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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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