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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:43 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:43 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1231-0.txt b/1231-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5a64233 --- /dev/null +++ b/1231-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4725 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1231 *** + +ON THE TRACK + +by Henry Lawson + + +Author of “While the Billy Boils”, and “When the World was Wide” + + +[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are CAPITALISED. Some obvious +errors have been corrected after being confirmed.] + + + + +Preface + + Of the stories in this volume many have already appeared + in (various periodicals), while several now appear in print + for the first time. + + H. L. + Sydney, March 17th, 1900. + + + + + +Contents + + The Songs They used to Sing + A Vision of Sandy Blight + Andy Page's Rival + The Iron-Bark Chip + “Middleton's Peter” + The Mystery of Dave Regan + Mitchell on Matrimony + Mitchell on Women + No Place for a Woman + Mitchell's Jobs + Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster + Bush Cats + Meeting Old Mates + Two Larrikins + Mr. Smellingscheck + “A Rough Shed” + Payable Gold + An Oversight of Steelman's + How Steelman told his Story + + + + + +ON THE TRACK + + + + +The Songs They used to Sing + + + +On the diggings up to twenty odd years ago--and as far back as I can +remember--on Lambing Flat, the Pipe Clays, Gulgong, Home Rule, and so +through the roaring list; in bark huts, tents, public-houses, sly grog +shanties, and--well, the most glorious voice of all belonged to a bad +girl. We were only children and didn't know why she was bad, but we +weren't allowed to play near or go near the hut she lived in, and we +were trained to believe firmly that something awful would happen to us +if we stayed to answer a word, and didn't run away as fast as our legs +could carry us, if she attempted to speak to us. We had before us the +dread example of one urchin, who got an awful hiding and went on bread +and water for twenty-four hours for allowing her to kiss him and give +him lollies. She didn't look bad--she looked to us like a grand and +beautiful lady-girl--but we got instilled into us the idea that she was +an awful bad woman, something more terrible even than a drunken man, and +one whose presence was to be feared and fled from. There were two other +girls in the hut with her, also a pretty little girl, who called her +“Auntie”, and with whom we were not allowed to play--for they were all +bad; which puzzled us as much as child-minds can be puzzled. We couldn't +make out how everybody in one house could be bad. We used to wonder why +these bad people weren't hunted away or put in gaol if they were so +bad. And another thing puzzled us. Slipping out after dark, when the bad +girls happened to be singing in their house, we'd sometimes run against +men hanging round the hut by ones and twos and threes, listening. They +seemed mysterious. They were mostly good men, and we concluded they were +listening and watching the bad women's house to see that they didn't +kill anyone, or steal and run away with any bad little boys--ourselves, +for instance--who ran out after dark; which, as we were informed, those +bad people were always on the lookout for a chance to do. + +We were told in after years that old Peter McKenzie (a respectable, +married, hard-working digger) would sometimes steal up opposite the bad +door in the dark, and throw in money done up in a piece of paper, and +listen round until the bad girl had sung the “Bonnie Hills of Scotland” + two or three times. Then he'd go and get drunk, and stay drunk two or +three days at a time. And his wife caught him throwing the money in one +night, and there was a terrible row, and she left him; and people always +said it was all a mistake. But we couldn't see the mistake then. + +But I can hear that girl's voice through the night, twenty years ago: + + Oh! the bloomin' heath, and the pale blue bell, + In my bonnet then I wore; + And memory knows no brighter theme + Than those happy days of yore. + Scotland! Land of chief and song! + Oh, what charms to thee belong! + +And I am old enough to understand why poor Peter McKenzie--who was +married to a Saxon, and a Tartar--went and got drunk when the bad girl +sang “The Bonnie Hills of Scotland.” + + His anxious eye might look in vain + For some loved form it knew! + + . . . . . + +And yet another thing puzzled us greatly at the time. Next door to the +bad girl's house there lived a very respectable family--a family of good +girls with whom we were allowed to play, and from whom we got lollies +(those hard old red-and-white “fish lollies” that grocers sent home with +parcels of groceries and receipted bills). Now one washing day, they +being as glad to get rid of us at home as we were to get out, we went +over to the good house and found no one at home except the grown-up +daughter, who used to sing for us, and read “Robinson Crusoe” of nights, +“out loud”, and give us more lollies than any of the rest--and with +whom we were passionately in love, notwithstanding the fact that she was +engaged to a “grown-up man”--(we reckoned he'd be dead and out of the +way by the time we were old enough to marry her). She was washing. +She had carried the stool and tub over against the stick fence which +separated her house from the bad house; and, to our astonishment and +dismay, the bad girl had brought HER tub over against her side of the +fence. They stood and worked with their shoulders to the fence between +them, and heads bent down close to it. The bad girl would sing a few +words, and the good girl after her, over and over again. They sang very +low, we thought. Presently the good grown-up girl turned her head and +caught sight of us. She jumped, and her face went flaming red; she laid +hold of the stool and carried it, tub and all, away from that fence in +a hurry. And the bad grown-up girl took her tub back to her house. The +good grown-up girl made us promise never to tell what we saw--that she'd +been talking to a bad girl--else she would never, never marry us. + +She told me, in after years, when she'd grown up to be a grandmother, +that the bad girl was surreptitiously teaching her to sing “Madeline” + that day. + +I remember a dreadful story of a digger who went and shot himself +one night after hearing that bad girl sing. We thought then what a +frightfully bad woman she must be. The incident terrified us; and +thereafter we kept carefully and fearfully out of reach of her voice, +lest we should go and do what the digger did. + + . . . . . + +I have a dreamy recollection of a circus on Gulgong in the roaring days, +more than twenty years ago, and a woman (to my child-fancy a being from +another world) standing in the middle of the ring, singing: + + Out in the cold world--out in the street-- + Asking a penny from each one I meet; + Cheerless I wander about all the day, + Wearing my young life in sorrow away! + +That last line haunted me for many years. I remember being frightened by +women sobbing (and one or two great grown-up diggers also) that night in +that circus. + +“Father, Dear Father, Come Home with Me Now”, was a sacred song then, +not a peg for vulgar parodies and more vulgar “business” for fourth-rate +clowns and corner-men. Then there was “The Prairie Flower”. “Out on the +Prairie, in an Early Day”--I can hear the digger's wife yet: she was the +prettiest girl on the field. They married on the sly and crept into +camp after dark; but the diggers got wind of it and rolled up with +gold-dishes, shovels, &c., &c., and gave them a real good tinkettling in +the old-fashioned style, and a nugget or two to start housekeeping on. +She had a very sweet voice. + + Fair as a lily, joyous and free, + Light of the prairie home was she. + +She's a “granny” now, no doubt--or dead. + +And I remember a poor, brutally ill-used little wife, wearing a black +eye mostly, and singing “Love Amongst the Roses” at her work. And they +sang the “Blue Tail Fly”, and all the first and best coon songs--in the +days when old John Brown sank a duffer on the hill. + + . . . . . + +The great bark kitchen of Granny Mathews' “Redclay Inn”. A fresh +back-log thrown behind the fire, which lights the room fitfully. Company +settled down to pipes, subdued yarning, and reverie. + +Flash Jack--red sash, cabbage-tree hat on back of head with nothing +in it, glossy black curls bunched up in front of brim. Flash Jack +volunteers, without invitation, preparation, or warning, and through his +nose: + + Hoh!-- + There was a wild kerlonial youth, + John Dowlin was his name! + He bountied on his parients, + Who lived in Castlemaine! + +and so on to-- + + He took a pistol from his breast + And waved that lit--tle toy-- + +“Little toy” with an enthusiastic flourish and great unction on Flash +Jack's part-- + + “I'll fight, but I won't surrender!” said + The wild Kerlonial Boy. + +Even this fails to rouse the company's enthusiasm. “Give us a song, Abe! +Give us the 'Lowlands'!” Abe Mathews, bearded and grizzled, is lying +on the broad of his back on a bench, with his hands clasped under his +head--his favourite position for smoking, reverie, yarning, or singing. +He had a strong, deep voice, which used to thrill me through and +through, from hair to toenails, as a child. + +They bother Abe till he takes his pipe out of his mouth and puts it +behind his head on the end of the stool: + + The ship was built in Glasgow; + 'Twas the “Golden Vanitee”-- +Lines have dropped out of my memory during the thirty years gone +between-- + + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low! + +The public-house people and more diggers drop into the kitchen, as all +do within hearing, when Abe sings. + +“Now then, boys: + + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low! + +“Now, all together! + + The Low Lands! The Low Lands! + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!” + +Toe and heel and flat of foot begin to stamp the clay floor, and horny +hands to slap patched knees in accompaniment. + + “Oh! save me, lads!” he cried, + “I'm drifting with the current, + And I'm drifting with the tide! + And I'm sinking in the Low Lands, Low! + + The Low Lands! The Low Lands!”-- + +The old bark kitchen is a-going now. Heels drumming on gin-cases under +stools; hands, knuckles, pipe-bowls, and pannikins keeping time on the +table. + + And we sewed him in his hammock, + And we slipped him o'er the side, + And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low! + The Low Lands! The Low Lands! + And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low! + +Old Boozer Smith--a dirty gin-sodden bundle of rags on the floor in the +corner with its head on a candle box, and covered by a horse rug--old +Boozer Smith is supposed to have been dead to the universe for hours +past, but the chorus must have disturbed his torpor; for, with a +suddenness and unexpectedness that makes the next man jump, there comes +a bellow from under the horse rug: + + Wot though!--I wear!--a rag!--ged coat! + I'll wear it like a man! + +and ceases as suddenly as it commenced. He struggles to bring his ruined +head and bloated face above the surface, glares round; then, no one +questioning his manhood, he sinks back and dies to creation; and +subsequent proceedings are only interrupted by a snore, as far as he is +concerned. + +Little Jimmy Nowlett, the bullock-driver, is inspired. “Go on, Jimmy! +Give us a song!” + + In the days when we were hard up + For want of wood and wire-- +Jimmy always blunders; it should have been “food and fire”-- + + We used to tie our boots up + With lit--tle bits--er wire; + +and-- + + I'm sitting in my lit--tle room, + It measures six by six; + The work-house wall is opposite, + I've counted all the bricks! + +“Give us a chorus, Jimmy!” + +Jimmy does, giving his head a short, jerky nod for nearly every word, +and describing a circle round his crown--as if he were stirring a pint +of hot tea--with his forefinger, at the end of every line: + + Hall!--Round!--Me--Hat! + I wore a weepin' willer! + +Jimmy is a Cockney. + +“Now then, boys!” + + Hall--round--me hat! + +How many old diggers remember it? + +And: + + A butcher, and a baker, and a quiet-looking quaker, + All a-courting pretty Jessie at the Railway Bar. + +I used to wonder as a child what the “railway bar” meant. + +And: + + I would, I would, I would in vain + That I were single once again! + But ah, alas, that will not be + Till apples grow on the willow tree. + +A drunken gambler's young wife used to sing that song--to herself. + +A stir at the kitchen door, and a cry of “Pinter,” and old Poynton, +Ballarat digger, appears and is shoved in; he has several drinks aboard, +and they proceed to “git Pinter on the singin' lay,” and at last talk +him round. He has a good voice, but no “theory”, and blunders worse than +Jimmy Nowlett with the words. He starts with a howl-- + + Hoh! + Way down in Covent Gar-ar-r-dings + A-strolling I did go, + To see the sweetest flow-ow-wers + That e'er in gardings grow. + +He saw the rose and lily--the red and white and blue--and he saw the +sweetest flow-ow-ers that e'er in gardings grew; for he saw two lovely +maidens (Pinter calls 'em “virgings”) underneath (he must have meant on +top of) “a garding chair”, sings Pinter. + + And one was lovely Jessie, + With the jet black eyes and hair, + +roars Pinter, + + And the other was a vir-ir-ging, + I solemn-lye declare! + +“Maiden, Pinter!” interjects Mr. Nowlett. + +“Well, it's all the same,” retorts Pinter. “A maiden IS a virging, +Jimmy. If you're singing, Jimmy, and not me, I'll leave off!” Chorus of +“Order! Shut up, Jimmy!” + + I quicklye step-ped up to her, + And unto her did sa-a-y: + Do you belong to any young man, + Hoh, tell me that, I pra-a-y? + +Her answer, according to Pinter, was surprisingly prompt and +unconventional; also full and concise: + + No; I belong to no young man-- + I solemnlye declare! + I mean to live a virging + And still my laurels wear! + +Jimmy Nowlett attempts to move an amendment in favour of “maiden”, +but is promptly suppressed. It seems that Pinter's suit has a happy +termination, for he is supposed to sing in the character of a “Sailor +Bold”, and as he turns to pursue his stroll in “Covent Gar-ar-dings”: + + “Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!” she cried, + “I love a Sailor Bold!” + +“Hong-kore, Pinter! Give us the 'Golden Glove', Pinter!” + +Thus warmed up, Pinter starts with an explanatory “spoken” to the effect +that the song he is about to sing illustrates some of the little ways of +woman, and how, no matter what you say or do, she is bound to have her +own way in the end; also how, in one instance, she set about getting it. + +Hoh! + + Now, it's of a young squoire near Timworth did dwell, + Who courted a nobleman's daughter so well-- + +The song has little or nothing to do with the “squire”, except so far as +“all friends and relations had given consent,” and-- + + The troo-soo was ordered--appointed the day, + And a farmer were appointed for to give her away-- + +which last seemed a most unusual proceeding, considering the wedding was +a toney affair; but perhaps there were personal interests--the nobleman +might have been hard up, and the farmer backing him. But there was an +extraordinary scene in the church, and things got mixed. + + For as soon as this maiding this farmer espied: + “Hoh, my heart! Hoh, my heart! + Hoh, my heart!” then she cried. + +Hysterics? Anyway, instead of being wed-- + + This maiden took sick and she went to her bed. + +(N.B.--Pinter sticks to 'virging'.) + +Whereupon friends and relations and guests left the house in a body (a +strange but perhaps a wise proceeding, after all--maybe they smelt a +rat) and left her to recover alone, which she did promptly. And then: + + Shirt, breeches, and waistcoat this maiding put on, + And a-hunting she went with her dog and her gun; + She hunted all round where this farmier did dwell, + Because in her own heart she love-ed him well. + +The cat's out of the bag now: + + And often she fired, but no game she killed-- + +which was not surprising-- + + Till at last the young farmier came into the field-- + +No wonder. She put it to him straight: + + “Oh, why are you not at the wedding?” she cried, + “For to wait on the squoire, and to give him his bride.” + +He was as prompt and as delightfully unconventional in his reply as the +young lady in Covent Gardings: + + “Oh, no! and oh, no! For the truth I must sa-a-y, + I love her too well for to give her a-w-a-a-y!” + +which was satisfactory to the disguised “virging”. + + “.... and I'd take sword in hand, + And by honour I'd win her if she would command.” + +Which was still more satisfactory. + + Now this virging, being-- +(Jimmy Nowlett: “Maiden, Pinter--” Jim is thrown on a stool and sat on +by several diggers.) + + Now this maiding, being please-ed to see him so bold, + She gave him her glove that was flowered with gold, + +and explained that she found it in his field while hunting around with +her dog and her gun. It is understood that he promised to look up +the owner. Then she went home and put an advertisement in the local +'Herald'; and that ad. must have caused considerable sensation. She +stated that she had lost her golden glove, and + + The young man that finds it and brings it to me, + Hoh! that very young man my husband shall be! + +She had a saving clause in case the young farmer mislaid the glove +before he saw the ad., and an OLD bloke got holt of it and fetched it +along. But everything went all right. The young farmer turned up with +the glove. He was a very respectable young farmer, and expressed his +gratitude to her for having “honour-ed him with her love.” They were +married, and the song ends with a picture of the young farmeress milking +the cow, and the young farmer going whistling to plough. The fact that +they lived and grafted on the selection proves that I hit the right nail +on the head when I guessed, in the first place, that the old nobleman +was “stony”. + +In after years, + + ... she told him of the fun, + How she hunted him up with her dog and her gun. + +But whether he was pleased or otherwise to hear it, after years of +matrimonial experiences, the old song doesn't say, for it ends there. + +Flash Jack is more successful with “Saint Patrick's Day”. + + I come to the river, I jumped it quite clever! + Me wife tumbled in, and I lost her for ever, + St. Patrick's own day in the mornin'! + +This is greatly appreciated by Jimmy Nowlett, who is suspected, +especially by his wife, of being more cheerful when on the roads than +when at home. + + . . . . . + +“Sam Holt” was a great favourite with Jimmy Nowlett in after years. + + Oh, do you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt? + Black Alice so dirty and dark-- + Who'd a nose on her face--I forget how it goes-- + And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark. + +Sam Holt must have been very hard up for tucker as well as beauty then, +for + + Do you remember the 'possums and grubs + She baked for you down by the creek? + +Sam Holt was, apparently, a hardened flash Jack. + + You were not quite the cleanly potato, Sam Holt. + +Reference is made to his “manner of holding a flush”, and he is asked +to remember several things which he, no doubt, would rather forget, +including + + ... the hiding you got from the boys. + +The song is decidedly personal. + +But Sam Holt makes a pile and goes home, leaving many a better and worse +man to pad the hoof Out Back. And--Jim Nowlett sang this with so much +feeling as to make it appear a personal affair between him and the +absent Holt-- + + And, don't you remember the fiver, Sam Holt, + You borrowed so careless and free? + I reckon I'll whistle a good many tunes + +(with increasing feeling) + + Ere you think of that fiver and me. + +For the chances will be that Sam Holt's old mate + + Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden Road + To the end of the chapter of fate. + + . . . . . + +An echo from “The Old Bark Hut”, sung in the opposition camp across the +gully: + + You may leave the door ajar, but if you keep it shut, + There's no need of suffocation in the Ould Barrk Hut. + + . . . . . + + The tucker's in the gin-case, but you'd better keep it shut-- + For the flies will canther round it in the Ould Bark Hut. + +However: + + What's out of sight is out of mind, in the Ould Bark Hut. + + . . . . . + + We washed our greasy moleskins + On the banks of the Condamine.