and mumma, Bobby.' + + + +There was a long pause, and then Bobby asked -- + + + +`Are you going to give me a shilling, Andy?' with the same expression + +of innocent wonder in his eyes. + + + +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. + + + +`Brace up now, Jack, and keep your wits about you,' whispered Andy to me + +just before they came in. + + + +`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.' + + + +Andy told her about the Boss not being well after he crossed the border. + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +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. + + + +`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. + + + +`More like thirty-five,' I said, waking up. + + + +Miss Standish fixed her eyes on me, and I had another look + +at Wellington and Blucher. + + + +`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.' + + + +`I know it,' said Mrs Baker. `Nobody could help liking him. + +He was one of the kindest men that ever lived.' + + + +`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.' + + + +`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?' + + + +`He wouldn't take a penny, Mrs Baker.' + + + +`He must have been a good true man. I wish I could thank him.' + + + +`Oh, Ned thanked him for you,' said Andy, though without meaning + +more than he said. + + + +`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.' + + + +`He never touched a drop after he left Solong, I can assure you, Mrs Baker,' + +said Andy quickly. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`Brace up now, Jack,' whispered Andy to me, `the worst is coming.' + + + +When they came in again Mrs Baker made Andy go on with his story. + + + +`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.' + + + +Mrs Baker was crying softly. Andy got the packet half out of his pocket, + +but shoved it back again. + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`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?' + + + +`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.' + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +Andy caught her sister's eye and jerked his head towards the door + +to let her know he wanted to speak to her outside. + + + +`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. + + + +She came out to the gate with us, and Andy gave her the packet. + + + +`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.' + + + +`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?' + + + +`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.' + + + +`Tell me all,' she said. `It would be better for me to know.' + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +`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. + + + +I don't think it did either of us any harm. + + + + + + + + + +A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs. + + + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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'. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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.' + + + +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.' + + + +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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + + + +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. + + + +On the morning of Job's accident, and after a long brooding silence, + +Doc. Wild suddenly said to Mac. Falconer -- + + + +`Git the hosses, Mac. We'll go to the station.' + + + +Mac., used to the doctor's eccentricities, went to see about the horses. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`Dead beast there!' said Mac. out of his Bushcraft. + + + +`No -- dying,' said Doc. Wild, with less Bush experience but more intellect. + + + +`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!' + + + +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. + + + +`We'll go and see, if you like,' suggested Doc. Wild. + + + +They turned out across the flat, the horses picking their way + +amongst the dried tufts and fallen branches. + + + +`Theer ain't no sign o' cattle theer,' said the doctor; + +`more likely a ewe in trouble about her lamb.' + + + +`Oh, the blanky dingoes at the sheep,' said Mac. `I wish we had a gun -- + +might get a shot at them.' + + + +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. + + + +`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, -- + + + + `"The crows kept flyin' up, boys! + + The crows kept flyin' up! + + The dog, he seen and whimpered, boys, + + Though he was but a pup."' + + + +`It must be something or other,' muttered Mac. `Look at them blanky crows!' + + + + `"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!"' + + + +`My God! what's that?' cried Mac., who was a little in advance + +and rode a tall horse. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +`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!' + + + +`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.' + + + +Mac. mounted and rode off at a break-neck pace. + + + +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.' + + + +But as Job came round a little Doc. Wild was enlightened. + + + +`Where's the filly?' cried Job suddenly between groans. + + + +`She's all right,' said the doctor. + + + +`Stop her!' cried Job, struggling to rise -- `stop her! -- oh God! my leg.' + + + +`Keep quiet, you fool!' + + + +`Stop her!' yelled Job. + + + +`Why stop her?' asked the doctor. `She won't go fur,' he added. + + + +`She'll go home to Gerty,' shouted Job. `For God's sake stop her!' + + + +`O--h!' drawled the doctor to himself. `I might have guessed that. + +And I ought to know men.' + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`That's all I kin do for him for the present.' + + + +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 -- + + + +`What's Job been doing now?' (Job, by the way, had never been remarkable + +for doing anything.) + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +`Lucky we got him before the ants did,' muttered the doctor. + +Then he had an inspiration -- + + + +`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.~' + + + +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. + + + +He rode off at a gallop. The burden of Job's raving, all the way, + +rested on the dead filly -- + + + +`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. + + + +`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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +Doc. Wild stayed round until he saw Job comfortably moved to the homestead, + +then he prepared to depart. + + + +`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.' + + + +`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.' + + + +And he left for Poisonous Jimmy's. + + + + + + + + + +The Little World Left Behind. + + + + + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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.' + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + + + + + + + + The Never-Never Country. + + + + + + + +~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.~ + + + + + + + + + + + +End of this etext of Joe Wilson and his mates, by Henry Lawson. + + + + + diff --git a/old/old/jwahm10.zip b/old/old/jwahm10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8b0788c --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/jwahm10.zip diff --git a/old/old/jwahm11.txt b/old/old/jwahm11.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1c062b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/jwahm11.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9677 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Etext of Joe Wilson and His Mates, by Lawson +Our 2nd etext by Henry Lawson. + +See these other Australian authors also: +A. 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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. + + + + + +Joe Wilson and his mates, by Henry Lawson + + +[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are capitalized. +Some obvious errors may have been corrected.] + + +============================================================================== +An incomplete glossary of Australian, British, or antique terms and concepts +which may prove helpful to understanding this book: + + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Old-fashioned child: A child that acts old for their age. + Americans would say `Precocious'. + +'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. + +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. + +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. + +Tucker: Food. + +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. + +Sly-grog-shop: An unlicensed bar or liquor-store. + +Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + +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. + +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. + + -- A. L. + + + + + +Joe Wilson and his mates + + + + + +JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES + +By Henry Lawson + +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. + + + + + The Author's Farewell to the Bushmen. + + + + 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. + + + + + +Contents. + + + +Prefatory Verses -- + The Author's Farewell to the Bushmen. + + + Part I. + +Joe Wilson's Courtship. +Brighten's Sister-In-Law. +`Water Them Geraniums'. + I. A Lonely Track. + II. `Past Carin''. +A Double Buggy at Lahey's Creek. + I. Spuds, and a Woman's Obstinacy. + II. Joe Wilson's Luck. + III. The Ghost of Mary's Sacrifice. + IV. The Buggy Comes Home. + + + Part II. + +The Golden Graveyard. +The Chinaman's Ghost. +The Loaded Dog. +Poisonous Jimmy Gets Left. + I. Dave Regan's Yarn. + II. Told by One of the Other Drovers. +The Ghostly Door. +A Wild Irishman. +The Babies in the Bush. +A Bush Dance. +The Buck-Jumper. +Jimmy Grimshaw's Wooing. +At Dead Dingo. +Telling Mrs Baker. +A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs. +The Little World Left Behind. + + +Concluding Verses -- + The Never-Never Country. + + + + + + ------------------------ + + JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES + + ------------------------ + + + + + + Part I. + + + + + +Joe Wilson's Courtship. + + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 ----! + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +`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.' + +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! + +`My wife knows little 'Possum,' said Jack. `I'll get her +to ask her out to our place and let you know.' + +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. + +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. + +`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.' + +`For God's sake shut up, Jack,' I said. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 -- + +`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 -- + +`Make a looking-glass of that window, Joe,' he said. + +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. + +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. + +Presently Jack came round, and Mary disappeared. + +`Well?' he whispered. + +`You're a fool, Jack,' I said. `She's only interested in the old house +being pulled down.' + +`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.' + +`You seem mighty interested in the business,' I said. + +`Yes,' said Jack. `This sort of thing just suits a man of my rank +in times of peace.' + +`What made you think of the window?' I asked. + +`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.' + +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. + +I didn't hear Mary at first. I hoped Jack would come round and help me +out of the fix, but he didn't. + +`Mr -- Mr Wilson!' said Mary. She had a sweet voice. + +I turned round. + +`I thought you and Mr Barnes might like a cup of tea.' + +`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. + +`Oh! did you hurt yourself, Mr Wilson?' cried Mary. + +`Hurt myself! Oh no, not at all, thank you,' I blurted out. +`It takes more than that to hurt me.' + +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. + +I pulled myself together when I got to where Jack was. + +`Here, Jack!' I said. `I've struck something all right; +here's some tea and brownie -- we'll hang out here all right.' + +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. + +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 -- + +`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.' + +He gave me time to think over that. + +`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.' + +Then a thought struck me. I ought to have known Jack well enough +to have thought of it before. + +`Look here, Jack,' I said. `What have you been saying to that girl about me?' + +`Oh, not much,' said Jack. `There isn't much to say about you.' + +`What did you tell her?' + +`Oh, nothing in particular. She'd heard all about you before.' + +`She hadn't heard much good, I suppose,' I said. + +`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.' + +`What did you tell her?' I said. `That's what I want to know.' + +`Well, to tell the truth, I didn't tell her anything much. +I only answered questions.' + +`And what questions did she ask?' + +`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.' + +`Look here, Jack,' I said, `I've two minds to punch your head.' + +`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.' + +`What next?' + +`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.' + +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. + +`Did you tell her I was in jail?' I growled. + +`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.' + +We smoked a while. + +`And was that all she said?' I asked. + +`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?"' + +`And what did you say?' I growled. + +`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.' + +I wouldn't take back the tray -- but that didn't mend matters, +for Jack took it back himself. + +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. + +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. + +`Go and help her, you capital Idiot!' he said, and I made the plunge. + +`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. + +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. + +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. + +`There's only a few more things in the basket, Miss Brand,' I said. +`You can't reach -- I'll fix 'em up.' + +She seemed to give a little gasp. + +`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. + +`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. + +`Excuse me, Mr Wilson,' she said, `but those things are not ready yet!' +and she marched into the wash-house. + +`Ah well! you've got a little temper of your own,' I thought to myself. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 -- + +`Do you play draughts, Mr Barnes?' + +`No,' said Jack. + +`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. + +`Yes,' I said, `I do a little.' Then there was a silence, +and I had to say something else. + +`Do you play draughts, Miss Brand?' I asked. + +`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.' + +I saw Jack winking at me urgently. + +`I'll play a game with you, if you like,' I said, `but I ain't +much of a player.' + +`Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson! When shall you have an evening to spare?' + +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. + +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 -- + +`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.' + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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). + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And next day there was a little table in my room with a crocheted cover +and a looking-glass. + +I noticed the other girls began to act mysterious and giggle when I was round, +but Mary didn't seem aware of it. + +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. + +`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.' + +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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I felt better next morning, and reckoned I was cured. +I ran against Mary accidentally and had to say something. + +`How did you enjoy yourself yesterday evening, Miss Brand?' I asked. + +`Oh, very well, thank you, Mr Wilson,' she said. Then she asked, +`How did you enjoy yourself, Mr Wilson?' + +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 -- + +`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.' + +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. + + +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. + +`What the hell's Romany trying to do?' said Jimmy Nowlett. +`He couldn't have fell off his horse -- or else he's drunk.' + +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. + +`What did you git down so sudden for, Romany?' asked Jim Bullock presently. +`Did you hurt yerself on the pommel?' + +`Why didn't you ask the horse to go round?' asked Dave Regan. + +`I'd only like to know who put up that bleeding wire!' growled Romany. + +`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.' + +`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.' + +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. + +`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.' + +But they saw that Romany was getting nasty, and they wanted him +to play the fiddle next night, so they dropped it. + +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. + +`That gal's got a nice voice,' said Jimmy Nowlett. + +`Nice voice!' snarled Romany, who'd been waiting for a chance to be nasty. +`Why, I've heard a tom-cat sing better.' + +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 -- + +`I suppose you got bit too in that quarter, Romany?' + +`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. + +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. + +`You're a damned crawler, Romany!' I said. + +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. + +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. + +`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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I felt Jack breathing quick and trembling as he lifted me up. + +`How are you, Joe?' he whispered. + +`I'm all right,' I said. + +`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!' + +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. + +`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. + +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. + +`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.' + +That showed how little even Jack, my old mate, understood me. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I went down again, but Jack told me afterwards that he FELT I was all right +when he lifted me. + +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. + +`I've done,' he said. `I've twisted my ankle.' He'd caught his heel +against a tuft of grass. + +`Shake hands,' yelled Jimmy Nowlett. + +I stepped forward, but Romany took his coat and limped to his horse. + +`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. + +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 -- + +`If I thought that, I'd kill him.' + +`What is it?' asked Jack. + +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. + +`Why did you let your man fight with a butcher's knife in his belt?' +asked Jimmy Nowlett. + +But the knife could easily have fallen out when Romany fell, +and we decided it that way. + +`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.' + +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. + +`What's up, Jack?' I asked. + +`Nothing,' said Jack. + +`What's up, you old fool?' I said. + +`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.' + +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. + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +`What is it, Jack?' I asked. + +`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.' + +Presently there was another hush outside, and a saucer +with vinegar and brown paper was handed in. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`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. + +`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.' + +`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. + +`Well, that's a rum start!' I said. + +`Yes, it is,' said Jack; `it's very funny. Well, how's your face +this morning, Joe?' + +He seemed a lot more serious than usual. + +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. + +`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.' + +When we'd done in the shed, Jack took me aside and said -- + +`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.' + +`But how am I to get her out?' I said. + +`Never you mind. You be mooching round down by the big peppermint-tree +near the river-gate, say about half-past ten.' + +`What good'll that do?' + +`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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`Oh, is that you, Mr Wilson?' said a timid little voice. + +`Yes,' I said. `Is that you, Mary?' + +And she said yes. It was the first time I called her Mary, +but she did not seem to notice it. + +`Did I frighten you?' I asked. + +`No -- yes -- just a little,' she said. `I didn't know +there was any one ----' then she stopped. + +`Why aren't you dancing?' I asked her. + +`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.' + +`Yes,' I said, `it must be hot in the wool-shed.' + +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. + +`How beautiful the moonlight looks on the willows!' she said. + +`Yes,' I said, `doesn't it? Supposing we have a stroll by the river.' + +`Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson. I'd like it very much.' + +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. + +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. + +`Suppose we sit down for a while, Mary,' I said. + +`If you like, Mr Wilson,' she said. + +There was about a foot of log between us. + +`What a beautiful night!' she said. + +`Yes,' I said, `isn't it?' + +Presently she said, `I suppose you know I'm going away next month, Mr Wilson?' + +I felt suddenly empty. `No,' I said, `I didn't know that.' + +`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.' + +We didn't say anything for a good while. + +`I suppose you won't be sorry to go, Miss Brand?' I said. + +`I -- I don't know,' she said. `Everybody's been so kind to me here.' + +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. + +`So you think you'll be sorry to go away?' I said. + +`Yes, Mr Wilson. I suppose I'll fret for a while. It's been my home, +you know.' + +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. + +`Ah, well,' I said, `I suppose I'll be on the wallaby again next week.' + +`Will you, Mr Wilson?' she said. Her voice seemed very soft. + +I slipped my arm round her waist, under her arm. My heart was going +like clockwork now. + +Presently she said -- + +`Don't you think it's time to go back now, Mr Wilson?' + +`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. + +`Mary,' I said. + +`Yes,' she said. + +`Call me Joe,' I said. + +`I -- I don't like to,' she said. `I don't think it would be right.' + +So I just turned her face round and kissed her. She clung to me and cried. + +`What is it, Mary?' I asked. + +She only held me tighter and cried. + +`What is it, Mary?' I said. `Ain't you well? Ain't you happy?' + +`Yes, Joe,' she said, `I'm very happy.' Then she said, `Oh, your poor face! +Can't I do anything for it?' + +`No,' I said. `That's all right. My face doesn't hurt me a bit now.' + +But she didn't seem right. + +`What is it, Mary?' I said. `Are you tired? You didn't sleep +last night ----' Then I got an inspiration. + +`Mary,' I said, `what were you doing out with the gun this morning?' + +And after some coaxing it all came out, a bit hysterical. + +`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.' + +Then I got as much of her as I could into my arms. + +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. + +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. + +`Mary,' I whispered, `put your arms round my neck and kiss me.' + +She put her arms round my neck, but she didn't kiss me; she only hid her face. + +`Kiss me, Mary!' I said. + +`I -- I don't like to,' she whispered. + +`Why not, Mary?' + +Then I felt her crying or laughing, or half crying and half laughing. +I'm not sure to this day which it was. + +`Why won't you kiss me, Mary? Don't you love me?' + +`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.' + +Then it dawned on me! I'd forgot all about proposing. + +`Mary,' I said, `would you marry a chap like me?' + +And that was all right. + + . . . . . + +Next morning Mary cleared out my room and sorted out my things, +and didn't take the slightest notice of the other girls' astonishment. + +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. + +`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. + +`No,' I said; `it's not that, Boss.' + +`Well, what is it, Joe?' + +`I -- well the fact is, I want little Mary.' + +He puffed at his pipe for a long time, then I thought he spoke. + +`What did you say, Boss?' I said. + +`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.' + +I waited a good while for him to speak. + +`Well, Boss,' I said, `what about Mary?' + +`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.' + + + + +Brighten's Sister-In-Law. + + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Jim got on all right for a while: we used to watch him well, +and have his teeth lanced in time. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!' + +I used to cut myself a good deal: I was always impatient over shaving. + +Then he went in to interview his mother about it. She understood his lingo +better than I did. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +For the first hour or so, along the road, he was telling me +all about his adventures at his auntie's. + +`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!' + +I was taking out a cattle-pup for a drover I knew, and the pup took up +a good deal of Jim's time. + +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 -- + +`What are you jerking your shoulders and coughing, and grunting, +and going on that way for, dad? Why don't you tell me something?' + +`Tell you what, Jim?' + +`Tell me some talk.' + +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 -- + +`I'm glad you took me home with you, dad. You'll get to know Jim.' + +`What!' I said. + +`You'll get to know Jim.' + +`But don't I know you already?' + +`No, you don't. You never has time to know Jim at home.' + +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.' + +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! + +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?' + +But I didn't think she'd understand. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`Dad!' he said presently -- `Dad! do you think I'll ever grow up to be a man?' + +`Wh--why, Jim?' I gasped. + +`Because I don't want to.' + +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. + +`Jim,' I said, to break the silence, `do you hear what the she-oaks say?' + +`No, I don't. Is they talking?' + +`Yes,' I said, without thinking. + +`What is they saying?' he asked. + +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 -- + +`Don't cook too much, dad -- I mightn't be hungry.' + +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 -- + +`I ain't hungry, dad! You'll have to eat it all.' + +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. + +`Sick, Jim?' I asked. + +`No, dad, I ain't sick; I don't know what's the matter with me.' + +`Have some tea, sonny?' + +`Yes, dad.' + +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. + +`Jim's tired, dad,' he said. + +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. + +`How do you feel now, sonny?' + +It seemed a minute before he heard me and turned from the stars. + +`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. + +`Kiss me 'night-night, daddy,' he said. + +I'd rather he hadn't asked me -- it was a bad sign. As I was going +to the fire he called me back. + +`What is it, Jim?' + +`Get me my things and the cattle-pup, please, daddy.' + +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. + +`Are you quite warm enough, Jim?' + +`Yes, dad.' + +I started to walk up and down -- I always did this when I was extra worried. + +I was frightened now about Jim, though I tried to hide the fact from myself. +Presently he called me again. + +`What is it, Jim?' + +`Take the blankets off me, fahver -- Jim's sick!' (They'd been teaching him +to say father.) + +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 -- + +`Take the blankets off me, muvver -- I'm dying.' + +And I couldn't get that out of my head. + +I threw back a fold of the 'possum rug, and felt Jim's head -- +he seemed cool enough. + +`Where do you feel bad, sonny?' + +No answer for a while; then he said suddenly, but in a voice +as if he were talking in his sleep -- + +`Put my boots on, please, daddy. I want to go home to muvver!' + +I held his hand, and comforted him for a while; then he slept -- +in a restless, feverish sort of way. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 ---- + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 -- + +`Who's there?' + +`It's me. Joe Wilson. I want your sister-in-law -- I've got the boy -- +he's sick and dying!' + +Brighten came out, pulling up his moleskins. `What boy?' he asked. + +`Here, take him,' I shouted, `and let me get down.' + +`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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`Here, that tin of mustard -- there on the shelf!' she shouted to me. + +She knocked the lid off the tin on the edge of the tub, +and went on splashing and spanking Jim. + +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. + +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. + +I dropped on the stool by the table. + +`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.' + +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 -- + +`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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Suddenly she glanced round and said -- in a tone as if I was her husband +and she didn't think much of me -- + +`Why don't you eat something?' + +`Beg pardon?' + +`Eat something!' + +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. + +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. + +I looked away quick, feeling full up myself. And presently +(I hadn't seen her look round) she said -- + +`Go to bed.' + +`Beg pardon?' (Her face was the same as before the tears.) + +`Go to bed. There's a bed made for you inside on the sofa.' + +`But -- the team -- I must ----' + +`What?' + +`The team. I left it at the camp. I must look to it.' + +`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.' + +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. + +-- +* Maize or Indian corn -- wheat is never called corn in Australia. +-- + +As I started to go in I heard Brighten's sister-in-law say, +suddenly and sharply -- + +`Take THAT away, Jessie.' + +And presently I saw Mrs Brighten go into the house with the black bottle. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`And now,' says Jim, `I want to go home to "muffer" in "The Same Ol' Fling".' + +`What?' + +Jim repeated. + +`Oh! "The Same Old Thing", -- the waggon.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`Here, take him,' she said. + +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. + +`You'd better make a start,' she said. `You want to get home early +with that boy.' + +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. + +`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.' + +`Will you come to see us?' + +`Some day,' she said. + +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. + + +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!' + +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. + + + + +`Water Them Geraniums'. + + + + I. A Lonely Track. + + +The time Mary and I shifted out into the Bush from Gulgong +to `settle on the land' at Lahey's Creek. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +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! ---- + +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.' + +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. + +The sun was going down when Mary called out -- + +`There's our place, Joe!' + +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. + +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. + + +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. + +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. + +Mary sat still by the fire, and presently I saw her chin tremble. + +`What is it, Mary?' + +She turned her face farther from me. I felt tired, disappointed, +and irritated -- suffering from a reaction. + +`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?' + +`You know very well, Joe.' + +`But I DON'T know,' I said. I knew too well. + +She said nothing. + +`Look here, Mary,' I said, putting my hand on her shoulder, +`don't go on like that; tell me what's the matter?' + +`It's only this,' she said suddenly, `I can't stand this life here; +it will kill me!' + +I had a pannikin of tea in my hand, and I banged it down on the table. + +`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?' + +`And what sort of a place was Gulgong, Joe?' asked Mary quietly. + +(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.) + +`Well, why didn't you come to Sydney, as I wanted you to?' I asked Mary. + +`You know very well, Joe,' said Mary quietly. + +(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.) + +`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.' + +`As long as you take a glass there is danger,' she said. + +`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. + +`Well,' she said, `why weren't you more decided?' + +I'd sat down, but I jumped to my feet then. + +`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.' + +`So am I, Joe,' said Mary wearily. + +We quarrelled badly then -- that first hour in our new home. +I know now whose fault it was. + +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. + +`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.' + +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. + +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 -- + +`Why did I bring her here?' + +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. + +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. + +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'. + +`You, An-nay!' (Annie.) + +`Ye-es' (from somewhere in the gloom). + +`Didn't I tell yer to water them geraniums!' + +`Well, didn't I?' + +`Don't tell lies or I'll break yer young back!' + +`I did, I tell yer -- the water won't soak inter the ashes.' + +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. + +Then the woman's voice again -- + +`You, Tom-may!' (Tommy.) + +Silence, save for an echo on the ridge. + +`Y-o-u, T-o-m-MAY!' + +`Ye-e-s!' shrill shriek from across the creek. + +`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. + +`Well -- I karnt find the horse.' + +`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.' + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`How does that look, Joe? We'll soon get things ship-shape.' + +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. + +Somehow I didn't feel satisfied with the way things had gone. + + + + II. `Past Carin''. + + +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. + +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. + +-- +* `Graft', work. The term is now applied, in Australia, to all sorts of work, + from bullock-driving to writing poetry. +-- + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +-- +* `Humpy', a rough hut. +-- + +`Are you Mrs Wilson?' asked the boy. + +`Yes,' said Mary. + +`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.' + +`Piece of WHAT?' asked Mary. + +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. + +`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?' + +The boy blinked at her, and scratched his head. + +`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 ----' + +`Yes, yes,' said Mary, getting confused. `But what I want to know is, +how do you manage when you sell it?' + +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 ----' + +`Yes, yes; but what I want to know is, how much am I to send your mother +for this?' + +`How much what?' + +`Money, of course, you stupid boy,' said Mary. `You seem a very stupid boy.' + +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. + +`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.) + +`Oh!' said Mary, `I'm SO sorry. Thank your mother for me. She IS kind.' + +`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.' + +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. + +`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.' + +`But wait a minute -- I've forgotten your mother's name,' said Mary. + +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. + +`Do you go to school?' asked Mary. There was a three-days-a-week school +over the ridges at Wall's station. + +`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.) + +`Finished you? How?' asked Mary. + +`Me edgercation, of course! How do yer expect me to start this horse +when yer keep talkin'?' + +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. + +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. + +And I'll bet he got there. But I'm doubtful if the old horse did. + +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. + +`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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 -- + +`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.' + +`I wouldn't 'a' told yer a lie; but I thought Jimmy would split on me, +Mrs Wilson,' said Annie. `Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson.' + +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. + +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'. + +`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. + +`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.' + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +Some one might ask her, `How's your son Jack, Mrs Spicer?' +or, `Heard of Jack lately? and where is he now?' + +`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.' + +And she'd turn her haggard eyes in a helpless, hopeless sort of way +towards the west -- towards `up-country' and `Out-Back'.* + +-- +* `Out-Back' is always west of the Bushman, no matter how far out he be. +-- + +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.' + +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 -- + +`Thenk yer, Mr Wilson. Do yer think we're ever goin' to have any rain?' + +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 -- + +`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.' + +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. + +`Jist tryin' ter keep the milkers alive till the rain comes.' + +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). + +`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?' + +They had a sense of the ridiculous, most of those poor sun-dried Bushwomen. +I fancy that that helped save them from madness. + +`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.' + +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. + +`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). + +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.' + + . . . . . + +After tea the first Sunday she came to see us, Mary asked -- + +`Don't you feel lonely, Mrs Spicer, when your husband goes away?' + +`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.' + +Mary sat silent for a minute thinking. Then Mrs Spicer roused herself -- + +`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.' + +But once or twice afterwards she referred to a time `when Spicer was +a different man to what he was now.' + +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 -- + +`What-did-you-bring-her-here-for? She's only a girl.' + +`I beg pardon, Mrs Spicer.' + +`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.' + +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. + +Her great trouble was that she `couldn't git no reg'lar schoolin' +for the children.' + +`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.' + +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 -- + +`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!' + +The poor little devil stammered something, and escaped. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Sometimes, after a long pause in the conversation, Mrs Spicer +would say suddenly -- + +`Oh, I don't think I'll come up next week, Mrs Wilson.' + +`Why, Mrs Spicer?' + +`Because the visits doesn't do me any good. I git the dismals afterwards.' + +`Why, Mrs Spicer? What on earth do you mean?' + +`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. + +Mary thought her a little mad at times. But I seemed to understand. + +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 -- + +`I wish you wouldn't come down any more till I'm on me feet, Mrs Wilson. +The children can do for me.' + +`Why, Mrs Spicer?' + +`Well, the place is in such a muck, and it hurts me.' + +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 -- + +`Oh, marther! Here comes Mr and Mrs Wilson in their spring-cart.' + +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. + +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. + +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.' + +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.' + +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. + +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.' + +`Why! what on earth did they let the man hang for?' asked Mary. + +`To give him a good bellyful of it: they thought it would cure him +of tryin' to hang himself again.' + +`Well, that's the coolest thing I ever heard of,' said Mary. + +`That's jist what the magistrate said, Mrs Wilson,' said Mrs Spicer. + +`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 -- + +`"For God's sake, woman, give me a drink!" + +`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." + +`I was so surprised that I didn't know what to say, so I jist said, +"Would you like some more coffee?" + +`"Yes, thenk yer," he said -- "about two quarts." + +`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.' + +`Why, what did he stand on his head for?' asked Mary. + +`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.' + +`O Lord!' cried Mary. + +`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.' + +Mary stared at her, speechless. + +`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. + +`"Yer'll go agen when I tell yer not to," I'd say. + +`"Oh no, mother," they'd howl. + +`"Yer wanted ter see a man hangin'," I said. + +`"Oh, don't, mother! Don't talk about it." + +`"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?" + +`"Oh, don't, mother!" + +`"Yer run all the way there, I s'pose?" + +`"Don't, mother!" + +`"But yer run faster back, didn't yer?" + +`"Oh, don't, mother." + +`But,' said Mrs Spicer, in conclusion, `I'd been down to see it myself +before they was up.' + +`And ain't you afraid to live alone here, after all these horrible things?' +asked Mary. + +`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.' + +`Haven't you got any friends in the district, Mrs Spicer?' + +`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.' + + . . . . . + +One day -- I was on my way home with the team that day -- +Annie Spicer came running up the creek in terrible trouble. + +`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. + +`What?' + +`It's true, Mrs Wilson.' + +`What for? What did the policeman say?' + +`He -- he -- he said, "I -- I'm very sorry, Mrs Spicer; +but -- I -- I want William."' + +It turned out that William was wanted on account of a horse +missed from Wall's station and sold down-country. + +`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.' + +James put the horse to the cart and drove Mary down. + +Mary told me all about it when I came home. + +`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.' + +Later on Mary said -- + +`How the oaks are sighing to-night, Joe!' + + . . . . . + +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. + +`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.' + +Billy Wall managed it. The charge was withdrawn, and we got +young Billy Spicer off up-country. + +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. + +`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.' + +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. + +`I expected Mrs Spicer up to-day,' said Mary. `She seems better lately.' + +`Why!' cried Maggie Charlsworth, `if that ain't Annie coming running up +along the creek. Something's the matter!' + +We all jumped up and ran out. + +`What is it, Annie?' cried Mary. + +`Oh, Mrs Wilson! Mother's asleep, and we can't wake her!' + +`What?' + +`It's -- it's the truth, Mrs Wilson.' + +`How long has she been asleep?' + +`Since lars' night.' + +`My God!' cried Mary, `SINCE LAST NIGHT?' + +`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'.' + +`Was that all she said?' + +`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.' + +Mary wanted to go, but I wouldn't let her. James and I saddled our horses +and rode down the creek. + + . . . . . + +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. + + + + +A Double Buggy at Lahey's Creek. + + + + I. Spuds, and a Woman's Obstinacy. + + +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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 -- + +`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.' + +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. + +`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.' + +`But I tell you the ground is not potato-ground,' I said. + +`How do you know? You haven't sown any there yet.' + +`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?' + +`But you haven't TRIED to grow potatoes there yet, Joe. +How do you know ----' + +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. + +I took my pipe and went out to smoke and cool down. + +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 -- + +`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.' + +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. + +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. + +`What is it, James?' I shouted, before he came up -- but I saw +he was grinning. + +`Mary says to tell you not to forget to bring a hoe out with you.' + +`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.' + +`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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`I thought I'd make the boots easy for you, Joe,' said Mary. + +`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. + +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. + +`I thought you wanted old Corny to plough the ground,' she said. + +`I never said so.' + +`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. + +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. + +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. + + + + II. Joe Wilson's Luck. + + +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. + +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.' + +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'. + +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. + +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. + +One evening -- I was going down next day for a load of fencing-wire +for myself -- Mary said, -- + +`Joe! do you know that the Matthews have got a new double buggy?' + +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. + +`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.' + +`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.' + +`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?' + +`Well,' said Mary, `it was James who got the steers and the sheep.' + +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. + +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. + +When I went in she'd cried herself to sleep. I bent over and, `Mary,' +I whispered. + +She seemed to wake up. + +`Joe -- Joe!' she said. + +`What is it Mary?' I said. + +`I'm pretty well sure that old Spot's calf isn't in the pen. +Make James go at once!' + +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. + +We both laughed when I told her about it afterwards; but I didn't feel +like laughing just then. + +Later on in the night she called out in her sleep, -- + +`Joe -- Joe! Put that buggy in the shed, or the sun will blister +the varnish!' + +I wish I could say that that was the last time I ever spoke unkindly to Mary. + +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. + +When I was ready to start Mary said, -- + +`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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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, -- + +`Now if Mary had a comfortable buggy, she could drive in +with the children oftener. Then she wouldn't feel the loneliness so much.' + +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. + + + + III. The Ghost of Mary's Sacrifice. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +While I was looking at it, Bill Galletly came in, and slapped me on the back. + +`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.' + +He called her `little Mary' because the Galletly family had known her +when she was a girl. + +I rubbed my head and looked at the buggy again. It was a great temptation. + +`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.' + +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. + +Just then Robert Galletly came into the shop. He was rather quieter +than his brother, but the two were very much alike. + +`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.' + +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.' + +I pushed my hat forward and rubbed the back of my head and stared +at the buggy. + +`Come across to the Royal, Joe,' said Bob. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +-- +* `Shout', to buy a round of drinks. -- A. L., 1997. +-- + + + + IV. The Buggy Comes Home. + + +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. + +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 -- + +`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.' + +`I want it to be a surprise,' I said. + +`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.' + +`Tell her you're going to get yours shod.' + +`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.' + +`Well, drive the other horse up the creek early, and pick him up as you go.' + +`Yes. And she'll want to know what I want with two bridles. +But I'll fix her -- YOU needn't worry.' + +`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.' + +`Oh! -- orlright.' + +`And if you can, time yourself to get here in the cool of the evening, +or just about sunset.' + +`What for?' + +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. + +`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?' + +`Oh well,' I said, `get here at midnight if you like.' + +We didn't say anything for a while -- just sat and puffed at our pipes. +Then I said, -- + +`Well, what are you thinking about?' + +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, -- + +`Well, what am I to get out of the job, Joe?' + +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, -- + +`How much does Franca want for that gun?' + +`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.) + +`All right,' I said. `Make the best bargain you can.' + +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. + +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. + +At tea-time I got Mary on to the buggy business. + +`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?' + +`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.' + +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. + +`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.' + +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. + +`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?' + +`Well, I've got nothing to say.' + +`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?' + +I said there was nothing the matter. + +`But there must be, to make you so unbearable. Have you been drinking, Joe -- +or gambling?' + +I asked her what she'd accuse me of next. + +`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 ----' + +`Well, what is it?' + +`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 ----' + +`Well, what did he say?' + +`He -- he' (she seemed a little hysterical, trying not to laugh) -- +`he said "damn it!"' + +I had to laugh. Mary tried to keep serious, but it was no use. + +`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.' + +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. + +`What is it, Harry?' said Mary. + +`Buggy comin', I bin thinkit.' + +`Where?' + +He pointed up the creek. + +`Sure it's a buggy?' + +`Yes, missus.' + +`How many horses?' + +`One -- two.' + +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. + +`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.' + +She stared at me, and I sat there, grinning like a fool. + +`Joe!' she said, `whose buggy is that?' + +`Well, I suppose it's yours,' I said. + +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. + +`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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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, -- + +`What about my tea? I ain't had anything to speak of since I left Cudgeegong. +I want some grub.' + +Then Mary pulled herself together. + +`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.' + +`All right,' said James -- `anything! Only get me some grub.' + +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. + +`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. + +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. + +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. + +And at last Mary said, `Do you know, Joe, why, I feel to-night just -- +just like I did the day we were married.' + +And somehow I had that strange, shy sort of feeling too. + + + + +The Writer Wants to Say a Word. + + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +In two or three short sketches in another book I hope to complete +the story of his life. + + + + + + Part II. + + + + + +The Golden Graveyard. + + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`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.) + +*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.' + +*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 ----?' + +This for the edification of the wife and of all within half a mile. + +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'. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +This was Dave's theory -- drawn from a little experience and many long yarns +with old diggers: -- + +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.) + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`We'll work this thing on the strict Q.T.,' said Dave. + +He and Jim had a consultation by the camp fire outside their tent. +Jim grumbled, in conclusion, -- + +`Well, then, best go under Jimmy Middleton. It's the shortest +and straightest, and Jimmy's the freshest, anyway.' + +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. + +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. + +`Old Pinter', Ballarat digger -- his theory on second and other bottoms +ran as follows: -- + +`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 ----' + +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. + +`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.' + +`And some one will come poking round, and look down the hole +and see the bottom,' said Jim Bently. + +`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.' + +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. + +`It would look better to have a whip-pole and a horse, +but we can't afford them just yet,' said Dave. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`'Ello, Dave!' said Pinter, after looking with mild surprise +at the size of Dave's waste-heap. `Tryin' for the second bottom?' + +`Yes,' said Dave, guttural. + +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. + +Pinter straightened himself, blinking like an owl, and looked carelessly +over the graveyard. + +`Tryin' for a secon' bottom,' he reflected absently. `Eh, Dave?' + +Dave only stood and looked black. + +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. + +`Kullers is safe,' reflected Pinter. + +`All right?' snapped Dave. `I suppose we must let him into it.' + +`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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 -- + +`'Ullo! you dar'?' + +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. + +`What's the matter?' asked Dave. `Have you seen a ghost?' + +`I've seen the -- the devil!' gasped Jim. `I'm -- I'm done with this here +ghoul business.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`What's up now?' demanded Dave apprehensively. + +`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.' + +`How the hell did she drop to it?' exclaimed Pinter. + +`Dunno,' said Jim. `Anyway she's coming for us. Listen to her!' + +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. + +`Why didn't you fools make off into the Bush and give us a chance, +instead of giving her a lead here?' asked Dave. + +Jim and Kullers began to wish they had done so. + +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. + +`I wonder which shaf' she'll come down,' asked Kullers +in a tone befitting the place and occasion. + +`You'd better go and watch your shaft, Pinter,' said Dave, +`and Jim and I'll watch mine.' + +`I -- I won't,' said Pinter hurriedly. `I'm -- I'm a modest man.' + +Then they heard a clang in the direction of Pinter's shaft. + +`She's thrown her bottle down,' said Dave. + +Jim crawled along the drive a piece, urged by curiosity, +and returned hurriedly. + +`She's broke the pitchfork off short, to use in the drive, +and I believe she's coming down.' + +`Her crinoline'll handicap her,' said Pinter vacantly, `that's a comfort.' + +`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. + +`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. + +`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.' + +`And she's enough, without the neighbourhood,' reflected Pinter. + +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. + + + + +The Chinaman's Ghost. + + + +`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.) + +`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.) + +`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. + +`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. + +`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. + +`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. + +`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. + +`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. + +`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. + +`"You seem to be a bit winded, Dave," said Jim Bently, "and mighty thirsty. +Did the Chinaman's ghost chase you?" + +`I told him not to talk rot, and went into the tent, and lay down on my bunk, +and had a good rest.' + + + + +The Loaded Dog. + + + +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. + +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. + +Dave got an idea. + +`Why not blow the fish up in the big water-hole with a cartridge?' he said. +`I'll try it.' + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`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. + +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. + +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. + +`Go away, Tommy,' said Jim feebly, `go away.' + +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. + +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 ----' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 ---- + +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. + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +Andy chained the dog up securely, and cooked some more chops, +while Dave went to help Jim out of the hole. + +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 -- + +`'El-lo, Da-a-ve! How's the fishin' getting on, Da-a-ve?' + + + + +Poisonous Jimmy Gets Left. + + + + I. Dave Regan's Yarn. + + +`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. + +`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. + +`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. + +`"And Poisonous Jimmy is waiting for us," said one of them. + +`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. + +`"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." + +`"You've always said that, Jack," said the first drover. + +`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. + +`Just before we reached the shanty I got an idea. + +`"We'll plant our swags in the scrub," I said to Jim. + +`"What for?" said Jim. + +`"Never mind -- you'll see," I said. + +`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. + +`"Poisonous" came out at once, with a smile on him that would have made +anybody home-sick. + +`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. + +`"Good day, mates," he said. + +`"Good day," we said. + +`"It's hot." + +`"It's hot." + +`We went into the bar, and Poisonous got behind the counter. + +`"What are you going to have?" he asked, rubbing up his glasses with a rag. + +`We had two long-beers. + +`"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." + +`"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." + +`"I suppose you're waiting for your cheques?" he said, turning to fix +some bottles on the shelf. + +`"Yes," I said, "we are;" and I winked at Jim, and Jim winked back +as solemn as an owl. + +`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. + +`"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. + +`"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. + +`Poisonous filled our pewters again in an offhand way. + +`"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." + +`There was a general store back on the creek, near the drovers' camp. + +`"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." + +`"Thank you," said Jim, taking up the sovereign carelessly and dropping it +into his pocket. + +`"Well, Jim," I said, "suppose we get back to camp and see how the chaps +are getting on?" + +`"All right," said Jim. + +`"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. + +`We got on our horses, I holding the billy very carefully, and rode back +to where our swags were. + +`"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." + +`"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." + +`"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." + +`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. + +`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.' + + + + II. Told by One of the Other Drovers. + + +`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. + +`"Good day, boys!" he says. + +`"Good day, Poisonous," we says. + +`"It's hot," he says. + +`"It's blanky hot," I says. + +`He seemed to expect us to get down. "Where are you off to?" he says. + +`"Mulgatown," I says. "It will be cooler there," and we sung out, +"So-long, Poisonous!" and rode on. + +`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. + +`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. + +`He was too mad and too winded to speak at first, so he rode +along with us a bit gasping: then he burst out. + +`"Where's them other two carnal blanks?" he shouted. + +`"What other two?" I asked. "We're all here. What's the matter +with you anyway?" + +`"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' ----!" + +`Oh, but Poisonous Jimmy was wild. + +`"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." + +`"Pay for it!" yelled Jimmy. "I'll ---- well take it +out of one of yer bleedin' hides!" + +`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. + +`"Now, look here, Myles," said the boss (Jimmy's name was Myles) -- +"Now, look here, Myles," sez the boss, "what's all this about?" + +`"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!" + +`"What was they like?" asks the boss. + +`"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." + +`"Now, what's this all about, you chaps?" sez the boss to us. + +`So we told him as much as we knowed about them two fellers. + +`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. + +`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. + +`They fined him ten bob.' + + + + +The Ghostly Door. + + Told by one of Dave's mates. + + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`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?' + +-- +* `Whare', `whorrie', Maori name for house. +-- + +I shifted my feet and presently moved the stool farther away from the fire -- +it was too hot. + +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. + +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. + +Dave scratched his ear. `That's rum,' he said. `I could have sworn +I fastened that door. They must have left the cat behind.' + +`It looks like it,' I said. `Neither of us has been on the boose lately.' + +He got out of bed and up on his long hairy spindle-shanks. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`You shot the bolt OUTSIDE the catch,' I said, as he caught hold of the door +-- like one grabs a craw-fish. + +`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. + +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. + +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. + +`What are you doing that for?' I asked. + +`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. + +`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. + +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. + +`What are you going to do, Dave?' I asked. + +`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.' + +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. + +`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. + +It was blowing hard, but not raining so much. + +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.' + +`What for?' I said. + +`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.' + +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. + +Dave scratched his head a good bit. + +`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.' + + + + +A Wild Irishman. + + + +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. + +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. + +I make no attempt to give any one shade of the Irish brogue -- +it can't be done in writing. + + +`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. + +`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 -- + +`"Oi must be walkin' or foightin'! -- Oi must be walkin' or foightin'! -- +Oi must be walkin' or foightin'!" + +`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. + +`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. + +`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. + +`"B' God, there's the Flour o' Wheat comin' this minute," +says Dinny Murphy to Tom, "an' no one else." + +`"B' God, ye're right!" says Tom. + +`There were a lot of new chums in the big room at the back, +drinking and dancing and singing, and Tom says to Dinny -- + +`"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." + +`But Dinny wouldn't take him up. He knew the Flour. + +`"Good day, Tom! Good day, Dinny!" + +`"Good day to you, Flour!" + +`I was introduced. + +`"Well, boys, come along," says the Flour. + +`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. + +`"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?" + +`He shouted, and drank, and gambled, and danced, and sang, +and fought the new chums all night, and in the morning he said -- + +`"Well, boys, we had a grand time last night. Come and have a drink with me." + +`And of course they went in and had a drink with him. + + . . . . . + +`Next morning the Flour was walking along the street, when he met a drunken, +disreputable old hag, known among the boys as the "Nipper". + +`"Good MORNING, me lovely Flour o' Wheat!" says she. + +`"Good MORNING, me lovely Nipper!" says the Flour. + +`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! + +`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. + +`"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." + +`But they didn't let it pass, -- they fined her a quid. + +`And the Flour paid the fine. + +`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. + + . . . . . + +`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. + +`"What d'ye think of that?" he says, handing the summons across the bar. +"What d'ye think of me lovely Dinny Murphy now?" + +`"Why, what's this all about?" + +`"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." + +`"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?" + +`"That's what I want to know." + +`"What have you been doing to the man?" + +`"Divil a thing that I'm aware of." + +`The cousin rubbed his chin-tuft between his forefinger and thumb. + +`"Well, what am I to do about it?" asked the Flour impatiently. + +`"Do? Pay the man, of course?" + +`"How can I pay the lovely man when I haven't got the price of a drink +about me?" + +`The cousin scratched his chin. + +`"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." + +`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. + + . . . . . + +`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 -- + +`"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?" + +`Or he'd pass a raffle, lottery, lucky-bag, or golden-barrel business +of some sort, -- + +`"No gamblin' for the Flour. I don't believe in their little shwindles. +It ought to be shtopped. Leadin' young people ashtray." + +`Or he'd pass an Englishman he didn't like, -- + +`"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!" + + . . . . . + +`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". + +`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. + +`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. + +`"There's something happened to the lovely man," said the Flour of Wheat +at last. "Some of us had better see about it." + +`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. + + +`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. + +`"Take your hats off and come in quietly, lads," said the Flour. +"Here's the lovely man lying dead in his bunk." + +`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. + +`One or two did object, but the Flour reasoned with them +and there were no sports. + +`And the Flour used to say, afterwards, "Ah, but it was a grand time +we had at the funeral when Duncan died at Duffers." + + . . . . . + +`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. + +`"Inside there -- come out!" + +`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. + +`"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." + +`Then he shook his fist in the doctor's face and said -- + +`"If you let that lovely man die -- look out!" + +`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 -- + +`"If you let that lovely man die -- mind!" + +`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. + +`"There," he said, "pour that into the lovely man." + +`Then he shook his fist at such members of the staff as were visible, +and said -- + +`"If you let that lovely man die -- look out!" + +`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." + +`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. + +`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. + +`"Stay there, ye little whipper-snapper," said the Flour of Wheat; +"you let that lovely man die!" + +`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. + +`"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." + +`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. + +`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 -- + +`"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!" + +`Then he went out -- taking the coffin with him. + +`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 -- + +`"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!" + +`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. + +`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. + +`"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." + +`Then he left for Th' Canary.' + + + + +The Babies in the Bush. + + `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.' + + + +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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 -- + + `"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. + + . . . . . + + 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?" + +They don't matter much, do they, Jack?' + +`Damned if I think they do, Boss!' I'd say. + + `"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."' + +Once he repeated the poem containing the lines -- + + `"Love, when we wandered here together, + Hand in hand through the sparkling weather -- + God surely loved us a little then." + +Beautiful lines those, Jack. + + "Then skies were fairer and shores were firmer, + And the blue sea over the white sand rolled -- + Babble and prattle, and prattle and murmur' -- + +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. + +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 -- + + `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!' + +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 -- + +`Do you know Fisher, Jack -- the man that owns these bullocks?' + +`I've heard of him,' I said. Fisher was a big squatter, +with stations both in New South Wales and in Queensland. + +`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.' + +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. + +`The Boss seems to have taken to you, Jack, all right.' + +`Think so?' I said. I thought I smelt jealousy and detected a sneer. + +`I'm sure of it. It's very seldom HE takes to any one.' + +I said nothing. + +Then after a while Andy said suddenly -- + +`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. + +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. + +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 -- + +`Look here, Jack, you're going on to Sydney, aren't you?' + +`Yes; I'm going down to have a fly round.' + +`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?' + +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. + +`Come and have a drink, Boss,' I said. The agent had paid us off +during the day. + +He turned into a hotel with me. + +`I don't drink, Jack,' he said; `but I'll take a glass with you.' + +`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. + +`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. + +`Well,' I said, `I wish I could take a glass or leave it.' And I meant it. + +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.' + +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 -- + +`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.' + +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. + +`I want you to come along home with me, Jack,' he said; +`we'll fix you a shake-down.' + +I forgot to tell you that he was married and lived in Bathurst. + +`But won't it put Mrs Head about?' + +`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.' + +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. + +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. + +`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.' + +`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. + +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. + +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. + +She seemed extra glad to see me. I thought at first +that she was a bit of a gusher. + +`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. + +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. + +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. + +`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. + +`Yes, Mrs Head. I've knocked round all about out there.' + +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. + +She smoothed her forehead, and clasped her hands in her lap. + +`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.' + +`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. + +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. + +`You know we had a station out on the Lachlan, Mr Ellis. +Did Walter ever tell you about the time we lived there?' + +`No,' I said, glancing at the Boss. `I know you had a station there; +but, you know, the Boss doesn't talk much.' + +`Tell Jack, Maggie,' said the Boss; `I don't mind.' + +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?' + +This was a facer. `I -- I beg pardon,' I commenced, when Andy gave me +a dig in the back. Then I saw it all. + +`No, Mrs Head. The Boss didn't tell me about that.' + +`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. + +`Of course I've heard of them, Mrs Head,' I said; `but I can't swear +that I've seen one.' + +`Andy has. Haven't you, Andy?' + +`Of course I have, Mrs Head. Didn't I tell you all about it +the last time we were home?' + +`And didn't you ever tell Mr Ellis, Andy?' + +`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.' + +`Of course!' said Andy. + +`Did he tell you about finding a lost child and the fairy with it?' + +`Yes,' said Andy; `I told him all about that.' + +`And the fairy was just going to take the child away when Andy found it, +and when the fairy saw Andy she flew away.' + +`Yes,' I said; `that's what Andy told me.' + +`And what did you say the fairy was like, Andy?' asked Mrs Head, +fixing her eyes on his face. + +`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.' + +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. + +`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.' + +She pressed the tips of the fingers of both hands to her forehead, +and sat so for a while; then she roused herself again -- + +`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.' + +The old woman seemed to hesitate. + +`Go on, Auntie, and do what I ask you,' said Mrs Head. `Don't be foolish. +You know I'm all right now.' + +`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?' + +`You were, Maggie,' said the Boss. `But that's all past. +You mustn't think of that time any more.' + +`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.' + +`You were very foolish, Maggie,' said the Boss; `but don't think about that.' + +The old woman brought the portraits, a little boy and a little girl: +they must have been very pretty children. + +`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.' + +She put the portraits up on the mantel-shelf. + +`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?' + +`Yes, Maggie,' said the Boss. + +`You were away, Walter, when it happened.' + +`Yes, Maggie,' said the Boss -- cheerfully, it seemed to me -- `I was away.' + +`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?' + +`Yes, Maggie.' + +`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?' + +`Yes, Mrs Head.' + +`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?' + +`I remember, Maggie.' + +`"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?' + +`Of course I do, Maggie.' + +`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.' + +She was leaning forward with her hands clasping her knee, +and telling me all this with a strange sort of eagerness. + +`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.' + +`Except the fairies, Maggie,' said the Boss quickly. + +`Of course, Walter, except the fairies.' + +She pressed her fingers to her temples again