-- + +Somebody tackling the “Old Bullock Dray”; it must be over fifty verses +now. I saw a bushman at a country dance start to sing that song; he'd +get up to ten or fifteen verses, break down, and start afresh. At last +he sat down on his heel to it, in the centre of the clear floor, resting +his wrist on his knee, and keeping time with an index finger. It was +very funny, but the thing was taken seriously all through. + +Irreverent echo from the old Lambing Flat trouble, from camp across the +gully: + + Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! + No more Chinamen will enter Noo South Wales! + +and + + Yankee Doodle came to town + On a little pony-- + Stick a feather in his cap, + And call him Maccaroni! + +All the camps seem to be singing to-night: + + Ring the bell, watchman! + Ring! Ring! Ring! + Ring, for the good news + Is now on the wing! + +Good lines, the introduction: + + High on the belfry the old sexton stands, + Grasping the rope with his thin bony hands!... + Bon-fires are blazing throughout the land... + Glorious and blessed tidings! Ring! Ring the bell! + + . . . . . + +Granny Mathews fails to coax her niece into the kitchen, but persuades +her to sing inside. She is the girl who learnt 'sub rosa' from the bad +girl who sang “Madeline”. Such as have them on instinctively take their +hats off. Diggers, &c., strolling past, halt at the first notes of the +girl's voice, and stand like statues in the moonlight: + + Shall we gather at the river, + Where bright angel feet have trod? + The beautiful--the beautiful river + That flows by the throne of God!-- + +Diggers wanted to send that girl “Home”, but Granny Mathews had the +old-fashioned horror of any of her children becoming “public”-- + + Gather with the saints at the river, + That flows by the throne of God! + + . . . . . + +But it grows late, or rather, early. The “Eyetalians” go by in the +frosty moonlight, from their last shift in the claim (for it is Saturday +night), singing a litany. + +“Get up on one end, Abe!--stand up all!” Hands are clasped across the +kitchen table. Redclay, one of the last of the alluvial fields, has +petered out, and the Roaring Days are dying.... The grand old song that +is known all over the world; yet how many in ten thousand know more than +one verse and the chorus? Let Peter McKenzie lead: + + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And never brought to min'? + +And hearts echo from far back in the past and across wide, wide seas: + + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And days o' lang syne? + +Now boys! all together! + + For auld lang syne, my dear, + For auld lang syne, + We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + + We twa hae run about the braes, + And pu'd the gowans fine; + But we've wandered mony a weary foot, + Sin' auld lang syne. + +The world was wide then. + + We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, + Frae mornin' sun till dine: + +the log fire seems to grow watery, for in wide, lonely Australia-- + But seas between us braid hae roar'd, + Sin' auld lang syne. + +The kitchen grows dimmer, and the forms of the digger-singers seemed +suddenly vague and unsubstantial, fading back rapidly through a misty +veil. But the words ring strong and defiant through hard years: + + And here's a hand, my trusty frien', + And gie's a grup o' thine; + And we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + + . . . . . + +And the nettles have been growing for over twenty years on the spot +where Granny Mathews' big bark kitchen stood. + + + + +A Vision of Sandy Blight + + +I'd been humping my back, and crouching and groaning for an hour or so +in the darkest corner of the travellers' hut, tortured by the demon +of sandy blight. It was too hot to travel, and there was no one there +except ourselves and Mitchell's cattle pup. We were waiting till after +sundown, for I couldn't have travelled in the daylight, anyway. Mitchell +had tied a wet towel round my eyes, and led me for the last mile or two +by another towel--one end fastened to his belt behind, and the other in +my hand as I walked in his tracks. And oh! but this was a relief! It was +out of the dust and glare, and the flies didn't come into the dark hut, +and I could hump and stick my knees in my eyes and groan in comfort. I +didn't want a thousand a year, or anything; I only wanted relief for my +eyes--that was all I prayed for in this world. When the sun got down a +bit, Mitchell started poking round, and presently he found amongst the +rubbish a dirty-looking medicine bottle, corked tight; when he rubbed +the dirt off a piece of notepaper that was pasted on, he saw “eye-water” + written on it. He drew the cork with his teeth, smelt the water, stuck +his little finger in, turned the bottle upside down, tasted the top of +his finger, and reckoned the stuff was all right. + +“Here! Wake up, Joe!” he shouted. “Here's a bottle of tears.” + +“A bottler wot?” I groaned. + +“Eye-water,” said Mitchell. + +“Are you sure it's all right?” I didn't want to be poisoned or have my +eyes burnt out by mistake; perhaps some burning acid had got into +that bottle, or the label had been put on, or left on, in mistake or +carelessness. + +“I dunno,” said Mitchell, “but there's no harm in tryin'.” + +I chanced it. I lay down on my back in a bunk, and Mitchell dragged my +lids up and spilt half a bottle of eye-water over my eye-balls. + +The relief was almost instantaneous. I never experienced such a quick +cure in my life. I carried the bottle in my swag for a long time +afterwards, with an idea of getting it analysed, but left it behind at +last in a camp. + +Mitchell scratched his head thoughtfully, and watched me for a while. + +“I think I'll wait a bit longer,” he said at last, “and if it doesn't +blind you I'll put some in my eyes. I'm getting a touch of blight myself +now. That's the fault of travelling with a mate who's always catching +something that's no good to him.” + +As it grew dark outside we talked of sandy-blight and fly-bite, and +sand-flies up north, and ordinary flies, and branched off to Barcoo rot, +and struck the track again at bees and bee stings. When we got to bees, +Mitchell sat smoking for a while and looking dreamily backwards +along tracks and branch tracks, and round corners and circles he had +travelled, right back to the short, narrow, innocent bit of track that +ends in a vague, misty point--like the end of a long, straight, cleared +road in the moonlight--as far back as we can remember. + + . . . . . + +“I had about fourteen hives,” said Mitchell--“we used to call them +'swarms', no matter whether they were flying or in the box--when I left +home first time. I kept them behind the shed, in the shade, on tables +of galvanised iron cases turned down on stakes; but I had to make legs +later on, and stand them in pans of water, on account of the ants. When +the bees swarmed--and some hives sent out the Lord knows how many swarms +in a year, it seemed to me--we'd tin-kettle 'em, and throw water on 'em, +to make 'em believe the biggest thunderstorm was coming to drown the +oldest inhabitant; and, if they didn't get the start of us and rise, +they'd settle on a branch--generally on one of the scraggy fruit trees. +It was rough on the bees--come to think of it; their instinct told +them it was going to be fine, and the noise and water told them it was +raining. They must have thought that nature was mad, drunk, or gone +ratty, or the end of the world had come. We'd rig up a table, with a box +upside down, under the branch, cover our face with a piece of mosquito +net, have rags burning round, and then give the branch a sudden jerk, +turn the box down, and run. If we got most of the bees in, the rest +that were hanging to the bough or flying round would follow, and then +we reckoned we'd shook the queen in. If the bees in the box came out and +joined the others, we'd reckon we hadn't shook the queen in, and go for +them again. When a hive was full of honey we'd turn the box upside down, +turn the empty box mouth down on top of it, and drum and hammer on the +lower box with a stick till all the bees went up into the top box. I +suppose it made their heads ache, and they went up on that account. + +“I suppose things are done differently on proper bee-farms. I've heard +that a bee-farmer will part a hanging swarm with his fingers, take out +the queen bee and arrange matters with her; but our ways suited us, +and there was a lot of expectation and running and excitement in +it, especially when a swarm took us by surprise. The yell of 'Bees +swarmin'!' was as good to us as the yell of 'Fight!' is now, or 'Bolt!' +in town, or 'Fire' or 'Man overboard!' at sea. + +“There was tons of honey. The bees used to go to the vineyards at +wine-making and get honey from the heaps of crushed grape-skins thrown +out in the sun, and get so drunk sometimes that they wobbled in their +bee-lines home. They'd fill all the boxes, and then build in between and +under the bark, and board, and tin covers. They never seemed to get the +idea out of their heads that this wasn't an evergreen country, and it +wasn't going to snow all winter. My younger brother Joe used to put +pieces of meat on the tables near the boxes, and in front of the holes +where the bees went in and out, for the dogs to grab at. But one old +dog, 'Black Bill', was a match for him; if it was worth Bill's while, +he'd camp there, and keep Joe and the other dogs from touching the +meat--once it was put down--till the bees turned in for the night. And +Joe would get the other kids round there, and when they weren't looking +or thinking, he'd brush the bees with a stick and run. I'd lam him when +I caught him at it. He was an awful young devil, was Joe, and he grew up +steady, and respectable, and respected--and I went to the bad. I never +trust a good boy now.... Ah, well! + +“I remember the first swarm we got. We'd been talking of getting a few +swarms for a long time. That was what was the matter with us English +and Irish and English-Irish Australian farmers: we used to talk so much +about doing things while the Germans and Scotch did them. And we even +talked in a lazy, easy-going sort of way. + +“Well, one blazing hot day I saw father coming along the road, home +to dinner (we had it in the middle of the day), with his axe over his +shoulder. I noticed the axe particularly because father was bringing it +home to grind, and Joe and I had to turn the stone; but, when I noticed +Joe dragging along home in the dust about fifty yards behind father, I +felt easier in my mind. Suddenly father dropped the axe and started +to run back along the road towards Joe, who, as soon as he saw father +coming, shied for the fence and got through. He thought he was going to +catch it for something he'd done--or hadn't done. Joe used to do so many +things and leave so many things not done that he could never be sure +of father. Besides, father had a way of starting to hammer us +unexpectedly--when the idea struck him. But father pulled himself up in +about thirty yards and started to grab up handfuls of dust and sand and +throw them into the air. My idea, in the first flash, was to get hold of +the axe, for I thought it was sun-stroke, and father might take it into +his head to start chopping up the family before I could persuade him +to put it (his head, I mean) in a bucket of water. But Joe came running +like mad, yelling: + +“'Swarmer--bees! Swawmmer--bee--ee--es! +Bring--a--tin--dish--and--a--dippera--wa-a-ter!' + +“I ran with a bucket of water and an old frying-pan, and pretty soon +the rest of the family were on the spot, throwing dust and water, +and banging everything, tin or iron, they could get hold of. The only +bullock bell in the district (if it was in the district) was on the old +poley cow, and she'd been lost for a fortnight. Mother brought up the +rear--but soon worked to the front--with a baking-dish and a big spoon. +The old lady--she wasn't old then--had a deep-rooted prejudice that she +could do everything better than anybody else, and that the selection +and all on it would go to the dogs if she wasn't there to look after it. +There was no jolting that idea out of her. She not only believed that +she could do anything better than anybody, and hers was the only right +or possible way, and that we'd do everything upside down if she wasn't +there to do it or show us how--but she'd try to do things herself or +insist on making us do them her way, and that led to messes and rows. +She was excited now, and took command at once. She wasn't tongue-tied, +and had no impediment in her speech. + +“'Don't throw up dust!--Stop throwing up dust!--Do you want to smother +'em?--Don't throw up so much water!--Only throw up a pannikin at a +time!--D'yer want to drown 'em? Bang! Keep on banging, Joe!--Look at +that child! Run, someone!--run! you, Jack!--D'yer want the child to be +stung to death?--Take her inside!... Dy' hear me?... Stop throwing up +dust, Tom! (To father.) You're scaring 'em away! Can't you see they want +to settle?' [Father was getting mad and yelping: 'For Godsake shettup +and go inside.'] 'Throw up water, Jack! Throw up--Tom! Take that bucket +from him and don't make such a fool of yourself before the children! +Throw up water! Throw--keep on banging, children! Keep on banging!' +[Mother put her faith in banging.] 'There!--they're off! You've lost +'em! I knew you would! I told yer--keep on bang--!' + +“A bee struck her in the eye, and she grabbed at it! + +“Mother went home--and inside. + +“Father was good at bees--could manage them like sheep when he got to +know their ideas. When the swarm settled, he sent us for the old washing +stool, boxes, bags, and so on; and the whole time he was fixing the bees +I noticed that whenever his back was turned to us his shoulders would +jerk up as if he was cold, and he seemed to shudder from inside, and now +and then I'd hear a grunting sort of whimper like a boy that was +just starting to blubber. But father wasn't weeping, and bees weren't +stinging him; it was the bee that stung mother that was tickling father. +When he went into the house, mother's other eye had bunged for sympathy. +Father was always gentle and kind in sickness, and he bathed mother's +eyes and rubbed mud on, but every now and then he'd catch inside, and +jerk and shudder, and grunt and cough. Mother got wild, but presently +the humour of it struck her, and she had to laugh, and a rum laugh it +was, with both eyes bunged up. Then she got hysterical, and started to +cry, and father put his arm round her shoulder and ordered us out of the +house. + +“They were very fond of each other, the old people were, under it +all--right up to the end.... Ah, well!” + +Mitchell pulled the swags out of a bunk, and started to fasten the +nose-bags on. + + + + +Andy Page's Rival + + + + Tall and freckled and sandy, + Face of a country lout; + That was the picture of Andy-- + Middleton's rouseabout. + On Middleton's wide dominions + Plied the stock-whip and shears; + Hadn't any opinions------ + +And he hadn't any “ideers”--at least, he said so himself--except +as regarded anything that looked to him like what he called “funny +business”, under which heading he catalogued tyranny, treachery, +interference with the liberty of the subject by the subject, “blanky” + lies, or swindles--all things, in short, that seemed to his slow +understanding dishonest, mean or paltry; most especially, and above all, +treachery to a mate. THAT he could never forget. Andy was uncomfortably +“straight”. His mind worked slowly and his decisions were, as a rule, +right and just; and when he once came to a conclusion concerning any +man or matter, or decided upon a course of action, nothing short of an +earthquake or a Nevertire cyclone could move him back an inch--unless a +conviction were severely shaken, and then he would require as much time +to “back” to his starting point as he did to come to the decision. + +Andy had come to a conclusion with regard to a selector's +daughter--name, Lizzie Porter--who lived (and slaved) on her father's +selection, near the township corner of the run on which Andy was a +general “hand”. He had been in the habit for several years of calling +casually at the selector's house, as he rode to and fro between the +station and the town, to get a drink of water and exchange the time of +day with old Porter and his “missus”. The conversation concerned the +drought, and the likelihood or otherwise of their ever going to get +a little rain; or about Porter's cattle, with an occasional enquiry +concerning, or reference to, a stray cow belonging to the selection, +but preferring the run; a little, plump, saucy, white cow, by-the-way, +practically pure white, but referred to by Andy--who had eyes like a +blackfellow--as “old Speckledy”. No one else could detect a spot or +speckle on her at a casual glance. Then after a long bovine silence, +which would have been painfully embarrassing in any other society, and +a tilting of his cabbage-tree hat forward, which came of tickling and +scratching the sun-blotched nape of his neck with his little finger, +Andy would slowly say: “Ah, well. I must be gettin'. So-long, Mr. +Porter. So-long, Mrs. Porter.” And, if SHE were in evidence--as she +generally was on such occasions--“So-long, Lizzie.” And they'd shout: +“So-long, Andy,” as he galloped off from the jump. Strange that those +shy, quiet, gentle-voiced bushmen seem the hardest and most reckless +riders. + +But of late his horse had been seen hanging up outside Porter's for an +hour or so after sunset. He smoked, talked over the results of the last +drought (if it happened to rain), and the possibilities of the next one, +and played cards with old Porter; who took to winking, automatically, at +his “old woman”, and nudging, and jerking his thumb in the direction of +Lizzie when her back was turned, and Andy was scratching the nape of his +neck and staring at the cards. + +Lizzie told a lady friend of mine, years afterwards, how Andy popped +the question; told it in her quiet way--you know Lizzie's quiet way +(something of the old, privileged house-cat about her); never a sign in +expression or tone to show whether she herself saw or appreciated the +humour of anything she was telling, no matter how comical it might be. +She had witnessed two tragedies, and had found a dead man in the bush, +and related the incidents as though they were common-place. + +It happened one day--after Andy had been coming two or three times a +week for about a year--that she found herself sitting with him on a log +of the woodheap, in the cool of the evening, enjoying the sunset breeze. +Andy's arm had got round her--just as it might have gone round a post he +happened to be leaning against. They hadn't been talking about anything +in particular. Andy said he wouldn't be surprised if they had a +thunderstorm before mornin'--it had been so smotherin' hot all day. + +Lizzie said, “Very likely.” + +Andy smoked a good while, then he said: “Ah, well! It's a weary world.” + +Lizzie didn't say anything. + +By-and-bye Andy said: “Ah, well; it's a lonely world, Lizzie.” + +“Do you feel lonely, Andy?” asked Lizzie, after a while. + +“Yes, Lizzie; I do.” + +Lizzie let herself settle, a little, against him, without either seeming +to notice it, and after another while she said, softly: “So do I, Andy.” + +Andy knocked the ashes from his pipe very slowly and deliberately, and +put it away; then he seemed to brighten suddenly, and said briskly: +“Well, Lizzie! Are you satisfied!” + +“Yes, Andy; I'm satisfied.” + +“Quite sure, now?” + +“Yes; I'm quite sure, Andy. I'm perfectly satisfied.” + +“Well, then, Lizzie--it's settled!” + + . . . . . + +But to-day--a couple of months after the proposal described above--Andy +had trouble on his mind, and the trouble was connected with Lizzie +Porter. He was putting up a two-rail fence along the old log-paddock on +the frontage, and working like a man in trouble, trying to work it off +his mind; and evidently not succeeding--for the last two panels were out +of line. He was ramming a post--Andy rammed honestly, from the bottom of +the hole, not the last few shovelfuls below the surface, as some do. He +was ramming the last layer of clay when a cloud of white dust came along +the road, paused, and drifted or poured off into the scrub, leaving long +Dave Bentley, the horse-breaker, on his last victim. + +“'Ello, Andy! Graftin'?” + +“I want to speak to you, Dave,” said Andy, in a strange voice. + +“All--all right!” said Dave, rather puzzled. He got down, wondering what +was up, and hung his horse to the last post but one. + +Dave was Andy's opposite in one respect: he jumped to conclusions, as +women do; but, unlike women, he was mostly wrong. He was an old chum and +mate of Andy's who had always liked, admired, and trusted him. But +now, to his helpless surprise, Andy went on scraping the earth from the +surface with his long-handled shovel, and heaping it conscientiously +round the butt of the post, his face like a block of wood, and his lips +set grimly. Dave broke out first (with bush oaths): + +“What's the matter with you? Spit it out! What have I been doin' to you? +What's yer got yer rag out about, anyway?” + +Andy faced him suddenly, with hatred for “funny business” flashing in +his eyes. + +“What did you say to my sister Mary about Lizzie Porter?” + +Dave started; then he whistled long and low. “Spit it all out, Andy!” he +advised. + +“You said she was travellin' with a feller!” + +“Well, what's the harm in that? Everybody knows that--” + +“If any crawler says a word about Lizzie Porter--look here, me and you's +got to fight, Dave Bentley!” Then, with still greater vehemence, as +though he had a share in the garment: “Take off that coat!” + +“Not if I know it!” said Dave, with the sudden quietness that comes to +brave but headstrong and impulsive men at a critical moment: “Me and you +ain't goin' to fight, Andy; and” (with sudden energy) “if you try it on +I'll knock you into jim-rags!” + +Then, stepping close to Andy and taking him by the arm: “Andy, this +thing will have to be fixed up. Come here; I want to talk to you.” And +he led him some paces aside, inside the boundary line, which seemed a +ludicrously unnecessary precaution, seeing that there was no one within +sight or hearing save Dave's horse. + +“Now, look here, Andy; let's have it over. What's the matter with you +and Lizzie Porter?” + +“I'M travellin' with her, that's all; and we're going to get married in +two years!” + +Dave gave vent to another long, low whistle. He seemed to think and make +up his mind. + +“Now, look here, Andy: we're old mates, ain't we?” + +“Yes; I know that.” + +“And do you think I'd tell you a blanky lie, or crawl behind your back? +Do you? Spit it out!” + +“N--no, I don't!” + +“I've always stuck up for you, Andy, and--why, I've fought for you +behind your back!” + +“I know that, Dave.” + +“There's my hand on it!” + +Andy took his friend's hand mechanically, but gripped it hard. + +“Now, Andy, I'll tell you straight: It's Gorstruth about Lizzie Porter!” + +They stood as they were for a full minute, hands clasped; Andy with his +jaw dropped and staring in a dazed sort of way at Dave. He raised his +disengaged hand helplessly to his thatch, gulped suspiciously, and asked +in a broken voice: + +“How--how do you know it, Dave?” + +“Know it? Andy, I SEEN 'EM MESELF!” + +“You did, Dave?” in a tone that suggested sorrow more than anger at +Dave's part in the seeing of them. + +“Gorstruth, Andy!” + + . . . . . + +“Tell me, Dave, who was the feller? That's all I want to know.” + +“I can't tell you that. I only seen them when I was canterin' past in +the dusk.” + +“Then how'd you know it was a man at all?” + +“It wore trousers, anyway, and was as big as you; so it couldn't have +been a girl. I'm pretty safe to swear it was Mick Kelly. I saw his horse +hangin' up at Porter's once or twice. But I'll tell you what I'll do: +I'll find out for you, Andy. And, what's more, I'll job him for you if I +catch him!” + +Andy said nothing; his hands clenched and his chest heaved. Dave laid a +friendly hand on his shoulder. + +“It's red hot, Andy, I know. Anybody else but you and I wouldn't have +cared. But don't be a fool; there's any Gorsquantity of girls knockin' +round. You just give it to her straight and chuck her, and have done +with it. You must be bad off to bother about her. Gorstruth! she ain't +much to look at anyway! I've got to ride like blazes to catch the coach. +Don't knock off till I come back; I won't be above an hour. I'm goin' to +give you some points in case you've got to fight Mick; and I'll have to +be there to back you!” And, thus taking the right moment instinctively, +he jumped on his horse and galloped on towards the town. + +His dust-cloud had scarcely disappeared round a corner of the paddocks +when Andy was aware of another one coming towards him. He had a +dazed idea that it was Dave coming back, but went on digging another +post-hole, mechanically, until a spring-cart rattled up, and stopped +opposite him. Then he lifted his head. It was Lizzie herself, driving +home from town. She turned towards him with her usual faint smile. Her +small features were “washed out” and rather haggard. + +“'Ello, Andy!” + +But, at the sight of her, all his hatred of “funny +business”--intensified, perhaps, by a sense of personal injury--came to +a head, and he exploded: + +“Look here, Lizzie Porter! I know all about you. You needn't think +you're goin' to cotton on with me any more after this! I wouldn't be +seen in a paddock with yer! I'm satisfied about you! Get on out of +this!” + +The girl stared at him for a moment thunderstruck; then she lammed into +the old horse with a stick she carried in place of a whip. + +She cried, and wondered what she'd done, and trembled so that she could +scarcely unharness the horse, and wondered if Andy had got a touch of +the sun, and went in and sat down and cried again; and pride came to her +aid and she hated Andy; thought of her big brother, away droving, and +made a cup of tea. She shed tears over the tea, and went through it all +again. + +Meanwhile Andy was suffering a reaction. He started to fill the hole +before he put the post in; then to ram the post before the rails were +in position. Dubbing off the ends of the rails, he was in danger of +amputating a toe or a foot with every stroke of the adze. And, at last, +trying to squint along the little lumps of clay which he had placed in +the centre of the top of each post for several panels back--to assist +him to take a line--he found that they swam and doubled, and ran off in +watery angles, for his eyes were too moist to see straight and single. + +Then he threw down the tools hopelessly, and was standing helplessly +undecided whether to go home or go down to the creek and drown himself, +when Dave turned up again. + +“Seen her?” asked Dave. + +“Yes,” said Andy. + +“Did you chuck her?” + +“Look here, Dave; are you sure the feller was Mick Kelly?” + +“I never said I was. How was I to know? It was dark. You don't expect +I'd 'fox' a feller I see doing a bit of a bear-up to a girl, do you? It +might have been you, for all I knowed. I suppose she's been talking you +round?” + +“No, she ain't,” said Andy. “But, look here, Dave; I was properly gone +on that girl, I was, and--and I want to be sure I'm right.” + +The business was getting altogether too psychological for Dave Bentley. +“You might as well,” he rapped out, “call me a liar at once!” + +“'Taint that at all, Dave. I want to get at who the feller is; that's +what I want to get at now. Where did you see them, and when?” + +“I seen them Anniversary night, along the road, near Ross' farm; and +I seen 'em Sunday night afore that--in the trees near the old +culvert--near Porter's sliprails; and I seen 'em one night outside +Porter's, on a log near the woodheap. They was thick that time, and +bearin' up proper, and no mistake. So I can swear to her. Now, are you +satisfied about her?” + +But Andy was wildly pitchforking his thatch under his hat with all ten +fingers and staring at Dave, who began to regard him uneasily; then +there came to Andy's eyes an awful glare, which caused Dave to step back +hastily. + +“Good God, Andy! Are yer goin' ratty?” + +“No!” cried Andy, wildly. + +“Then what the blazes is the matter with you? You'll have rats if you +don't look out!” + +“JIMMINY FROTH!--It was ME all the time!” + +“What?” + +“It was me that was with her all them nights. It was me that you seen. +WHY, I POPPED ON THE WOODHEAP!” + +Dave was taken too suddenly to whistle this time. + +“And you went for her just now?” + +“Yes!” yelled Andy. + +“Well--you've done it!” + +“Yes,” said Andy, hopelessly; “I've done it!” + +Dave whistled now--a very long, low whistle. “Well, you're a bloomin' +goat, Andy, after this. But this thing'll have to be fixed up!” and he +cantered away. Poor Andy was too badly knocked to notice the abruptness +of Dave's departure, or to see that he turned through the sliprails on +to the track that led to Porter's. + + . . . . . + +Half an hour later Andy appeared at Porter's back door, with an +expression on his face as though the funeral was to start in ten +minutes. In a tone befitting such an occasion, he wanted to see Lizzie. + +Dave had been there with the laudable determination of fixing the +business up, and had, of course, succeeded in making it much worse than +it was before. But Andy made it all right. + + + + +The Iron-Bark Chip + + + +Dave Regan and party--bush-fencers, tank-sinkers, rough carpenters, +&c.--were finishing the third and last culvert of their contract on +the last section of the new railway line, and had already sent in their +vouchers for the completed contract, so that there might be no excuse +for extra delay in connection with the cheque. + +Now it had been expressly stipulated in the plans and specifications +that the timber for certain beams and girders was to be iron-bark and +no other, and Government inspectors were authorised to order the removal +from the ground of any timber or material they might deem inferior, +or not in accordance with the stipulations. The railway contractor's +foreman and inspector of sub-contractors was a practical man and a +bushman, but he had been a timber-getter himself; his sympathies were +bushy, and he was on winking terms with Dave Regan. Besides, extended +time was expiring, and the contractors were in a hurry to complete the +line. But the Government inspector was a reserved man who poked round +on his independent own and appeared in lonely spots at unexpected +times--with apparently no definite object in life--like a grey kangaroo +bothered by a new wire fence, but unsuspicious of the presence of +humans. He wore a grey suit, rode, or mostly led, an ashen-grey horse; +the grass was long and grey, so he was seldom spotted until he was +well within the horizon and bearing leisurely down on a party of +sub-contractors, leading his horse. + +Now iron-bark was scarce and distant on those ridges, and another +timber, similar in appearance, but much inferior in grain and “standing” + quality, was plentiful and close at hand. Dave and party were “about +full of” the job and place, and wanted to get their cheque and be gone +to another “spec” they had in view. So they came to reckon they'd get +the last girder from a handy tree, and have it squared, in place, and +carefully and conscientiously tarred before the inspector happened +along, if he did. But they didn't. They got it squared, and ready to be +lifted into its place; the kindly darkness of tar was ready to cover a +fraud that took four strong men with crowbars and levers to shift; and +now (such is the regular cussedness of things) as the fraudulent piece +of timber lay its last hour on the ground, looking and smelling, to +their guilty imaginations like anything but iron-bark, they were aware +of the Government inspector drifting down upon them obliquely, with +something of the atmosphere of a casual Bill or Jim who had dropped out +of his easy-going track to see how they were getting on, and borrow a +match. They had more than half hoped that, as he had visited them pretty +frequently during the progress of the work, and knew how near it was to +completion, he wouldn't bother coming any more. But it's the way with +the Government. You might move heaven and earth in vain endeavour to +get the “Guvermunt” to flutter an eyelash over something of the most +momentous importance to yourself and mates and the district--even to +the country; but just when you are leaving authority severely alone, and +have strong reasons for not wanting to worry or interrupt it, and not +desiring it to worry about you, it will take a fancy into its head to +come along and bother. + +“It's always the way!” muttered Dave to his mates. “I knew the beggar +would turn up!... And the only cronk log we've had, too!” he added, in +an injured tone. “If this had 'a' been the only blessed iron-bark in the +whole contract, it would have been all right.... Good-day, sir!” (to the +inspector). “It's hot?” + +The inspector nodded. He was not of an impulsive nature. He got down +from his horse and looked at the girder in an abstracted way; and +presently there came into his eyes a dreamy, far-away, sad sort of +expression, as if there had been a very sad and painful occurrence in +his family, way back in the past, and that piece of timber in some way +reminded him of it and brought the old sorrow home to him. He blinked +three times, and asked, in a subdued tone: + +“Is that iron-bark?” + +Jack Bentley, the fluent liar of the party, caught his breath with a +jerk and coughed, to cover the gasp and gain time. “I--iron-bark? Of +course it is! I thought you would know iron-bark, mister.” (Mister was +silent.) “What else d'yer think it is?” + +The dreamy, abstracted expression was back. The inspector, by-the-way, +didn't know much about timber, but he had a great deal of instinct, and +went by it when in doubt. + +“L--look here, mister!” put in Dave Regan, in a tone of innocent +puzzlement and with a blank bucolic face. “B--but don't the plans and +specifications say iron-bark? Ours does, anyway. I--I'll git the papers +from the tent and show yer, if yer like.” + +It was not necessary. The inspector admitted the fact slowly. He +stooped, and with an absent air picked up a chip. He looked at it +abstractedly for a moment, blinked his threefold blink; then, seeming to +recollect an appointment, he woke up suddenly and asked briskly: + +“Did this chip come off that girder?” + +Blank silence. The inspector blinked six times, divided in threes, +rapidly, mounted his horse, said “Day,” and rode off. + +Regan and party stared at each other. + +“Wha--what did he do that for?” asked Andy Page, the third in the party. + +“Do what for, you fool?” enquired Dave. + +“Ta--take that chip for?” + +“He's taking it to the office!” snarled Jack Bentley. + +“What--what for? What does he want to do that for?” + +“To get it blanky well analysed! You ass! Now are yer satisfied?” And +Jack sat down hard on the timber, jerked out his pipe, and said to Dave, +in a sharp, toothache tone: + +“Gimmiamatch!” + +“We--well! what are we to do now?” enquired Andy, who was the hardest +grafter, but altogether helpless, hopeless, and useless in a crisis like +this. + +“Grain and varnish the bloomin' culvert!” snapped Bentley. + +But Dave's eyes, that had been ruefully following the inspector, +suddenly dilated. The inspector had ridden a short distance along the +line, dismounted, thrown the bridle over a post, laid the chip (which +was too big to go in his pocket) on top of it, got through the fence, +and was now walking back at an angle across the line in the direction +of the fencing party, who had worked up on the other side, a little more +than opposite the culvert. + +Dave took in the lay of the country at a glance and thought rapidly. + +“Gimme an iron-bark chip!” he said suddenly. + +Bentley, who was quick-witted when the track was shown him, as is a +kangaroo dog (Jack ran by sight, not scent), glanced in the line of +Dave's eyes, jumped up, and got a chip about the same size as that which +the inspector had taken. + +Now the “lay of the country” sloped generally to the line from both +sides, and the angle between the inspector's horse, the fencing party, +and the culvert was well within a clear concave space; but a couple +of hundred yards back from the line and parallel to it (on the side on +which Dave's party worked their timber) a fringe of scrub ran to within +a few yards of a point which would be about in line with a single tree +on the cleared slope, the horse, and the fencing party. + +Dave took the iron-bark chip, ran along the bed of the water-course into +the scrub, raced up the siding behind the bushes, got safely, though +without breathing, across the exposed space, and brought the tree into +line between him and the inspector, who was talking to the fencers. Then +he began to work quickly down the slope towards the tree (which was a +thin one), keeping it in line, his arms close to his sides, and working, +as it were, down the trunk of the tree, as if the fencing party were +kangaroos and Dave was trying to get a shot at them. The inspector, +by-the-bye, had a habit of glancing now and then in the direction of his +horse, as though under the impression that it was flighty and restless +and inclined to bolt on opportunity. It was an anxious moment for all +parties concerned--except the inspector. They didn't want HIM to be +perturbed. And, just as Dave reached the foot of the tree, the inspector +finished what he had to say to the fencers, turned, and started to walk +briskly back to his horse. There was a thunderstorm coming. Now was the +critical moment--there were certain prearranged signals between Dave's +party and the fencers which might have interested the inspector, but +none to meet a case like this. + +Jack Bentley gasped, and started forward with an idea of intercepting +the inspector and holding him for a few minutes in bogus conversation. +Inspirations come to one at a critical moment, and it flashed on Jack's +mind to send Andy instead. Andy looked as innocent and guileless as he +was, but was uncomfortable in the vicinity of “funny business”, and +must have an honest excuse. “Not that that mattered,” commented Jack +afterwards; “it would have taken the inspector ten minutes to get at +what Andy was driving at, whatever it was.” + +“Run, Andy! Tell him there's a heavy thunderstorm coming and he'd better +stay in our humpy till it's over. Run! Don't stand staring like a blanky +fool. He'll be gone!” + +Andy started. But just then, as luck would have it, one of the fencers +started after the inspector, hailing him as “Hi, mister!” He wanted to +be set right about the survey or something--or to pretend to want to be +set right--from motives of policy which I haven't time to explain here. + +That fencer explained afterwards to Dave's party that he “seen what you +coves was up to,” and that's why he called the inspector back. But he +told them that after they had told their yarn--which was a mistake. + +“Come back, Andy!” cried Jack Bentley. + +Dave Regan slipped round the tree, down on his hands and knees, and made +quick time through the grass which, luckily, grew pretty tall on the +thirty or forty yards of slope between the tree and the horse. Close to +the horse, a thought struck Dave that pulled him up, and sent a shiver +along his spine and a hungry feeling under it. The horse would +break away and bolt! But the case was desperate. Dave ventured an +interrogatory “Cope, cope, cope?” The horse turned its head wearily and +regarded him with a mild eye, as if he'd expected him to come, and come +on all fours, and wondered what had kept him so long; then he went +on thinking. Dave reached the foot of the post; the horse obligingly +leaning