for a minute. + +`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?' + +The Boss caught my eye, and frowned and shook his head slightly. + +`No. I'm sure they wouldn't, Mrs Head,' I said -- `at least +not from what I know of them.' + +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 -- + +`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. + +`Don't mind about that, Maggie,' said the Boss, hurriedly, stroking her head. +`Tell Jack about the fairies.' + +`You were away at the time, Walter?' + +`Yes, Maggie.' + +`And we couldn't find you, Walter?' + +`No, Maggie,' very gently. He rested his elbow on his knee and his chin +on his hand, and looked into the fire. + +`It wasn't your fault, Walter; but if you had been at home +do you think the fairies would have taken the children?' + +`Of course they would, Maggie. They had to: the children were lost.' + +`And they're bringing the children home next year?' + +`Yes, Maggie -- next year.' + +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. + +`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.' + +`No wonder you were, Mrs Head,' I said. `It was terrible trouble.' + +`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.' + +`Of course you won't, Maggie.' + +`We're very happy now, aren't we, Walter?' + +`Of course we are, Maggie.' + +`And the children are coming back next year.' + +`Next year, Maggie.' + +He leaned over the fire and stirred it up. + +`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.' + +She paused and pressed her fingers to her temples again. +Then she said quickly -- + +`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.' + +`Who used to tell you that, Mrs Head?' I asked. + +`The Voices,' she said; `you know about the Voices, Walter?' + +`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?' + +`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.' + +`Of course they could, Mrs Head,' I said. + +`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.' + +`Why!' I said, `I've known the blacks to track a man +after a week's heavy rain.' + +She had her head between her fingers again, and when she looked up +it was in a scared way. + +`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?' + +He put his arm round her. Andy nudged me and got up. + +`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.' + +`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.' + +`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.' + +`Oh, I've enjoyed myself, Mrs Head,' I said; and Andy hooked me out. + +`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.' + +`It's all true about the children, then?' I asked. + +`It's cruel true,' said Andy. + +`And were the bodies never found?' + +`Yes;' then, after a long pause, `I found them.' + +`You did!' + +`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.' + +`And you never told Mrs Head about the children being found?' + +`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.' + +`To England?' + +`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.' + +`And you never tried telling her that the children were found?' + +`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.' + +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. + +`The Boss was away when the children were lost?' + +`Yes,' said Andy. + +`Strange you couldn't find him.' + +`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.' + +`I feel damned sorry for the Boss,' I said. + +`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.' + +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. + +`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.' + +`She seems all right,' I said to Andy when we were in our room. + +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. + +`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.' + +Andy closed the door. His face was very miserable. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`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.' + +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. + +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 -- + +`Look here, Boss, old chap! I'm damned sorry!' + +Our hands came together and gripped. The ghostly Australian daybreak +was over the Bathurst plains. + +We went on another hundred yards or so, and then the Boss said quietly -- + +`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.' + +I reached for his hand again, and gave it a grip. That was all I could do +for him. + +`Good-bye, Jack!' he said at the door of the brake-van. `Good-bye, Andy! -- +keep those bullocks on their feet.' + +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. + +`Does the boss never go to Sydney?' I asked. + +`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.' + +After a while I said, `He told me about the drink, Andy -- +about his being on the spree when the children were lost.' + +`Well, Jack,' said Andy, `that's the thing that's been killing him ever since, +and it happened over ten years ago.' + + + + +A Bush Dance. + + + +`Tap, tap, tap, tap.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +On the rest of the stools, running end to end along the other wall, +sat about twenty more or less blooming chaps. + +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. + +`Tap, tap, tap.' + +The rows moved uneasily, and some of the girls turned pale faces nervously +towards the side-door, in the direction of the sound. + +`Tap -- tap.' + +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. + +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.' + +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 -- + +`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!' + +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 -- + +`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!' + +The two girl friends came back. `He sez to leave her to him,' they whispered, +in reply to an interrogatory glance from the schoolmistress. + +`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.' + +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. + +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. + +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 -- + +`It's two horses, I tell you!' + +`It's three, you ----!' + +`Lay you ----!' + +`Put the stuff up!' + +A clack of gate thrown open. + +`Who is it, Tom?' + +Voices from gatewards, yelling, `Johnny Mears! They've got Johnny Mears!' + +Then rose yells, and a cheer such as is seldom heard in scrub-lands. + +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?' + +But from the schoolroom was heard the loud, free voice +of Joe Matthews, M.C., -- + +`Take yer partners! Hurry up! Take yer partners! They've got Johnny Mears +with his fiddle!' + + + + +The Buck-Jumper. + + + +Saturday afternoon. + +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. + +`Do it for a quid, Jack?' asked one. + +`Damned if I will, Jim!' said the young man at the post. +`I'll do it for a fiver -- not a blanky sprat less.' + +Jim took off his hat and `shoved' it round, and `bobs' were `chucked' into it. +The result was about thirty shillings. + +Jack glanced contemptuously into the crown of the hat. + +`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.' + +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. + +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. + +`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.' + +The sporting man was interested at once, and went out and joined the Bushmen. + +`Well, chaps! what have you got on here?' he asked cheerily. + +`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.' + +`What's up with the horse?' inquired the big, red-faced man. +`It looks quiet enough. Why, I'd ride it myself.' + +`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.' + +`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.' + +`He said he'd ride the horse inside the yard for a quid,' said Jim. + +`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.' + +`Well, how much do you want?' asked the man in the mushroom hat. + +`A fiver, I said,' replied Jack indifferently. `And the blanky stuff +in my pocket before I get on the blanky horse.' + +`Are you frightened of us running away without paying you?' +inquired one of the passengers who had gathered round. + +`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?' + +`You wouldn't want 'em then,' suggested a passenger. `Or, say! -- +we'd leave the fiver with the publican to bury you.' + +Flash Jack ignored that passenger. He eyed his boots and softly whistled +a tune. + +`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.' + +The five pounds were got together. + +`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. + +`Quiet as an old cow!' snorted a passenger in disgust. +`I believe it's a sell!' + +`Wait a bit,' said Jim to the passenger, `wait a bit and you'll see.' + +They waited and saw. + +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. + +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. + +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 -- + +`Those blanky Bushmen have got too much time to think.' + + . . . . . + +The Bushmen returned to the shanty as soon as the coach was out of sight, +and proceeded to `knock down' the fiver. + + + + +Jimmy Grimshaw's Wooing. + + + +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. + +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. + +Mrs Myers was reckoned a good catch in the district, but it soon seemed +that she was not to be caught. + +`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.' + +`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.' + +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. + +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. + +About the end of each shearing the sign was touched up, with an extra +coat of paint on the `Margaret', whereat suitors looked hopeless. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.' + +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 -- + +`By God! Jimmy'll do it.' (Applause.) + + . . . . . + +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. + +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?' + +`Yes, missus. Clean pfellar that.' + +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. + +`Good-day, mister,' she said, seeming to become aware of him +for the first time. + +`Good-day, missus!' + +`Hot!' + +`Hot!' + +Pause. + +`Trav'lin'?' + +`No, not particular!' + +She waited for him to explain. Myers was always explaining +when he wasn't raving. But the swagman smoked on. + +`Have a drink?' she suggested, to keep her end up. + +`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.' + +What a contrast to Myers! she thought. + +`Come and have some tea; it's ready.' + +`Thank you. I don't mind if I do.' + +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. + +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. + +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 -- + + HALF-WAY HOUSE HOTEL, + BY + JAMES GRIMSHAW. + Good Stabling. + +The last time I saw Mrs Grimshaw she looked about thirty-five. + + + + +At Dead Dingo. + + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`Stumped?' inquired Jim. + +`Not a blanky, lurid deener!' drawled Bill. + +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. + +`Got anything?' asked Jim, fingering the cards again. + +Bill sucked in his cheeks, collecting the saliva with difficulty, +and spat out on to the verandah floor. + +`That's all I got,' he drawled. `It's gone now.' + +Jim leaned back in his chair, twisted, yawned, and caught sight of the dog. + +`That there dog yours?' he asked, brightening. + +They had evidently been strangers the day before, or as strange to each other +as Bushmen can be. + +Bill scratched behind his ear, and blinked at the dog. +The dog woke suddenly to a flea fact. + +`Yes,' drawled Bill, `he's mine.' + +`Well, I'm going Out-Back, and I want a dog,' said Jim, +gathering the cards briskly. `Half a quid agin the dog?' + +`Half a quid be ----!' drawled Bill. `Call it a quid?' + +`Half a blanky quid!' + +`A gory, lurid quid!' drawled Bill desperately, and he stooped over his swag. + +But Jim's hands were itching in a ghastly way over the cards. + +`Alright. Call it a ---- quid.' + +The drunkard on the sofa stirred, showed signs of waking, but died again. +Remember this, it might come in useful. + +Bill sat down to the table once more. + +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. + +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. + + . . . . . + +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. + +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. + +He lifted his head, looked at the girl across the top of the bar, +and formed with his lips, rather than spoke, the words -- + +`Put up a drink?'