over on the other leg. Dave reared head and shoulders cautiously +behind the post, like a snake; his hand went up twice, swiftly--the +first time he grabbed the inspector's chip, and the second time he put +the iron-bark one in its place. He drew down and back, and scuttled off +for the tree like a gigantic tailless “goanna”. + +A few minutes later he walked up to the culvert from along the creek, +smoking hard to settle his nerves. + +The sky seemed to darken suddenly; the first great drops of the +thunderstorm came pelting down. The inspector hurried to his horse, and +cantered off along the line in the direction of the fettlers' camp. + +He had forgotten all about the chip, and left it on top of the post! + +Dave Regan sat down on the beam in the rain and swore comprehensively. + + + + +“Middleton's Peter” + + + I. + + The First Born + + +The struggling squatter is to be found in Australia as well as the +“struggling farmer”. The Australian squatter is not always the mighty +wool king that English and American authors and other uninformed people +apparently imagine him to be. Squatting, at the best, is but a game of +chance. It depends mainly on the weather, and that, in New South Wales +at least, depends on nothing. + +Joe Middleton was a struggling squatter, with a station some distance +to the westward of the furthest line reached by the ordinary “new chum”. +His run, at the time of our story, was only about six miles square, and +his stock was limited in proportion. The hands on Joe's run consisted +of his brother Dave, a middle-aged man known only as “Middleton's Peter” + (who had been in the service of the Middleton family ever since Joe +Middleton could remember), and an old black shepherd, with his gin and +two boys. + +It was in the first year of Joe's marriage. He had married a very +ordinary girl, as far as Australian girls go, but in his eyes she was an +angel. He really worshipped her. + +One sultry afternoon in midsummer all the station hands, with the +exception of Dave Middleton, were congregated about the homestead door, +and it was evident from their solemn faces that something unusual was +the matter. They appeared to be watching for something or someone across +the flat, and the old black shepherd, who had been listening intently +with bent head, suddenly straightened himself up and cried: + +“I can hear the cart. I can see it!” + +You must bear in mind that our blackfellows do not always talk the +gibberish with which they are credited by story writers. + +It was not until some time after Black Bill had spoken that the +white--or, rather, the brown--portion of the party could see or even +hear the approaching vehicle. At last, far out through the trunks of the +native apple-trees, the cart was seen approaching; and as it came nearer +it was evident that it was being driven at a break-neck pace, the horses +cantering all the way, while the motion of the cart, as first one +wheel and then the other sprang from a root or a rut, bore a striking +resemblance to the Highland Fling. There were two persons in the cart. +One was Mother Palmer, a stout, middle-aged party (who sometimes did the +duties of a midwife), and the other was Dave Middleton, Joe's brother. + +The cart was driven right up to the door with scarcely any abatement of +speed, and was stopped so suddenly that Mrs. Palmer was sent sprawling +on to the horse's rump. She was quickly helped down, and, as soon as +she had recovered sufficient breath, she followed Black Mary into the +bedroom where young Mrs. Middleton was lying, looking very pale and +frightened. The horse which had been driven so cruelly had not done +blowing before another cart appeared, also driven very fast. It +contained old Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, who lived comfortably on a small +farm not far from Palmer's place. + +As soon as he had dumped Mrs. Palmer, Dave Middleton left the cart and, +mounting a fresh horse which stood ready saddled in the yard, galloped +off through the scrub in a different direction. + +Half an hour afterwards Joe Middleton came home on a horse that had been +almost ridden to death. His mother came out at the sound of his arrival, +and he anxiously asked her: + +“How is she?” + +“Did you find Doc. Wild?” asked the mother. + +“No, confound him!” exclaimed Joe bitterly. “He promised me faithfully +to come over on Wednesday and stay until Maggie was right again. Now +he has left Dean's and gone--Lord knows where. I suppose he is drinking +again. How is Maggie?” + +“It's all over now--the child is born. It's a boy; but she is very weak. +Dave got Mrs. Palmer here just in time. I had better tell you at once +that Mrs. Palmer says if we don't get a doctor here to-night poor Maggie +won't live.” + +“Good God! and what am I to do?” cried Joe desperately. + +“Is there any other doctor within reach?” + +“No; there is only the one at B----; that's forty miles away, and he is +laid up with the broken leg he got in the buggy accident. Where's Dave?” + +“Gone to Black's shanty. One of Mrs. Palmer's sons thought he remembered +someone saying that Doc. Wild was there last week. That's fifteen miles +away.” + +“But it is our only hope,” said Joe dejectedly. “I wish to God that I +had taken Maggie to some civilised place a month ago.” + +Doc. Wild was a well-known character among the bushmen of New South +Wales, and although the profession did not recognise him, and denounced +him as an empiric, his skill was undoubted. Bushmen had great faith in +him, and would often ride incredible distances in order to bring him +to the bedside of a sick friend. He drank fearfully, but was seldom +incapable of treating a patient; he would, however, sometimes be found +in an obstinate mood and refuse to travel to the side of a sick person, +and then the devil himself could not make the doctor budge. But for all +this he was very generous--a fact that could, no doubt, be testified to +by many a grateful sojourner in the lonely bush. + + + + II. + + The Only Hope + + +Night came on, and still there was no change in the condition of +the young wife, and no sign of the doctor. Several stockmen from +the neighbouring stations, hearing that there was trouble at Joe +Middleton's, had ridden over, and had galloped off on long, hopeless +rides in search of a doctor. Being generally free from sickness +themselves, these bushmen look upon it as a serious business even in its +mildest form; what is more, their sympathy is always practical where +it is possible for it to be so. One day, while out on the run after +an “outlaw”, Joe Middleton was badly thrown from his horse, and the +break-neck riding that was done on that occasion from the time the horse +came home with empty saddle until the rider was safe in bed and attended +by a doctor was something extraordinary, even for the bush. + +Before the time arrived when Dave Middleton might reasonably have been +expected to return, the station people were anxiously watching for him, +all except the old blackfellow and the two boys, who had gone to yard +the sheep. + +The party had been increased by Jimmy Nowlett, the bullocky, who had +just arrived with a load of fencing wire and provisions for Middleton. +Jimmy was standing in the moonlight, whip in hand, looking as anxious as +the husband himself, and endeavouring to calculate by mental arithmetic +the exact time it ought to take Dave to complete his double journey, +taking into consideration the distance, the obstacles in the way, and +the chances of horse-flesh. + +But the time which Jimmy fixed for the arrival came without Dave. + +Old Peter (as he was generally called, though he was not really old) +stood aside in his usual sullen manner, his hat drawn down over his +brow and eyes, and nothing visible but a thick and very horizontal +black beard, from the depth of which emerged large clouds of very strong +tobacco smoke, the product of a short, black, clay pipe. + +They had almost given up all hope of seeing Dave return that night, when +Peter slowly and deliberately removed his pipe and grunted: + +“He's a-comin'.” + +He then replaced the pipe, and smoked on as before. + +All listened, but not one of them could hear a sound. + +“Yer ears must be pretty sharp for yer age, Peter. We can't hear him,” + remarked Jimmy Nowlett. + +“His dog ken,” said Peter. + +The pipe was again removed and its abbreviated stem pointed in the +direction of Dave's cattle dog, who had risen beside his kennel with +pointed ears, and was looking eagerly in the direction from which his +master was expected to come. + +Presently the sound of horse's hoofs was distinctly heard. + +“I can hear two horses,” cried Jimmy Nowlett excitedly. + +“There's only one,” said old Peter quietly. + +A few moments passed, and a single horseman appeared on the far side of +the flat. + +“It's Doc. Wild on Dave's horse,” cried Jimmy Nowlett. “Dave don't ride +like that.” + +“It's Dave,” said Peter, replacing his pipe and looking more unsociable +than ever. + +Dave rode up and, throwing himself wearily from the saddle, stood +ominously silent by the side of his horse. + +Joe Middleton said nothing, but stood aside with an expression of utter +hopelessness on his face. + +“Not there?” asked Jimmy Nowlett at last, addressing Dave. + +“Yes, he's there,” answered Dave, impatiently. + +This was not the answer they expected, but nobody seemed surprised. + +“Drunk?” asked Jimmy. + +“Yes.” + +Here old Peter removed his pipe, and pronounced the one word--“How?” + +“What the hell do you mean by that?” muttered Dave, whose patience had +evidently been severely tried by the clever but intemperate bush doctor. + +“How drunk?” explained Peter, with great equanimity. + +“Stubborn drunk, blind drunk, beastly drunk, dead drunk, and damned well +drunk, if that's what you want to know!” + +“What did Doc. say?” asked Jimmy. + +“Said he was sick--had lumbago--wouldn't come for the Queen of England; +said he wanted a course of treatment himself. Curse him! I have no +patience to talk about him.” + +“I'd give him a course of treatment,” muttered Jimmy viciously, trailing +the long lash of his bullock-whip through the grass and spitting +spitefully at the ground. + +Dave turned away and joined Joe, who was talking earnestly to his mother +by the kitchen door. He told them that he had spent an hour trying to +persuade Doc. Wild to come, and, that before he had left the shanty, +Black had promised him faithfully to bring the doctor over as soon as +his obstinate mood wore off. + +Just then a low moan was heard from the sick room, followed by the sound +of Mother Palmer's voice calling old Mrs. Middleton, who went inside +immediately. + +No one had noticed the disappearance of Peter, and when he presently +returned from the stockyard, leading the only fresh horse that remained, +Jimmy Nowlett began to regard him with some interest. Peter transferred +the saddle from Dave's horse to the other, and then went into a small +room off the kitchen, which served him as a bedroom; from it he soon +returned with a formidable-looking revolver, the chambers of which he +examined in the moonlight in full view of all the company. They thought +for a moment the man had gone mad. Old Middleton leaped quickly behind +Nowlett, and Black Mary, who had come out to the cask at the corner for +a dipper of water, dropped the dipper and was inside like a shot. One of +the black boys came softly up at that moment; as soon as his sharp eye +“spotted” the weapon, he disappeared as though the earth had swallowed +him. + +“What the mischief are yer goin' ter do, Peter?” asked Jimmy. + +“Goin' to fetch him,” said Peter, and, after carefully emptying his pipe +and replacing it in a leather pouch at his belt, he mounted and rode off +at an easy canter. + +Jimmy watched the horse until it disappeared at the edge of the flat, +and then after coiling up the long lash of his bullock-whip in the dust +until it looked like a sleeping snake, he prodded the small end of the +long pine handle into the middle of the coil, as though driving home a +point, and said in a tone of intense conviction: + +“He'll fetch him.” + + + + III. + + Doc. Wild + + +Peter gradually increased his horse's speed along the rough bush track +until he was riding at a good pace. It was ten miles to the main road, +and five from there to the shanty kept by Black. + +For some time before Peter started the atmosphere had been very close +and oppressive. The great black edge of a storm-cloud had risen in the +east, and everything indicated the approach of a thunderstorm. It was +not long coming. Before Peter had completed six miles of his journey, +the clouds rolled over, obscuring the moon, and an Australian +thunderstorm came on with its mighty downpour, its blinding lightning, +and its earth-shaking thunder. Peter rode steadily on, only pausing now +and then until a flash revealed the track in front of him. + +Black's shanty--or, rather, as the sign had it, “Post Office and General +Store”--was, as we have said, five miles along the main road from the +point where Middleton's track joined it. The building was of the usual +style of bush architecture. About two hundred yards nearer the creek, +which crossed the road further on, stood a large bark and slab stable, +large enough to have met the requirements of a legitimate bush “public”. + +The reader may doubt that a “sly grog shop” could openly carry on +business on a main Government road along which mounted troopers were +continually passing. But then, you see, mounted troopers get thirsty +like other men; moreover, they could always get their thirst quenched +'gratis' at these places; so the reader will be prepared to hear that +on this very night two troopers' horses were stowed snugly away in the +stable, and two troopers were stowed snugly away in the back room of the +shanty, sleeping off the effects of their cheap but strong potations. + +There were two rooms, of a sort, attached to the stables--one at each +end. One was occupied by a man who was “generally useful”, and the other +was the surgery, office, and bedroom 'pro tem.' of Doc. Wild. + +Doc. Wild was a tall man, of spare proportions. He had a cadaverous +face, black hair, bushy black eyebrows, eagle nose, and eagle eyes. He +never slept while he was drinking. On this occasion he sat in front of +the fire on a low three-legged stool. His knees were drawn up, his toes +hooked round the front legs of the stool, one hand resting on one knee, +and one elbow (the hand supporting the chin) resting on the other. He +was staring intently into the fire, on which an old black saucepan +was boiling and sending forth a pungent odour of herbs. There seemed +something uncanny about the doctor as the red light of the fire fell on +his hawk-like face and gleaming eyes. He might have been Mephistopheles +watching some infernal brew. + +He had sat there some time without stirring a finger, when the door +suddenly burst open and Middleton's Peter stood within, dripping wet. +The doctor turned his black, piercing eyes upon the intruder (who +regarded him silently) for a moment, and then asked quietly: + +“What the hell do you want?” + +“I want you,” said Peter. + +“And what do you want me for?” + +“I want you to come to Joe Middleton's wife. She's bad,” said Peter +calmly. + +“I won't come,” shouted the doctor. “I've brought enough horse-stealers +into the world already. If any more want to come they can go to blazes +for me. Now, you get out of this!” + +“Don't get yer rag out,” said Peter quietly. “The hoss-stealer's come, +an' nearly killed his mother ter begin with; an' if yer don't get yer +physic-box an' come wi' me, by the great God I'll----” + +Here the revolver was produced and pointed at Doc. Wild's head. The +sight of the weapon had a sobering effect upon the doctor. He rose, +looked at Peter critically for a moment, knocked the weapon out of his +hand, and said slowly and deliberately: + +“Wall, ef the case es as serious as that, I (hic) reckon I'd better +come.” + +Peter was still of the same opinion, so Doc. Wild proceeded to get his +medicine chest ready. He explained afterwards, in one of his softer +moments, that the shooter didn't frighten him so much as it touched his +memory--“sorter put him in mind of the old days in California, and made +him think of the man he might have been,” he'd say,--“kinder touched +his heart and slid the durned old panorama in front of him like a flash; +made him think of the time when he slipped three leaden pills into 'Blue +Shirt' for winking at a new chum behind his (the Doc.'s) back when he +was telling a truthful yarn, and charged the said 'Blue Shirt' a hundred +dollars for extracting the said pills.” + +Joe Middleton's wife is a grandmother now. + +Peter passed after the manner of his sort; he was found dead in his +bunk. + +Poor Doc. Wild died in a shepherd's hut at the Dry Creeks. The shepherds +(white men) found him, “naked as he was born and with the hide half +burned off him with the sun,” rounding up imaginary snakes on a dusty +clearing, one blazing hot day. The hut-keeper had some “quare” (queer) +experiences with the doctor during the next three days and used, in +after years, to tell of them, between the puffs of his pipe, calmly +and solemnly and as if the story was rather to the doctor's credit than +otherwise. The shepherds sent for the police and a doctor, and sent word +to Joe Middleton. Doc. Wild was sensible towards the end. His interview +with the other doctor was characteristic. “And, now you see how far I +am,” he said in conclusion--“have you brought the brandy?” The other +doctor had. Joe Middleton came with his waggonette, and in it the +softest mattress and pillows the station afforded. He also, in his +innocence, brought a dozen of soda-water. Doc. Wild took Joe's hand +feebly, and, a little later, he “passed out” (as he would have said) +murmuring “something that sounded like poetry”, in an unknown tongue. +Joe took the body to the home station. “Who's the boss bringin'?” asked +the shearers, seeing the waggonette coming very slowly and the boss +walking by the horses' heads. “Doc. Wild,” said a station hand. “Take +yer hats off.” + +They buried him with bush honours, and chiselled his name on a slab of +bluegum--a wood that lasts. + + + + +The Mystery of Dave Regan + + + +“And then there was Dave Regan,” said the traveller. “Dave used to die +oftener than any other bushman I knew. He was always being reported +dead and turnin' up again. He seemed to like it--except once, when his +brother drew his money and drank it all to drown his grief at what he +called Dave's 'untimely end'. Well, Dave went up to Queensland once with +cattle, and was away three years and reported dead, as usual. He was +drowned in the Bogan this time while tryin' to swim his horse acrost +a flood--and his sweetheart hurried up and got spliced to a worse man +before Dave got back. + +“Well, one day I was out in the bush lookin' for timber, when the +biggest storm ever knowed in that place come on. There was hail in it, +too, as big as bullets, and if I hadn't got behind a stump and crouched +down in time I'd have been riddled like a--like a bushranger. As it was, +I got soakin' wet. The storm was over in a few minutes, the water run +off down the gullies, and the sun come out and the scrub steamed--and +stunk like a new pair of moleskin trousers. I went on along the track, +and presently I seen a long, lanky chap get on to a long, lanky horse +and ride out of a bush yard at the edge of a clearin'. I knowed it was +Dave d'reckly I set eyes on him. + +“Dave used to ride a tall, holler-backed thoroughbred with a body and +limbs like a kangaroo dog, and it would circle around you and sidle away +as if it was frightened you was goin' to jab a knife into it. + +“''Ello! Dave!' said I, as he came spurrin' up. 'How are yer!' + +“''Ello, Jim!' says he. 'How are you?' + +“'All right!' says I. 'How are yer gettin' on?' + +“But, before we could say any more, that horse shied away and broke off +through the scrub to the right. I waited, because I knowed Dave would +come back again if I waited long enough; and in about ten minutes he +came sidlin' in from the scrub to the left. + +“'Oh, I'm all right,' says he, spurrin' up sideways; 'How are you?' + +“'Right!' says I. 'How's the old people?' + +“'Oh, I ain't been home yet,' says he, holdin' out his hand; but, afore +I could grip it, the cussed horse sidled off to the south end of the +clearin' and broke away again through the scrub. + +“I heard Dave swearin' about the country for twenty minutes or so, and +then he came spurrin' and cursin' in from the other end of the clearin'. + +“'Where have you been all this time?' I said, as the horse came curvin' +up like a boomerang. + +“'Gulf country,' said Dave. + +“'That was a storm, Dave,' said I. + +“'My oath!' says Dave. + +“'Get caught in it?' + +“'Yes.' + +“'Got to shelter?' + +“'No.' + +“'But you're as dry's a bone, Dave!' + +“Dave grinned. '------and------and------the--------!' he yelled. + +“He said that to the horse as it boomeranged off again and broke away +through the scrub. I waited; but he didn't come back, and I reckoned +he'd got so far away before he could pull up that he didn't think it +worth while comin' back; so I went on. By-and-bye I got thinkin'. Dave +was as dry as a bone, and I knowed that he hadn't had time to get to +shelter, for there wasn't a shed within twelve miles. He wasn't only +dry, but his coat was creased and dusty too--same as if he'd been +sleepin' in a holler log; and when I come to think of it, his face +seemed thinner and whiter than it used ter, and so did his hands and +wrists, which always stuck a long way out of his coat-sleeves; and there +was blood on his face--but I thought he'd got scratched with a twig. +(Dave used to wear a coat three or four sizes too small for him, with +sleeves that didn't come much below his elbows and a tail that scarcely +reached his waist behind.) And his hair seemed dark and lank, instead +of bein' sandy and stickin' out like an old fibre brush, as it used +ter. And then I thought his voice sounded different, too. And, when +I enquired next day, there was no one heard of Dave, and the chaps +reckoned I must have been drunk, or seen his ghost. + +“It didn't seem all right at all--it worried me a lot. I couldn't make +out how Dave kept dry; and the horse and saddle and saddle-cloth was +wet. I told the chaps how he talked to me and what he said, and how he +swore at the horse; but they only said it was Dave's ghost and nobody +else's. I told 'em about him bein' dry as a bone after gettin' caught in +that storm; but they only laughed and said it was a dry place where Dave +went to. I talked and argued about it until the chaps began to tap their +foreheads and wink--then I left off talking. But I didn't leave off +thinkin'--I always hated a mystery. Even Dave's father told me that Dave +couldn't be alive or else his ghost wouldn't be round--he said he knew +Dave better than that. One or two fellers did turn up afterwards that +had seen Dave about the time that I did--and then the chaps said they +was sure that Dave was dead. + +“But one fine day, as a lot of us chaps was playin' pitch and toss at +the shanty, one of the fellers yelled out: + +“'By Gee! Here comes Dave Regan!' + +“And I looked up and saw Dave himself, sidlin' out of a cloud of dust on +a long lanky horse. He rode into the stockyard, got down, hung his horse +up to a post, put up the rails, and then come slopin' towards us with +a half-acre grin on his face. Dave had long, thin bow-legs, and when he +was on the ground he moved as if he was on roller skates. + +“''El-lo, Dave!' says I. 'How are yer?' + +“''Ello, Jim!' said he. 'How the blazes are you?' + +“'All right!' says I, shakin' hands. 'How are yer?' + +“'Oh! I'm all right!' he says. 'How are yer poppin' up!' + +“Well, when we'd got all that settled, and the other chaps had asked how +he was, he said: 'Ah, well! Let's have a drink.' + +“And all the other chaps crawfished up and flung themselves round the +corner and sidled into the bar after Dave. We had a lot of talk, and he +told us that he'd been down before, but had gone away without seein' any +of us, except me, because he'd suddenly heard of a mob of cattle at a +station two hundred miles away; and after a while I took him aside and +said: + +“'Look here, Dave! Do you remember the day I met you after the storm?' + +“He scratched his head. + +“'Why, yes,' he says. + +“'Did you get under shelter that day?' + +“'Why--no.' + +“'Then how the blazes didn't yer get wet?' + +“Dave grinned; then he says: + +“'Why, when I seen the storm coming I took off me clothes and stuck 'em +in a holler log till the rain was over.' + +“'Yes,' he says, after the other coves had done laughin', but before +I'd done thinking; 'I kept my clothes dry and got a good refreshin' +shower-bath into the bargain.' + +“Then he scratched the back of his neck with his little finger, and +dropped his jaw, and thought a bit; then he rubbed the top of his head +and his shoulder, reflective-like, and then he said: + +“'But I didn't reckon for them there blanky hailstones.'” + + + + +Mitchell on Matrimony + + + +“I suppose your wife will be glad to see you,” said Mitchell to his +mate in their camp by the dam at Hungerford. They were overhauling their +swags, and throwing away the blankets, and calico, and old clothes, and +rubbish they didn't want--everything, in fact, except their pocket-books +and letters and portraits, things which men carry about with them +always, that are found on them when they die, and sent to their +relations if possible. Otherwise they are taken in charge by the +constable who officiates at the inquest, and forwarded to the Minister +of Justice along with the depositions. + +It was the end of the shearing season. Mitchell and his mate had been +lucky enough to get two good sheds in succession, and were going to take +the coach from Hungerford to Bourke on their way to Sydney. The morning +stars were bright yet, and they sat down to a final billy of tea, two +dusty Johnny-cakes, and a scrag of salt mutton. + +“Yes,” said Mitchell's mate, “and I'll be glad to see her too.” + +“I suppose you will,” said Mitchell. He placed his pint-pot between his +feet, rested his arm against his knee, and stirred the tea meditatively +with the handle of his pocket-knife. It was vaguely understood that +Mitchell had been married at one period of his chequered career. + +“I don't think we ever understood women properly,” he said, as he took +a cautious sip to see if his tea was cool and sweet enough, for his lips +were sore; “I don't think we ever will--we never took the trouble to +try, and if we did it would be only wasted brain power that might just +as well be spent on the blackfellow's lingo; because by the time you've +learnt it they'll be extinct, and woman 'll be extinct before you've +learnt her.... The morning star looks bright, doesn't it?” + +“Ah, well,” said Mitchell after a while, “there's many little things +we might try to understand women in. I read in a piece of newspaper the +other day about how a man changes after he's married; how he gets short, +and impatient, and bored (which is only natural), and sticks up a wall +of newspaper between himself and his wife when he's at home; and how it +comes like a cold shock to her, and all her air-castles vanish, and +in the end she often thinks about taking the baby and the clothes she +stands in, and going home for sympathy and comfort to mother. + +“Perhaps she never got a word of sympathy from her mother in her life, +nor a day's comfort at home before she was married; but that doesn't +make the slightest difference. It doesn't make any difference in your +case either, if you haven't been acting like a dutiful son-in-law. + +“Somebody wrote that a woman's love is her whole existence, while a +man's love is only part of his--which is true, and only natural and +reasonable, all things considered. But women never consider as a rule. A +man can't go on talking lovey-dovey talk for ever, and listening to his +young wife's prattle when he's got to think about making a living, and +nursing her and answering her childish questions and telling her he +loves his little ownest every minute in the day, while the bills are +running up, and rent mornings begin to fly round and hustle and crowd +him. + +“He's got her and he's satisfied; and if the truth is known he loves +her really more than he did when they were engaged, only she won't be +satisfied about it unless he tells her so every hour in the day. At +least that's how it is for the first few months. + +“But a woman doesn't understand these things--she never will, she +can't--and it would be just as well for us to try and understand that +she doesn't and can't understand them.” + +Mitchell knocked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin against his boot, +and reached for the billy. + +“There's many little things we might do that seem mere trifles and +nonsense to us, but mean a lot to her; that wouldn't be any trouble +or sacrifice to us, but might help to make her life happy. It's just +because we never think about these little things--don't think them worth +thinking about, in fact--they never enter our intellectual foreheads. + +“For instance, when you're going out in the morning you might put your +arms round her and give her a hug and a kiss, without her having to +remind you. You may forget about it and never think any more of it--but +she will. + +“It wouldn't be any trouble to you, and would only take a couple of +seconds, and would give her something to be happy about when you're +gone, and make her sing to herself for hours while she bustles about her +work and thinks up what she'll get you for dinner.” + +Mitchell's mate sighed, and shifted the sugar-bag over towards Mitchell. +He seemed touched and bothered over something. + +“Then again,” said Mitchell, “it mightn't be convenient for you to go +home to dinner--something might turn up during the morning--you might +have some important business to do, or meet some chaps and get invited +to lunch and not be very well able to refuse, when it's too late, or you +haven't a chance to send a message to your wife. But then again, chaps +and business seem very big things to you, and only little things to the +wife; just as lovey-dovey talk is important to her and nonsense to you. +And when you come to analyse it, one is not so big, nor the other so +small, after all; especially when you come to think that chaps can +always wait, and business is only an inspiration in your mind, nine +cases out of ten. + +“Think of the trouble she takes to get you a good dinner, and how she +keeps it hot between two plates in the oven, and waits hour after hour +till the dinner gets dried up, and all her morning's work is wasted. +Think how it hurts her, and how anxious she'll be (especially if you're +inclined to booze) for fear that something has happened to you. You +can't get it out of the heads of some young wives that you're liable to +get run over, or knocked down, or assaulted, or robbed, or get into one +of the fixes that a woman is likely to get into. But about the dinner +waiting. Try and put yourself in her place. Wouldn't you get mad under +the same circumstances? I know I would. + +“I remember once, only just after I was married, I was invited +unexpectedly to a kidney pudding and beans--which was my favourite grub +at the time--and I didn't resist, especially as it was washing day and +I told the wife not to bother about anything for dinner. I got home an +hour or so late, and had a good explanation thought out, when the wife +met me with a smile as if we had just been left a thousand pounds. She'd +got her washing finished without assistance, though I'd told her to get +somebody to help her, and she had a kidney pudding and beans, with a lot +of extras thrown in, as a pleasant surprise for me. + +“Well, I kissed her, and sat down, and stuffed till I thought every +mouthful would choke me. I got through with it somehow, but I've never +cared for kidney pudding or beans since.” + +Mitchell felt for his pipe with a fatherly smile in his eyes. + +“And then again,” he continued, as he cut up his tobacco, “your wife +might put on a new dress and fix herself up and look well, and you might +think so and be satisfied with her appearance and be proud to take her +out; but you want to tell her so, and tell her so as often as you think +about it--and try to think a little oftener than men usually do, too.” + + . . . . . + +“You should have made a good husband, Jack,” said his mate, in a +softened tone. + +“Ah, well, perhaps I should,” said Mitchell, rubbing up his tobacco; +then he asked abstractedly: “What sort of a husband did you make, Joe?” + +“I might have made a better one than I did,” said Joe seriously, and +rather bitterly, “but I know one thing, I'm going to try and make up for +it when I go back this time.” + +“We all say that,” said Mitchell reflectively, filling his pipe. “She +loves you, Joe.” + +“I know she does,” said Joe. + +Mitchell lit up. + +“And so would any man who knew her or had seen her letters to you,” he +said between the puffs. “She's happy and contented enough, I believe?” + +“Yes,” said Joe, “at least while I was there. She's never easy when I'm +away. I might have made her a good deal more happy and contented without +hurting myself much.” + +Mitchell smoked long, soft, measured puffs. + +His mate shifted uneasily and glanced at him a couple of times, and +seemed to become impatient, and to make up his mind about something; +or perhaps he got an idea that Mitchell had been “having” him, and +felt angry over being betrayed into maudlin confidences; for he asked +abruptly: + +“How is your wife now, Mitchell?” + +“I don't know,” said Mitchell calmly. + +“Don't know?” echoed the mate. “Didn't you treat her well?” + +Mitchell removed his pipe and drew a long breath. + +“Ah, well, I tried to,” he said wearily. + +“Well, did you put your theory into practice?” + +“I did,” said Mitchell very deliberately. + +Joe waited, but nothing came. + +“Well?” he asked impatiently, “How did it act? Did it work well?” + +“I don't know,” said Mitchell (puff); “she left me.” + +“What!” + +Mitchell jerked the half-smoked pipe from his mouth, and rapped the +burning tobacco out against the toe of his boot. + +“She left me,” he said, standing up and stretching himself. Then, with a +vicious jerk of his arm, “She left me for--another kind of a fellow!” + +He looked east towards the public-house, where they were taking the +coach-horses from the stable. + +“Why don't you finish your tea, Joe? The billy's getting cold.” + + + + +Mitchell on Women + + + +“All the same,” said Mitchell's mate, continuing an argument by the +camp-fire; “all the same, I think that a woman can stand cold water +better than a man. Why, when I was staying in a boarding-house in +Dunedin, one very cold winter, there was a lady lodger who went down to +the shower-bath first thing every morning; never missed one; sometimes +went in freezing weather when I wouldn't go into a cold bath for a +fiver; and sometimes she'd stay under the shower for ten minutes at a +time.” + +“How'd you know?” + +“Why, my room was near the bath-room, and I could hear the shower and +tap going, and her floundering about.” + +“Hear your grandmother!” exclaimed Mitchell, contemptuously. “You don't +know women yet. Was this woman married? Did she have a husband there?” + +“No; she was a young widow.” + +“Ah! well, it would have been the same if she was a young girl--or an +old one. Were there some passable men-boarders there?” + +“_I_ was there.” + +“Oh, yes! But I mean, were there any there beside you?” + +“Oh, yes, there were three or four; there was--a clerk and a----” + +“Never mind, as long as there was something with trousers on. Did it +ever strike you that she never got into the bath at all?” + +“Why, no! What would she want to go there at all for, in that case?” + +“To make an impression on the men,” replied Mitchell promptly. “She +wanted to make out she was nice, and wholesome, and well-washed, +and particular. Made an impression on YOU, it seems, or you wouldn't +remember it.” + +“Well, yes, I suppose so; and, now I come to think of it, the bath +didn't seem to injure her make-up or wet her hair; but I supposed she +held her head from under the shower somehow.” + +“Did she make-up so early in the morning?” asked Mitchell. + +“Yes--I'm sure.” + +“That's unusual; but it might have been so where there was a lot of +boarders. And about the hair--that didn't count for anything, because +washing-the-head ain't supposed to be always included in a lady's bath; +it's only supposed to be washed once a fortnight, and some don't do it +once a month. The hair takes so long to dry; it don't matter so much if +the woman's got short, scraggy hair; but if a girl's hair was down to +her waist it would take hours to dry.” + +“Well, how do they manage it without wetting their heads?” + +“Oh, that's easy enough. They have a little oilskin cap that fits tight +over the forehead, and they put it on, and bunch their hair up in it +when they go under the shower. Did you ever see a woman sit in a sunny +place with her hair down after having a wash?” + +“Yes, I used to see one do that regular where I was staying; but I +thought she only did it to show off.” + +“Not at all--she was drying her hair; though perhaps she was showing +off at the same time, for she wouldn't sit where you--or even a +Chinaman--could see her, if she didn't think she had a good head of +hair. Now, I'LL tell you a yarn about a woman's bath. I was stopping +at a shabby-genteel boarding-house in Melbourne once, and one very cold +winter, too; and there was a rather good-looking woman there, looking +for a husband. She used to go down to the bath every morning, no matter +how cold it was, and flounder and splash about as if she enjoyed it, +till you'd feel as though you'd like to go and catch hold of her and +wrap her in a rug and carry her in to the fire and nurse her till she +was warm again.” + +Mitchell's mate moved uneasily, and crossed the other leg; he seemed +greatly interested. + +“But she never went into the water at all!” continued Mitchell. “As soon +as one or two of the men was up in the morning she'd come down from her +room in a dressing-gown. It was a toney dressing-gown, too, and set her +off properly. She knew how to dress, anyway; most of that sort of women +do. The gown was a kind of green colour, with pink and white flowers +all over it, and red lining, and a lot of coffee-coloured lace round the +neck and down the front. Well, she'd come tripping downstairs and along +the passage, holding up one side of the gown to show her little +bare white foot in a slipper; and in the other hand she carried her +tooth-brush and bath-brush, and soap--like this--so's we all could see +'em; trying to make out she was too particular to use soap after anyone +else. She could afford to buy her own soap, anyhow; it was hardly ever +wet. + +“Well, she'd go into the bathroom and turn on the tap and shower; when +she got about three inches of water in the bath, she'd step in, holding +up her gown out of the water, and go slithering and kicking up and down +the bath, like this, making a tremendous splashing. Of course she'd turn +off the shower first, and screw it off very tight--wouldn't do to let +that leak, you know; she might get wet; but she'd leave the other tap +on, so as to make all the more noise.” + +“But how did you come to know all about this?” + +“Oh, the servant girl told me. One morning she twigged her through a +corner of the bathroom window that the curtain didn't cover.” + +“You seem to have been pretty thick with servant girls.” + +“So do you with landladies! But never mind--let me finish the yarn. When +she thought she'd splashed enough, she'd get out, wipe her feet, wash +her face and hands, and carefully unbutton the two top buttons of her +gown; then throw a towel over her head and shoulders, and listen at the +door till she thought she heard some of the men moving about. Then +she'd start for her room, and, if she met one of the men-boarders in the +passage or on the stairs, she'd drop her eyes, and pretend to see for +the first time that the top of her dressing-gown wasn't buttoned--and +she'd give a little start and grab