* + +-- +* `Put up a drink' -- i.e., `Give me a drink on credit', or `Chalk it up'. +-- + +She shook her head tightly and went on reading. + +He staggered up, and, leaning on the bar, made desperate distress signals +with hand, eyes, and mouth. + +`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.' + +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. + +`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!' + +`Where the blazes is that there dog o' mine got to?' he muttered. +`Did you see a dog?' + +`No! What do I want with your dog?' + +He whistled out in front again, and round each corner. Then he came back +with a decided step and tone. + +`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?' + +`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.' + +He stared at her blankly, with thunder gathering in the blankness. + +`What sort of a dog was it?' + +Dog described; the chain round the neck settled it. + +He scowled at her darkly. + +`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 ----' + +She was filling a pewter hastily. + +`Here! for God's sake have a drink an' stop yer row.' + +He drank with satisfaction. Then he hung on the bar with one elbow +and scowled out the door. + +`Which blanky way did them chaps go?' he growled. + +`The one that took the dog went towards Tinned Dog.' + +`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.' + +He drank again with deeper satisfaction, then he shuffled out, +muttering, swearing, and threatening louder every step, and took the track +to Tinned Dog. + + -------------------- + +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. + + + + +Telling Mrs Baker. + + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +`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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`How could I face his wife if I went home without him?' asked Andy, +`or any of his old mates?' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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.' + +`Damned if I will!' I said. + +`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.' + +I'd never seen Andy show so much emotion. + +`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. + +`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?' + +I'd been thinking while I listened, and an idea struck me. + +`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.' + +`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.' + +`But she's sure to hear the truth sooner or later,' I said, +`the Boss was so well known.' + +`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.' + +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. + +`What are you doing, Andy?' I asked. + +`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.' + +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. + +`And one of those men, at least, was an old mate of his!' said Andy, +in a tone of disgust. + +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. + +`Such is life!' said Andy, with a yawn that might have been half a sigh. + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +`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 -- + +`Suppose we go and have another drink first, Andy? We might be kept in there +an hour or two.' + +`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.' + +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 -- + +`How do you feel now, Jack?' + +`Oh, I'M all right,' I said. + +`For God's sake!' said Andy, `don't put your foot in it +and make a mess of it.' + +`I won't, if you don't.' + +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 -- + +`For God's sake stick to me now, Jack!' + +`I'll stick all right,' I said -- `you've been having too much beer, Andy.' + +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. + +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. + +`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.' + +`We were just coming when we got your message,' said Andy. +`We'd have come before, only we had to see to the horses.' + +`It's very kind of you, I'm sure,' said Mrs Baker. + +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. + +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. + +`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.' + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +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. + +`I'm so glad you've come, Andy!' said Bobby. + +`Are you, Bobby?' + +`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. + +`Yes,' said Andy. + +`He went up among the stars, didn't he?' + +`Yes,' said Andy. + +`And he isn't coming back to Bobby any more?' + +`No,' said Andy. `But Bobby's going to him by-and-by.' + +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. + +Andy looked miserable. `I wish to God I was off this job!' +he whispered to me. + +`Is that the girl that writes the stories?' I asked. + +`Yes,' he said, staring at me in a hopeless sort of way, `and poems too.' + +`Is Bobby going up among the stars?' asked Bobby. + +`Yes,' said Andy -- `if Bobby's good.' + +`And auntie?' + +`Yes.' + +`And mumma?' + +`Yes.' + +`Are you going, Andy?' + +`Yes,' said Andy hopelessly. + +`Did you see daddy go up amongst the stars, Andy?' + +`Yes,' said Andy, `I saw him go up.' + +`And he isn't coming down again any more?' + +`No,' said Andy. + +`Why isn't he?' + +`Because he's going to wait up there for you and mumma, Bobby.' + +There was a long pause, and then Bobby asked -- + +`Are you going to give me a shilling, Andy?' with the same expression +of innocent wonder in his eyes. + +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. + +`Brace up now, Jack, and keep your wits about you,' whispered Andy to me +just before they came in. + +`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.' + +Andy told her about the Boss not being well after he crossed the border. + +`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. + +`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. + +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. + +`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. + +`More like thirty-five,' I said, waking up. + +Miss Standish fixed her eyes on me, and I had another look +at Wellington and Blucher. + +`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.' + +`I know it,' said Mrs Baker. `Nobody could help liking him. +He was one of the kindest men that ever lived.' + +`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.' + +`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?' + +`He wouldn't take a penny, Mrs Baker.' + +`He must have been a good true man. I wish I could thank him.' + +`Oh, Ned thanked him for you,' said Andy, though without meaning +more than he said. + +`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.' + +`He never touched a drop after he left Solong, I can assure you, Mrs Baker,' +said Andy quickly. + +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. + +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. + +`Brace up now, Jack,' whispered Andy to me, `the worst is coming.' + +When they came in again Mrs Baker made Andy go on with his story. + +`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.' + +Mrs Baker was crying softly. Andy got the packet half out of his pocket, +but shoved it back again. + +`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. + +`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. + +`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?' + +`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.' + +`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.' + +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. + +`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.' + +Andy caught her sister's eye and jerked his head towards the door +to let her know he wanted to speak to her outside. + +`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. + +She came out to the gate with us, and Andy gave her the packet. + +`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.' + +`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?' + +`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.' + +`Tell me all,' she said. `It would be better for me to know.' + +`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. + +`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. + +`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. + +I don't think it did either of us any harm. + + + + +A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs. + + + +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. + +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. + +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'. + +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. + +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. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`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.' + +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. + +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.' + +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.' + +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.' + +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. + +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. + + +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. + +On the morning of Job's accident, and after a long brooding silence, +Doc. Wild suddenly said to Mac. Falconer -- + +`Git the hosses, Mac. We'll go to the station.' + +Mac., used to the doctor's eccentricities, went to see about the horses. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +`Dead beast there!' said Mac. out of his Bushcraft. + +`No -- dying,' said Doc. Wild, with less Bush experience but more intellect. + +`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!' + +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. + +`We'll go and see, if you like,' suggested Doc. Wild. + +They turned out across the flat, the horses picking their way +amongst the dried tufts and fallen branches. + +`Theer ain't no sign o' cattle theer,' said the doctor; +`more likely a ewe in trouble about her lamb.' + +`Oh, the blanky dingoes at the sheep,' said Mac. `I wish we had a gun -- +might get a shot at them.' + +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. + +`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, -- + + `"The crows kept flyin' up, boys! + The crows kept flyin' up! + The dog, he seen and whimpered, boys, + Though he was but a pup."' + +`It must be something or other,' muttered Mac. `Look at them blanky crows!' + + `"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!"' + +`My God! what's that?' cried Mac., who was a little in advance +and rode a tall horse. + +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. + +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. + +`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!' + +`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.' + +Mac. mounted and rode off at a break-neck pace. + +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.' + +But as Job came round a little Doc. Wild was enlightened. + +`Where's the filly?' cried Job suddenly between groans. + +`She's all right,' said the doctor. + +`Stop her!' cried Job, struggling to rise -- `stop her! -- oh God! my leg.' + +`Keep quiet, you fool!' + +`Stop her!' yelled Job. + +`Why stop her?' asked the doctor. `She won't go fur,' he added. + +`She'll go home to Gerty,' shouted Job. `For God's sake stop her!' + +`O--h!' drawled the doctor to himself. `I might have guessed that. +And I ought to know men.' + +`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.' + +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. + +`That's all I kin do for him for the present.' + +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 -- + +`What's Job been doing now?' (Job, by the way, had never been remarkable +for doing anything.) + +`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.' + +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. + +`Lucky we got him before the ants did,' muttered the doctor. +Then he had an inspiration -- + +`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.' + +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. + +He rode off at a gallop. The burden of Job's raving, all the way, +rested on the dead filly -- + +`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. + +`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.' + +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. + +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. + +Doc. Wild stayed round until he saw Job comfortably moved to the homestead, +then he prepared to depart. + +`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.' + +`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.' + +And he left for Poisonous Jimmy's. + + + + +The Little World Left Behind. + + + +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. + +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. + +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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + The Never-Never Country. + + + + 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. + + + + + +[End of original text.] + + + + +============================================================================== +A Note on the Author and the Text: + + +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. + + + 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) + + +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. . . ." + + + Alan Light, Monroe, North Carolina, June 1997. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Etext of Joe Wilson and His Mates, by Lawson + diff --git a/old/old/jwahm11.zip b/old/old/jwahm11.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..55dbb60 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/jwahm11.zip |