the gown and scurry off to her room +buttoning it up. + +“And sometimes she'd come skipping into the breakfast-room late, looking +awfully sweet in her dressing-gown; and if she saw any of us there, +she'd pretend to be much startled, and say that she thought all the men +had gone out, and make as though she was going to clear; and someone 'd +jump up and give her a chair, while someone else said, 'Come in, Miss +Brown! come in! Don't let us frighten you. Come right in, and have +your breakfast before it gets cold.' So she'd flutter a bit in pretty +confusion, and then make a sweet little girly-girly dive for her chair, +and tuck her feet away under the table; and she'd blush, too, but I +don't know how she managed that. + +“I know another trick that women have; it's mostly played by private +barmaids. That is, to leave a stocking by accident in the bathroom for +the gentlemen to find. If the barmaid's got a nice foot and ankle, she +uses one of her own stockings; but if she hasn't she gets hold of +a stocking that belongs to a girl that has. Anyway, she'll have one +readied up somehow. The stocking must be worn and nicely darned; one +that's been worn will keep the shape of the leg and foot--at least +till it's washed again. Well, the barmaid generally knows what time the +gentlemen go to bath, and she'll make it a point of going down just as +a gentleman's going. Of course he'll give her the preference--let her go +first, you know--and she'll go in and accidentally leave the stocking +in a place where he's sure to see it, and when she comes out he'll go in +and find it; and very likely he'll be a jolly sort of fellow, and when +they're all sitting down to breakfast he'll come in and ask them to +guess what he's found, and then he'll hold up the stocking. The barmaid +likes this sort of thing; but she'll hold down her head, and pretend +to be confused, and keep her eyes on her plate, and there'll be much +blushing and all that sort of thing, and perhaps she'll gammon to be +mad at him, and the landlady'll say, 'Oh, Mr. Smith! how can yer? At the +breakfast table, too!' and they'll all laugh and look at the barmaid, +and she'll get more embarrassed than ever, and spill her tea, and make +out as though the stocking didn't belong to her.” + + + + +No Place for a Woman + + + +He had a selection on a long box-scrub siding of the ridges, about half +a mile back and up from the coach road. There were no neighbours that +I ever heard of, and the nearest “town” was thirty miles away. He grew +wheat among the stumps of his clearing, sold the crop standing to a +Cockie who lived ten miles away, and had some surplus sons; or, some +seasons, he reaped it by hand, had it thrashed by travelling “steamer” + (portable steam engine and machine), and carried the grain, a few bags +at a time, into the mill on his rickety dray. + +He had lived alone for upwards of 15 years, and was known to those who +knew him as “Ratty Howlett”. + +Trav'lers and strangers failed to see anything uncommonly ratty about +him. It was known, or, at least, it was believed, without question, that +while at work he kept his horse saddled and bridled, and hung up to the +fence, or grazing about, with the saddle on--or, anyway, close handy +for a moment's notice--and whenever he caught sight, over the scrub and +through the quarter-mile break in it, of a traveller on the road, he +would jump on his horse and make after him. If it was a horseman +he usually pulled him up inside of a mile. Stories were told of +unsuccessful chases, misunderstandings, and complications arising out of +Howlett's mania for running down and bailing up travellers. Sometimes he +caught one every day for a week, sometimes not one for weeks--it was a +lonely track. + +The explanation was simple, sufficient, and perfectly natural--from a +bushman's point of view. Ratty only wanted to have a yarn. He and the +traveller would camp in the shade for half an hour or so and yarn and +smoke. The old man would find out where the traveller came from, and +how long he'd been there, and where he was making for, and how long +he reckoned he'd be away; and ask if there had been any rain along the +traveller's back track, and how the country looked after the drought; +and he'd get the traveller's ideas on abstract questions--if he had any. +If it was a footman (swagman), and he was short of tobacco, old Howlett +always had half a stick ready for him. Sometimes, but very rarely, he'd +invite the swagman back to the hut for a pint of tea, or a bit of meat, +flour, tea, or sugar, to carry him along the track. + +And, after the yarn by the road, they said, the old man would ride back, +refreshed, to his lonely selection, and work on into the night as long +as he could see his solitary old plough horse, or the scoop of his +long-handled shovel. + +And so it was that I came to make his acquaintance--or, rather, that he +made mine. I was cantering easily along the track--I was making for the +north-west with a pack horse--when about a mile beyond the track to the +selection I heard, “Hi, Mister!” and saw a dust cloud following me. I +had heard of “Old Ratty Howlett” casually, and so was prepared for him. + +A tall gaunt man on a little horse. He was clean-shaven, except for +a frill beard round under his chin, and his long wavy, dark hair +was turning grey; a square, strong-faced man, and reminded me of one +full-faced portrait of Gladstone more than any other face I had seen. +He had large reddish-brown eyes, deep set under heavy eyebrows, and with +something of the blackfellow in them--the sort of eyes that will peer +at something on the horizon that no one else can see. He had a way of +talking to the horizon, too--more than to his companion; and he had a +deep vertical wrinkle in his forehead that no smile could lessen. + +I got down and got out my pipe, and we sat on a log and yarned awhile on +bush subjects; and then, after a pause, he shifted uneasily, it seemed +to me, and asked rather abruptly, and in an altered tone, if I was +married. A queer question to ask a traveller; more especially in my +case, as I was little more than a boy then. + +He talked on again of old things and places where we had both been, and +asked after men he knew, or had known--drovers and others--and whether +they were living yet. Most of his inquiries went back before my time; +but some of the drovers, one or two overlanders with whom he had been +mates in his time, had grown old into mine, and I knew them. I notice +now, though I didn't then--and if I had it would not have seemed +strange from a bush point of view--that he didn't ask for news, nor seem +interested in it. + +Then after another uneasy pause, during which he scratched crosses in +the dust with a stick, he asked me, in the same queer tone and without +looking at me or looking up, if I happened to know anything about +doctoring--if I'd ever studied it. + +I asked him if anyone was sick at his place. He hesitated, and said +“No.” Then I wanted to know why he had asked me that question, and +he was so long about answering that I began to think he was hard of +hearing, when, at last, he muttered something about my face reminding +him of a young fellow he knew of who'd gone to Sydney to “study for a +doctor”. That might have been, and looked natural enough; but why didn't +he ask me straight out if I was the chap he “knowed of”? Travellers do +not like beating about the bush in conversation. + +He sat in silence for a good while, with his arms folded, and looking +absently away over the dead level of the great scrubs that spread +from the foot of the ridge we were on to where a blue peak or two of a +distant range showed above the bush on the horizon. + +I stood up and put my pipe away and stretched. Then he seemed to wake +up. “Better come back to the hut and have a bit of dinner,” he said. +“The missus will about have it ready, and I'll spare you a handful of +hay for the horses.” + +The hay decided it. It was a dry season. I was surprised to hear of a +wife, for I thought he was a hatter--I had always heard so; but +perhaps I had been mistaken, and he had married lately; or had got a +housekeeper. The farm was an irregularly-shaped clearing in the scrub, +with a good many stumps in it, with a broken-down two-rail fence +along the frontage, and logs and “dog-leg” the rest. It was about +as lonely-looking a place as I had seen, and I had seen some +out-of-the-way, God-forgotten holes where men lived alone. The hut was +in the top corner, a two-roomed slab hut, with a shingle roof, which +must have been uncommon round there in the days when that hut was built. +I was used to bush carpentering, and saw that the place had been put +up by a man who had plenty of life and hope in front of him, and for +someone else beside himself. But there were two unfinished skilling +rooms built on to the back of the hut; the posts, sleepers, and +wall-plates had been well put up and fitted, and the slab walls were +up, but the roof had never been put on. There was nothing but burrs +and nettles inside those walls, and an old wooden bullock plough and a +couple of yokes were dry-rotting across the back doorway. The remains of +a straw-stack, some hay under a bark humpy, a small iron plough, and an +old stiff coffin-headed grey draught horse, were all that I saw about +the place. + +But there was a bit of a surprise for me inside, in the shape of a clean +white tablecloth on the rough slab table which stood on stakes driven +into the ground. The cloth was coarse, but it was a tablecloth--not +a spare sheet put on in honour of unexpected visitors--and perfectly +clean. The tin plates, pannikins, and jam tins that served as sugar +bowls and salt cellars were polished brightly. The walls and fireplace +were whitewashed, the clay floor swept, and clean sheets of newspaper +laid on the slab mantleshelf under the row of biscuit tins that held the +groceries. I thought that his wife, or housekeeper, or whatever she was, +was a clean and tidy woman about a house. I saw no woman; but on the +sofa--a light, wooden, batten one, with runged arms at the ends--lay a +woman's dress on a lot of sheets of old stained and faded newspapers. +He looked at it in a puzzled way, knitting his forehead, then took it +up absently and folded it. I saw then that it was a riding skirt and +jacket. He bundled them into the newspapers and took them into the +bedroom. + +“The wife was going on a visit down the creek this afternoon,” he said +rapidly and without looking at me, but stooping as if to have another +look through the door at those distant peaks. “I suppose she got tired +o' waitin', and went and took the daughter with her. But, never mind, +the grub is ready.” There was a camp-oven with a leg of mutton and +potatoes sizzling in it on the hearth, and billies hanging over the +fire. I noticed the billies had been scraped, and the lids polished. + +There seemed to be something queer about the whole business, but then he +and his wife might have had a “breeze” during the morning. I thought +so during the meal, when the subject of women came up, and he said one +never knew how to take a woman, etc.; but there was nothing in what he +said that need necessarily have referred to his wife or to any woman in +particular. For the rest he talked of old bush things, droving, digging, +and old bushranging--but never about live things and living men, unless +any of the old mates he talked about happened to be alive by accident. +He was very restless in the house, and never took his hat off. + +There was a dress and a woman's old hat hanging on the wall near the +door, but they looked as if they might have been hanging there for a +lifetime. There seemed something queer about the whole place--something +wanting; but then all out-of-the-way bush homes are haunted by that +something wanting, or, more likely, by the spirits of the things that +should have been there, but never had been. + +As I rode down the track to the road I looked back and saw old Howlett +hard at work in a hole round a big stump with his long-handled shovel. + +I'd noticed that he moved and walked with a slight list to port, and put +his hand once or twice to the small of his back, and I set it down to +lumbago, or something of that sort. + +Up in the Never Never I heard from a drover who had known Howlett that +his wife had died in the first year, and so this mysterious woman, if +she was his wife, was, of course, his second wife. The drover seemed +surprised and rather amused at the thought of old Howlett going in for +matrimony again. + + . . . . . + +I rode back that way five years later, from the Never Never. It was +early in the morning--I had ridden since midnight. I didn't think the +old man would be up and about; and, besides, I wanted to get on home, +and have a look at the old folk, and the mates I'd left behind--and the +girl. But I hadn't got far past the point where Howlett's track joined +the road, when I happened to look back, and saw him on horseback, +stumbling down the track. I waited till he came up. + +He was riding the old grey draught horse this time, and it looked very +much broken down. I thought it would have come down every step, and +fallen like an old rotten humpy in a gust of wind. And the old man was +not much better off. I saw at once that he was a very sick man. His face +was drawn, and he bent forward as if he was hurt. He got down stiffly +and awkwardly, like a hurt man, and as soon as his feet touched the +ground he grabbed my arm, or he would have gone down like a man who +steps off a train in motion. He hung towards the bank of the road, +feeling blindly, as it were, for the ground, with his free hand, as I +eased him down. I got my blanket and calico from the pack saddle to make +him comfortable. + +“Help me with my back agen the tree,” he said. “I must sit up--it's no +use lyin' me down.” + +He sat with his hand gripping his side, and breathed painfully. + +“Shall I run up to the hut and get the wife?” I asked. + +“No.” He spoke painfully. “No!” Then, as if the words were jerked out of +him by a spasm: “She ain't there.” + +I took it that she had left him. + +“How long have you been bad? How long has this been coming on?” + +He took no notice of the question. I thought it was a touch of rheumatic +fever, or something of that sort. “It's gone into my back and sides +now--the pain's worse in me back,” he said presently. + +I had once been mates with a man who died suddenly of heart disease, +while at work. He was washing a dish of dirt in the creek near a claim +we were working; he let the dish slip into the water, fell back, crying, +“O, my back!” and was gone. And now I felt by instinct that it was poor +old Howlett's heart that was wrong. A man's heart is in his back as well +as in his arms and hands. + +The old man had turned pale with the pallor of a man who turns faint in +a heat wave, and his arms fell loosely, and his hands rocked helplessly +with the knuckles in the dust. I felt myself turning white, too, and the +sick, cold, empty feeling in my stomach, for I knew the signs. Bushmen +stand in awe of sickness and death. + +But after I'd fixed him comfortably and given him a drink from the water +bag the greyness left his face, and he pulled himself together a bit; he +drew up his arms and folded them across his chest. He let his head rest +back against the tree--his slouch hat had fallen off revealing a broad, +white brow, much higher than I expected. He seemed to gaze on the azure +fin of the range, showing above the dark blue-green bush on the horizon. + +Then he commenced to speak--taking no notice of me when I asked him if +he felt better now--to talk in that strange, absent, far-away tone that +awes one. He told his story mechanically, monotonously--in set words, as +I believe now, as he had often told it before; if not to others, then to +the loneliness of the bush. And he used the names of people and places +that I had never heard of--just as if I knew them as well as he did. + +“I didn't want to bring her up the first year. It was no place for a +woman. I wanted her to stay with her people and wait till I'd got the +place a little more ship-shape. The Phippses took a selection down the +creek. I wanted her to wait and come up with them so's she'd have some +company--a woman to talk to. They came afterwards, but they didn't stop. +It was no place for a woman. + +“But Mary would come. She wouldn't stop with her people down country. +She wanted to be with me, and look after me, and work and help me.” + +He repeated himself a great deal--said the same thing over and over +again sometimes. He was only mad on one track. He'd tail off and +sit silent for a while; then he'd become aware of me in a hurried, +half-scared way, and apologise for putting me to all that trouble, and +thank me. “I'll be all right d'reckly. Best take the horses up to the +hut and have some breakfast; you'll find it by the fire. I'll foller +you, d'reckly. The wife'll be waitin' an'----” He would drop off, and be +going again presently on the old track:-- + +“Her mother was coming up to stay awhile at the end of the year, but the +old man hurt his leg. Then her married sister was coming, but one of the +youngsters got sick and there was trouble at home. I saw the doctor in +the town--thirty miles from here--and fixed it up with him. He was a +boozer--I'd 'a shot him afterwards. I fixed up with a woman in the town +to come and stay. I thought Mary was wrong in her time. She must have +been a month or six weeks out. But I listened to her.... Don't argue +with a woman. Don't listen to a woman. Do the right thing. We should +have had a mother woman to talk to us. But it was no place for a woman!” + +He rocked his head, as if from some old agony of mind, against the +tree-trunk. + +“She was took bad suddenly one night, but it passed off. False alarm. I +was going to ride somewhere, but she said to wait till daylight. Someone +was sure to pass. She was a brave and sensible girl, but she had a +terror of being left alone. It was no place for a woman! + +“There was a black shepherd three or four miles away. I rode over while +Mary was asleep, and started the black boy into town. I'd 'a shot him +afterwards if I'd 'a caught him. The old black gin was dead the week +before, or Mary would a' bin alright. She was tied up in a bunch with +strips of blanket and greenhide, and put in a hole. So there wasn't even +a gin near the place. It was no place for a woman! + +“I was watchin' the road at daylight, and I was watchin' the road at +dusk. I went down in the hollow and stooped down to get the gap agen the +sky, so's I could see if anyone was comin' over.... I'd get on the horse +and gallop along towards the town for five miles, but something would +drag me back, and then I'd race for fear she'd die before I got to the +hut. I expected the doctor every five minutes. + +“It come on about daylight next morning. I ran back'ards and for'ards +between the hut and the road like a madman. And no one come. I was +running amongst the logs and stumps, and fallin' over them, when I saw +a cloud of dust agen sunrise. It was her mother an' sister in the +spring-cart, an' just catchin' up to them was the doctor in his buggy +with the woman I'd arranged with in town. The mother and sister was +staying at the town for the night, when they heard of the black boy. It +took him a day to ride there. I'd 'a shot him if I'd 'a caught him ever +after. The doctor'd been on the drunk. If I'd had the gun and known she +was gone I'd have shot him in the buggy. They said she was dead. And the +child was dead, too. + +“They blamed me, but I didn't want her to come; it was no place for a +woman. I never saw them again after the funeral. I didn't want to see +them any more.” + +He moved his head wearily against the tree, and presently drifted on +again in a softer tone--his eyes and voice were growing more absent and +dreamy and far away. + +“About a month after--or a year, I lost count of the time long ago--she +came back to me. At first she'd come in the night, then sometimes when +I was at work--and she had the baby--it was a girl--in her arms. And +by-and-bye she came to stay altogether.... I didn't blame her for going +away that time--it was no place for a woman.... She was a good wife to +me. She was a jolly girl when I married her. The little girl grew up +like her. I was going to send her down country to be educated--it was no +place for a girl. + +“But a month, or a year, ago, Mary left me, and took the daughter, and +never came back till last night--this morning, I think it was. I thought +at first it was the girl with her hair done up, and her mother's skirt +on, to surprise her old dad. But it was Mary, my wife--as she was when +I married her. She said she couldn't stay, but she'd wait for me on the +road; on--the road....” + +His arms fell, and his face went white. I got the water-bag. “Another +turn like that and you'll be gone,” I thought, as he came to again. Then +I suddenly thought of a shanty that had been started, when I came that +way last, ten or twelve miles along the road, towards the town. There +was nothing for it but to leave him and ride on for help, and a cart of +some kind. + +“You wait here till I come back,” I said. “I'm going for the doctor.” + +He roused himself a little. “Best come up to the hut and get some grub. +The wife'll be waiting....” He was off the track again. + +“Will you wait while I take the horse down to the creek?” + +“Yes--I'll wait by the road.” + +“Look!” I said, “I'll leave the water-bag handy. Don't move till I come +back.” + +“I won't move--I'll wait by the road,” he said. + +I took the packhorse, which was the freshest and best, threw the +pack-saddle and bags into a bush, left the other horse to take care of +itself, and started for the shanty, leaving the old man with his back to +the tree, his arms folded, and his eyes on the horizon. + +One of the chaps at the shanty rode on for the doctor at once, while the +other came back with me in a spring-cart. He told me that old Howlett's +wife had died in child-birth the first year on the selection--“she was a +fine girl he'd heered!” He told me the story as the old man had told it, +and in pretty well the same words, even to giving it as his opinion that +it was no place for a woman. “And he 'hatted' and brooded over it till +he went ratty.” + +I knew the rest. He not only thought that his wife, or the ghost of his +wife, had been with him all those years, but that the child had lived +and grown up, and that the wife did the housework; which, of course, he +must have done himself. + +When we reached him his knotted hands had fallen for the last time, and +they were at rest. I only took one quick look at his face, but could +have sworn that he was gazing at the blue fin of the range on the +horizon of the bush. + +Up at the hut the table was set as on the first day I saw it, and +breakfast in the camp-oven by the fire. + + + + +Mitchell's Jobs + + + +“I'm going to knock off work and try to make some money,” said Mitchell, +as he jerked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin and reached for the +billy. “It's been the great mistake of my life--if I hadn't wasted all +my time and energy working and looking for work I might have been an +independent man to-day.” + +“Joe!” he added in a louder voice, condescendingly adapting his language +to my bushed comprehension. “I'm going to sling graft and try and get +some stuff together.” + +I didn't feel in a responsive humour, but I lit up and settled back +comfortably against the tree, and Jack folded his arms on his knees and +presently continued, reflectively: + +“I remember the first time I went to work. I was a youngster then. +Mother used to go round looking for jobs for me. She reckoned, perhaps, +that I was too shy to go in where there was a boy wanted and barrack for +myself properly, and she used to help me and see me through to the best +of her ability. I'm afraid I didn't always feel as grateful to her as I +should have felt. I was a thankless kid at the best of times--most kids +are--but otherwise I was a straight enough little chap as nippers go. +Sometimes I almost wish I hadn't been. My relations would have thought +a good deal more of me and treated me better--and, besides, it's a +comfort, at times, to sit and watch the sun going down in the bed of the +bush, and think of your wicked childhood and wasted life, and the way +you treated your parents and broke their hearts, and feel just properly +repentant and bitter and remorseful and low-spirited about it when it's +too late. + +“Ah, well!... I generally did feel a bit backward in going in when I +came to the door of an office or shop where there was a 'Strong Lad', or +a 'Willing Youth', wanted inside to make himself generally useful. I +was a strong lad and a willing youth enough, in some things, for that +matter; but I didn't like to see it written up on a card in a shop +window, and I didn't want to make myself generally useful in a close +shop in a hot dusty street on mornings when the weather was fine and the +great sunny rollers were coming in grand on the Bondi Beach and down at +Coogee, and I could swim.... I'd give something to be down along there +now.” + +Mitchell looked away out over the sultry sandy plain that we were to +tackle next day, and sighed. + +“The first job I got was in a jam factory. They only had 'Boy Wanted' on +the card in the window, and I thought it would suit me. They set me to +work to peel peaches, and, as soon as the foreman's back was turned, +I picked out a likely-looking peach and tried it. They soaked those +peaches in salt or acid or something--it was part of the process--and +I had to spit it out. Then I got an orange from a boy who was slicing +them, but it was bitter, and I couldn't eat it. I saw that I'd been had +properly. I was in a fix, and had to get out of it the best way I could. +I'd left my coat down in the front shop, and the foreman and boss were +there, so I had to work in that place for two mortal hours. It was about +the longest two hours I'd ever spent in my life. At last the foreman +came up, and I told him I wanted to go down to the back for a minute. I +slipped down, watched my chance till the boss' back was turned, got my +coat, and cleared. + +“The next job I got was in a mat factory; at least, Aunt got that for +me. I didn't want to have anything to do with mats or carpets. The worst +of it was the boss didn't seem to want me to go, and I had a job to get +him to sack me, and when he did he saw some of my people and took me +back again next week. He sacked me finally the next Saturday. + +“I got the next job myself. I didn't hurry; I took my time and picked +out a good one. It was in a lolly factory. I thought it would suit +me--and it did, for a while. They put me on stirring up and mixing stuff +in the jujube department; but I got so sick of the smell of it and so +full of jujube and other lollies that I soon wanted a change; so I had +a row with the chief of the jujube department and the boss gave me the +sack. + +“I got a job in a grocery then. I thought I'd have more variety there. +But one day the boss was away, sick or something, all the afternoon, and +I sold a lot of things too cheap. I didn't know. When a customer came in +and asked for something I'd just look round in the window till I saw +a card with the price written up on it, and sell the best quality +according to that price; and once or twice I made a mistake the other +way about and lost a couple of good customers. It was a hot, drowsy +afternoon, and by-and-bye I began to feel dull and sleepy. So I looked +round the corner and saw a Chinaman coming. I got a big tin garden +syringe and filled it full of brine from the butter keg, and, when he +came opposite the door, I let him have the full force of it in the ear. + +“That Chinaman put down his baskets and came for me. I was strong for my +age, and thought I could fight, but he gave me a proper mauling. + +“It was like running up against a thrashing machine, and it wouldn't +have been well for me if the boss of the shop next door hadn't +interfered. He told my boss, and my boss gave me the sack at once. + +“I took a spell of eighteen months or so after that, and was growing +up happy and contented when a married sister of mine must needs come +to live in town and interfere. I didn't like married sisters, though I +always got on grand with my brothers-in-law, and wished there were more +of them. The married sister comes round and cleans up the place and +pulls your things about and finds your pipe and tobacco and things, and +cigarette portraits, and “Deadwood Dicks”, that you've got put away all +right, so's your mother and aunt wouldn't find them in a generation of +cats, and says: + +“'Mother, why don't you make that boy go to work. It's a scandalous +shame to see a big boy like that growing up idle. He's going to the bad +before your eyes.' And she's always trying to make out that you're a +liar, and trying to make mother believe it, too. My married sister got +me a job with a chemist, whose missus she knew. + +“I got on pretty well there, and by-and-bye I was put upstairs in the +grinding and mixing department; but, after a while, they put another +boy that I was chummy with up there with me, and that was a mistake. +I didn't think so at the time, but I can see it now. We got up to all +sorts of tricks. We'd get mixing together chemicals that weren't related +to see how they'd agree, and we nearly blew up the shop several times, +and set it on fire once. But all the chaps liked us, and fixed things up +for us. One day we got a big black dog--that we meant to take home that +evening--and sneaked him upstairs and put him on a flat roof outside the +laboratory. He had a touch of the mange and didn't look well, so we gave +him a dose of something; and he scrambled over the parapet and slipped +down a steep iron roof in front, and fell on a respected townsman that +knew my people. We were awfully frightened, and didn't say anything. +Nobody saw it but us. The dog had the presence of mind to leave at once, +and the respected townsman was picked up and taken home in a cab; and +he got it hot from his wife, too, I believe, for being in that drunken, +beastly state in the main street in the middle of the day. + +“I don't think he was ever quite sure that he hadn't been drunk or +what had happened, for he had had one or two that morning; so it didn't +matter much. Only we lost the dog. + +“One day I went downstairs to the packing-room and saw a lot of +phosphorus in jars of water. I wanted to fix up a ghost for Billy, my +mate, so I nicked a bit and slipped it into my trouser pocket. + +“I stood under the tap and let it pour on me. The phosphorus burnt clean +through my pocket and fell on the ground. I was sent home that night +with my leg dressed with lime-water and oil, and a pair of the boss's +pants on that were about half a yard too long for me, and I felt +miserable enough, too. They said it would stop my tricks for a while, +and so it did. I'll carry the mark to my dying day--and for two or three +days after, for that matter.” + + . . . . . + +I fell asleep at this point, and left Mitchell's cattle pup to hear it +out. + + + + +Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster + + + +“When we were up country on the selection, we had a rooster at our +place, named Bill,” said Mitchell; “a big mongrel of no particular +breed, though the old lady said he was a 'brammer'--and many an argument +she had with the old man about it too; she was just as stubborn and +obstinate in her opinion as the governor was in his. But, anyway, we +called him Bill, and didn't take any particular notice of him till a +cousin of some of us came from Sydney on a visit to the country, and +stayed at our place because it was cheaper than stopping at a pub. Well, +somehow this chap got interested in Bill, and studied him for two or +three days, and at last he says: + +“'Why, that rooster's a ventriloquist!' + +“'A what?' + +“'A ventriloquist!' + +“'Go along with yer!' + +“'But he is. I've heard of cases like this before; but this is the first +I've come across. Bill's a ventriloquist right enough.' + +“Then we remembered that there wasn't another rooster within five +miles--our only neighbour, an Irishman named Page, didn't have one at +the time--and we'd often heard another cock crow, but didn't think +to take any notice of it. We watched Bill, and sure enough he WAS +a ventriloquist. The 'ka-cocka' would come all right, but the +'co-ka-koo-oi-oo' seemed to come from a distance. And sometimes the +whole crow would go wrong, and come back like an echo that had been lost +for a year. Bill would stand on tiptoe, and hold his elbows out, and +curve his neck, and go two or three times as if he was swallowing +nest-eggs, and nearly break his neck and burst his gizzard; and then +there'd be no sound at all where he was--only a cock crowing in the +distance. + +“And pretty soon we could see that Bill was in great trouble about it +himself. You see, he didn't know it was himself--thought it was another +rooster challenging him, and he wanted badly to find that other bird. +He would get up on the wood-heap, and crow and listen--crow and listen +again--crow and listen, and then he'd go up to the top of the paddock, +and get up on the stack, and crow and listen there. Then down to the +other end of the paddock, and get up on a mullock-heap, and crow and +listen there. Then across to the other side and up on a log among the +saplings, and crow 'n' listen some more. He searched all over the place +for that other rooster, but, of course, couldn't find him. Sometimes +he'd be out all day crowing and listening all over the country, and then +come home dead tired, and rest and cool off in a hole that the hens had +scratched for him in a damp place under the water-cask sledge. + +“Well, one day Page brought home a big white rooster, and when he let +it go it climbed up on Page's stack and crowed, to see if there was any +more roosters round there. Bill had come home tired; it was a hot day, +and he'd rooted out the hens, and was having a spell-oh under the cask +when the white rooster crowed. Bill didn't lose any time getting out and +on to the wood-heap, and then he waited till he heard the crow again; +then he crowed, and the other rooster crowed again, and they crowed at +each other for three days, and called each other all the wretches they +could lay their tongues to, and after that they implored each other +to come out and be made into chicken soup and feather pillows. But +neither'd come. You see, there were THREE crows--there was Bill's crow, +and the ventriloquist crow, and the white rooster's crow--and each +rooster thought that there was TWO roosters in the opposition camp, and +that he mightn't get fair play, and, consequently, both were afraid to +put up their hands. + +“But at last Bill couldn't stand it any longer. He made up his mind to +go and have it out, even if there was a whole agricultural show of prize +and honourable-mention fighting-cocks in Page's yard. He got down from +the wood-heap and started off across the ploughed field, his head down, +his elbows out, and his thick awkward legs prodding away at the furrows +behind for all they were worth. + +“I wanted to go down badly and see the fight, and barrack for Bill. But +I daren't, because I'd been coming up the road late the night before +with my brother Joe, and there was about three panels of turkeys +roosting along on the top rail of Page's front fence; and we brushed 'em +with a bough, and they got up such a blessed gobbling fuss about it that +Page came out in his shirt and saw us running away; and I knew he was +laying for us with a bullock whip. Besides, there was friction between +the two families on account of a thoroughbred bull that Page borrowed +and wouldn't lend to us, and that got into our paddock on account of me +mending a panel in the party fence, and carelessly leaving the top +rail down after sundown while our cows was moving round there in the +saplings. + +“So there was too much friction for me to go down, but I climbed a tree +as near the fence as I could and watched. Bill reckoned he'd found that +rooster at last. The white rooster wouldn't come down from the stack, +so Bill went up to him, and they fought there till they tumbled down the +other side, and I couldn't see any more. Wasn't I wild? I'd have given +my dog to have seen the rest of the fight. I went down to the far side +of Page's fence and climbed a tree there, but, of course, I couldn't +see anything, so I came home the back way. Just as I got home Page came +round to the front and sung out, 'Insoid there!' And me and Jim went +under the house like snakes and looked out round a pile. But Page was +all right--he had a broad grin on his face, and Bill safe under his arm. +He put Bill down on the ground very carefully, and says he to the old +folks: + +“'Yer rooster knocked the stuffin' out of my rooster, but I bear no +malice. 'Twas a grand foight.' + +“And then the old man and Page had a yarn, and got pretty friendly after +that. And Bill didn't seem to bother about any more ventriloquism; but +the white rooster spent a lot of time looking for that other rooster. +Perhaps he thought he'd have better luck with him. But Page was on the +look-out all the time to get a rooster that would lick ours. He did +nothing else for a month but ride round and enquire about roosters; and +at last he borrowed a game-bird in town, left five pounds deposit on +him, and brought him home. And Page and the old man agreed to have a +match--about the only thing they'd agreed about for five years. And they +fixed it up for a Sunday when the old lady and the girls and kids were +going on a visit to some relations, about fifteen miles away--to stop +all night. The guv'nor made me go with them on horseback; but I knew +what was up, and so my pony went lame about a mile along the road, and +I had to come back and turn him out in the top paddock, and hide the +saddle and bridle in a hollow log, and sneak home and climb up on the +roof of the shed. It was a awful hot day, and I had to keep climbing +backward and forward over the ridge-pole all the morning to keep out of +sight of the old man, for he was moving about a good deal. + +“Well, after dinner, the fellows from roundabout began to ride in and +hang up their horses round the place till it looked as if there was +going to be a funeral. Some of the chaps saw me, of course, but I tipped +them the wink, and they gave me the office whenever the old man happened +around. + +“Well, Page came along with his game-rooster. Its name was Jim. It +wasn't much to look at, and it seemed a good deal smaller and weaker +than Bill. Some of the chaps were disgusted, and said it wasn't a +game-rooster at all; Bill'd settle it in one lick, and they wouldn't +have any fun. + +“Well, they brought the game one out and put him down near the +wood-heap, and rousted Bill out from under his cask. He got interested +at once. He looked at Jim, and got up on the wood-heap and crowed and +looked at Jim again. He reckoned THIS at last was the fowl that had been +humbugging him all along. Presently his trouble caught him, and then +he'd crow and take a squint at the game 'un, and crow again, and +have another squint at gamey, and try to crow and keep his eye on the +game-rooster at the same time. But Jim never committed himself, until +at last he happened to gape just after Bill's whole crow went wrong, and +Bill spotted him. He reckoned he'd caught him this time, and he got down +off that wood-heap and went for the foe. But Jim ran away--and Bill ran +after him. + +“Round and round the wood-heap they went, and round the shed, and round +the house and under it, and back again, and round the wood-heap and over +it and round the other way, and kept it up for close on an hour. Bill's +bill was just within an inch or so of the game-rooster's tail feathers +most of the time, but he couldn't get any nearer, do how he liked. And +all the time the fellers kept chyackin Page and singing out, 'What price +yer game 'un, Page! Go it, Bill! Go it, old cock!' and all that sort of +thing. Well, the game-rooster went as if it was a go-as-you-please, and +he didn't care if it lasted a year. He didn't seem to take any interest +in the business, but Bill got excited, and by-and-by he got mad. He held +his head lower and lower and his wings further and further out from his +sides, and prodded away harder and harder at the ground behind, but it +wasn't any use. Jim seemed to keep ahead without trying. They stuck +to the wood-heap towards the last. They went round first one way for a +while, and then the other for a change, and now and then they'd go over +the top to break the monotony; and the chaps got more interested in the +race than they would have been in the fight--and bet on it, too. But +Bill was handicapped with his weight. He was done up at last; he slowed +down till he couldn't waddle, and then, when he was thoroughly knocked +up, that game-rooster turned on him, and gave him the father of a +hiding. + +“And my father caught me when I'd got down in the excitement, and wasn't +thinking, and HE gave ME the step-father of a hiding. But he had a +lively time with the old lady afterwards, over the cock-fight. + +“Bill was so disgusted with himself that he went under the cask and +died.” + + + + +Bush Cats + + + +“Domestic cats” we mean--the descendants of cats who came from the +northern world during the last hundred odd years. We do not know the +name of the vessel in which the first Thomas and his Maria came out +to Australia, but we suppose that it was one of the ships of the +First Fleet. Most likely Maria had kittens on the voyage--two lots, +perhaps--the majority of which were buried at sea; and no doubt the +disembarkation caused her much maternal anxiety. + + . . . . . + +The feline race has not altered much in Australia, from a physical point +of view--not yet. The rabbit has developed into something like a cross +between a kangaroo and a possum, but the bush has not begun to develop +the common cat. She is just as sedate and motherly as the mummy cats +of Egypt were, but she takes longer strolls of nights, climbs gum-trees +instead of roofs, and hunts stranger vermin than ever came under the +observation of her northern ancestors. Her views have widened. She is +mostly thinner than the English farm cat--which is, they say, on account +of eating lizards. + +English rats and English mice--we say “English” because everything which +isn't Australian in Australia, IS English (or British)--English rats and +English mice are either rare or non-existent in the bush; but the hut +cat has a wider range for game. She is always dragging in things which +are unknown in the halls of zoology; ugly, loathsome, crawling abortions +which have not been classified yet--and perhaps could not be. + +The Australian zoologist ought to rake up some more dead languages, and +then go Out Back with a few bush cats. + +The Australian bush cat has a nasty, unpleasant habit of dragging +a long, wriggling, horrid, black snake--she seems to prefer black +snakes--into a room where there are ladies, proudly laying it down in +a conspicuous place (usually in front of the exit), and then looking up +for approbation. She wonders, perhaps, why the visitors are in such a +hurry to leave. + +Pussy doesn't approve of live snakes round the place, especially if +she has kittens; and if she finds a snake in the vicinity of her +progeny--well, it is bad for that particular serpent. + +This brings recollections of a neighbour's cat who went out in the +scrub, one midsummer's day, and found a brown snake. Her name--the cat's +name--was Mary Ann. She got hold of the snake all right, just within an +inch of its head; but it got the rest of its length wound round her body +and squeezed about eight lives out of her. She had the presence of mind +to keep her hold; but it struck her that she was in a fix, and that if +she wanted to save her ninth life, it wouldn't be a bad idea to go home +for help. So she started home, snake and all. + +The family were at dinner when Mary Ann came in, and, although she +stood on an open part of the floor, no one noticed her for a while. She +couldn't ask for help, for her mouth was too full of snake. By-and-bye +one of the girls glanced round, and then went over the table, with a +shriek, and out of the back door. The room was cleared very quickly. The +eldest boy got a long-handled shovel, and in another second would have +killed more cat than snake; but his father interfered. The father was +a shearer, and Mary Ann was a favourite cat with him. He got a pair of +shears from the shelf and deftly shore off the snake's head, and one +side of Mary Ann's whiskers. She didn't think it safe to let go yet. She +kept her teeth in the neck until the selector snipped the rest of the +snake off her. The bits were carried out on a shovel to die at sundown. +Mary Ann had a good drink of milk, and then got her tongue out and +licked herself back into the proper shape for a cat; after which she +went out to look for that snake's mate. She found it, too, and dragged +it home the same evening. + +Cats will kill rabbits and drag them home. We knew a fossicker whose cat +used to bring him a bunny nearly every night. The fossicker had rabbits +for breakfast until he got sick of them, and then he used to swap them +with a butcher for meat. The cat was named Ingersoll, which indicates +his sex and gives an inkling to his master's religious and political +opinions. Ingersoll used to prospect round in the gloaming until he +found some rabbit holes which showed encouraging indications. He would +shepherd one hole for an hour or so every evening until he found it was +a duffer, or worked it out; then he would shift to another. One day he +prospected a big hollow log with a lot of holes in it, and more going +down underneath. The indications were very good, but Ingersoll had no +luck. The game had too many ways of getting out and in. He found that he +could not work that claim by himself, so he floated it into a company. +He persuaded several cats from a neighbouring selection to take shares, +and they watched the holes together, or in turns--they worked shifts. +The dividends more than realised even their wildest expectations, for +each cat took home at least one rabbit every night for a week. + +A selector started a vegetable garden about the time when rabbits were +beginning to get troublesome up country. The hare had not shown itself +yet. The farmer kept quite a regiment of cats to protect his garden--and +they protected it. He would shut the cats up all day with nothing to +eat, and let them out about sundown; then they would mooch off to the +turnip patch like farm-labourers going to work. They would drag the +rabbits home to the back door, and sit there and watch them until the +farmer opened the door and served out the ration of milk. Then the cats +would turn in. He nearly always found a semi-circle of dead rabbits and +watchful cats round the door in the morning. They sold the product of +their labour direct to the farmer for milk. It didn't matter if one cat +had been unlucky--had not got a rabbit--each had an equal share in the +general result. They were true socialists, those cats. + +One of those cats was a mighty big Tom, named Jack. He was death on +rabbits; he would work hard all night, laying for them and dragging them +home. Some weeks he would graft every night, and at other times every +other night, but he was generally pretty regular. When he reckoned he +had done an extra night's work, he would take the next night off and go +three miles to the nearest neighbour's to see his Maria and take her out +for a stroll. Well, one evening Jack went into the garden and chose a +place where there was good cover, and lay low. He was a bit earlier than +usual, so he thought he would have a doze till rabbit time. By-and-bye +he heard a noise, and slowly, cautiously opening one eye, he saw two big +ears sticking out of the leaves in front of him. He judged that it was +an extra big bunny, so he put some extra style into his manoeuvres. In +about five minutes he made his spring. He must have thought (if cats +think) that it was a whopping, old-man rabbit, for it was a pioneer +hare--not an ordinary English hare, but one of those great coarse, lanky +things which the bush is breeding. The selector was attracted by an +unusual commotion and a cloud of dust among his cabbages, and came along +with his gun in time to witness the fight. First Jack would drag the +hare, and then the hare would drag Jack; sometimes they would be down +together, and then Jack would use his hind claws with effect; finally he +got his teeth in the right place, and triumphed. Then he started to drag +the corpse home, but he had to give it best and ask his master to lend a +hand. The selector took up the hare, and Jack followed home, much to +the family's surprise. He did not go back to work that night; he took +a spell. He had a drink of milk, licked the dust off himself, washed it +down with another drink, and sat in front of the fire and thought for a +goodish while. Then he got up, walked over to the corner where the hare +was lying, had a good look at it, came back to the fire, sat down again, +and thought hard. He was still thinking when the family retired. + + + + +Meeting Old Mates + + + + I. + + Tom Smith + + +You are getting well on in the thirties, and haven't left off being a +fool yet. You have been away in another colony or country for a year or +so, and have now come back again. Most of your chums have gone away or +got married, or, worse still, signed the pledge--settled down and got +steady; and you feel lonely and desolate and left-behind enough for +anything. While drifting aimlessly round town with an eye out for some +chance acquaintance to have a knock round with, you run against an old +chum whom you never dreamt of meeting, or whom you thought to be in some +other part of the country--or perhaps you knock up against someone who +knows the old chum in question, and he says: + +“I suppose you know Tom Smith's in Sydney?” + +“Tom Smith! Why, I thought he was in Queensland! I haven't seen him for +more than three years. Where's the old joker hanging out at all? Why, +except you, there's no one in Australia I'd sooner see than Tom Smith. +Here I've been mooning round like an unemployed for three weeks, looking +for someone to have a knock round with, and Tom in Sydney all the time. +I wish I'd known before. Where'll I run against him--where does he +live?” + +“Oh, he's living at home.” + +“But where's his home? I was never there.” + +“Oh, I'll give you his address.... There, I think that's it. I'm not +sure about the number, but you'll soon find out in that street--most of +'em'll know Tom Smith.” + +“Thanks! I rather think they will. I'm glad I met you. I'll hunt Tom up +to-day.” + +So you put a few shillings in your pocket, tell your landlady that +you're going to visit an old aunt of yours or a sick friend, and mayn't +be home that night; and then you start out to hunt up Tom Smith and have +at least one more good night, if you die for it. + + . . . . . + +This is the first time you have seen Tom at home; you knew of his home +and people in the old days, but only in a vague, indefinite sort of way. +Tom has changed! He is stouter and older-looking; he seems solemn and +settled down. You intended to give him a surprise and have a good old +jolly laugh with him, but somehow things get suddenly damped at the +beginning. He grins and grips your hand right enough, but there seems +something wanting. You can't help staring at him, and he seems to look +at you in a strange, disappointing way; it doesn't strike you that you +also have changed, and perhaps more in his eyes than he in yours. He +introduces you to his mother and sisters and brothers, and the rest of +the family; or to his wife, as the case may be; and you have to suppress +your feelings and be polite and talk common-place. You hate to be polite +and talk common-place. You aren't built that way--and Tom wasn't either, +in the old days. The wife (or the mother and sisters) receives you +kindly, for Tom's sake, and makes much of you; but they don't know you +yet. You want to get Tom outside, and have a yarn and a drink and a +laugh with him--you are bursting to tell him all about yourself, and get +him to tell you all about himself, and ask him if he remembers things; +and you wonder if he is bursting the same way, and hope he is. The old +lady and sisters (or the wife) bore you pretty soon, and you wonder +if they bore Tom; you almost fancy, from his looks, that they do. You +wonder whether Tom is coming out to-night, whether he wants to get out, +and if he wants to and wants to get out by himself, whether he'll be +able to manage it; but you daren't broach the subject, it wouldn't be +polite. You've got to be polite. Then you get worried by the thought +that Tom is bursting to get out with you and only wants an excuse; is +waiting, in fact, and hoping for you to ask him in an off-hand sort of +way to come out for a stroll. But you're not quite sure; and besides, if +you were, you wouldn't have the courage. By-and-bye you get tired of +it all, thirsty, and want to get out in the open air. You get tired of +saying, “Do you really, Mrs. Smith?” or “Do you think so, Miss Smith?” + or “You were quite right, Mrs. Smith,” and “Well, I think so too, Mrs. +Smith,” or, to the brother, “That's just what I thought, Mr. Smith.” + You don't want to “talk pretty” to them, and listen to their wishy-washy +nonsense; you want to get out and have a roaring spree with Tom, as you +had in the old days; you want to make another night of it with your +old mate, Tom Smith; and pretty soon you get the blues badly, and feel +nearly smothered in there, and you've got to get out and have a beer +anyway--Tom or no Tom; and you begin to feel wild with Tom himself; and +at last you make a bold dash for it and chance Tom. You get up, look +at your hat, and say: “Ah, well, I must be going, Tom; I've got to meet +someone down the street at seven o'clock. Where'll I meet you in town +next week?” + +But Tom says: + +“Oh, dash it; you ain't going yet. Stay to tea, Joe, stay to tea. It'll +be on the table in a minute. Sit down--sit down, man! Here, gimme your +hat.” + +And Tom's sister, or wife, or mother comes in with an apron on and her +hands all over flour, and says: + +“Oh, you're not going yet, Mr. Brown? Tea'll be ready in a minute. Do +stay for tea.” And if you make excuses, she cross-examines you about the +time you've got to keep that appointment down the street, and tells you +that their clock is twenty minutes fast, and that you have got plenty of +time, and so you have to give in. But you are mightily encouraged by +a winksome expression which you see, or fancy you see, on your side of +Tom's face; also by the fact of his having accidentally knocked his foot +against your shins. So you stay. + +One of the females tells you to “Sit there, Mr. Brown,” and you take +your place at the table, and the polite business goes on. You've got to +hold your knife and fork properly, and mind your p's and q's, and when +she says, “Do you take milk and sugar, Mr. Brown?” you've got to say, +“Yes, please, Miss Smith--thanks--that's plenty.” And when they press +you, as they will, to have more, you've got to keep on saying, “No, +thanks, Mrs. Smith; no, thanks, Miss Smith; I really couldn't; I've done +very well, thank you; I had a very late dinner, and so on”--bother such +tommy-rot. And you don't seem to have any appetite, anyway. And you +think of the days out on the track when you and Tom sat on your +swags under a mulga at mid-day, and ate mutton and johnny-cake with +clasp-knives, and drank by turns out of the old, battered, leaky billy. + +And after tea you have to sit still while the precious minutes are +wasted, and listen and sympathize, while all the time you are on the +fidget to get out with Tom, and go down to a private bar where you know +some girls. + +And perhaps by-and-bye the old lady gets confidential, and seizes an +opportunity to tell you what a good steady young fellow Tom is now that +he never touches drink, and belongs to a temperance society (or the +Y.M.C.A.), and never stays out of nights. + +Consequently you feel worse than ever, and lonelier, and sorrier that +you wasted your time coming. You are encouraged again by a glimpse of +Tom putting on a clean collar and fixing himself up a bit; but when you +are ready to go, and ask him if he's coming a bit down the street +with you, he says he thinks he will in such a disinterested, +don't-mind-if-I-do sort of tone, that he makes you mad. + +At last, after promising to “drop in again, Mr. Brown, whenever you're +passing,” and to “don't forget to call,” and thanking them for their +assurance that they'll “be always glad to see you,” and telling them +that you've spent a very pleasant evening and enjoyed yourself, and are +awfully sorry you couldn't stay--you get away with Tom. + +You don't say much to each other till you get round the corner and +down the street a bit, and then for a while your conversation is mostly +common-place, such as, “Well, how have you been getting on all this +time, Tom?” “Oh, all right. How have you been getting on?” and so on. + +But presently, and perhaps just as you have made up your mind to chance +the alleged temperance business and ask Tom in to have a drink, he +throws a glance up and down the street, nudges your shoulder, says “Come +on,” and disappears sideways into a pub. + + . . . . . + +“What's yours, Tom?” “What's yours, Joe?” “The same for me.” “Well, +here's luck, old man.” “Here's luck.” You take a drink, and look over +your glass at Tom. Then the old smile spreads over his face, and it +makes you glad--you could swear to Tom's grin in a hundred years. Then +something tickles him--your expression, perhaps, or a recollection of +the past--and he sets down his glass on the bar and laughs. Then you +laugh. Oh, there's no smile like the smile that old mates favour each +other with over the tops of their glasses when they meet again after +years. It is eloquent, because of the memories that give it birth. + +“Here's another. Do you remember----? Do you remember----?” Oh, it all +comes back again like a flash. Tom hasn't changed a bit; just the same +good-hearted, jolly idiot he always was. Old times back again! “It's +just like old times,” says Tom, after three or four more drinks. + + . . . . . + +And so you make a night of it and get uproariously jolly. You get as +“glorious” as Bobby Burns did in the part of Tam O'Shanter, and have a +better “time” than any of the times you had in the old days. And you see +Tom as nearly home in the morning as you dare, and he reckons he'll get +it hot from his people--which no doubt he will--and he explains that +they are very particular up at home--church people, you know--and, of +course, especially if he's married, it's understood between you that +you'd better not call for him up at home after this--at least, not till +things have cooled down a bit. It's always the way. The friend of the +husband always gets the blame in cases like this. But Tom fixes up a +yarn to tell them, and you aren't to “say anything different” in case +you run against any of them. And he fixes up an appointment with you for +next Saturday night, and he'll get there if he gets divorced for it. +But he MIGHT have to take the wife out shopping, or one of the girls +somewhere; and if you see her with him you've got to lay low, and be +careful, and wait--at another hour and place, perhaps, all of which is +arranged--for if she sees you she'll smell a rat at once, and he won't +be able to get off at all. + +And so, as far as you and Tom are concerned, the “old times” have come +back once more. + + . . . . . + +But, of course (and we almost forgot it), you might chance to fall in +love with one of Tom's sisters, in which case there would be another and +a totally different story to tell. + + + + II. + + Jack Ellis + + +Things are going well with you. You have escaped from “the track”, so to +speak, and are in a snug, comfortable little billet in the city. Well, +while doing the block you run against an old mate of other days--VERY +other days--call him Jack Ellis. Things have gone hard with Jack. He +knows you at once, but makes no advance towards a greeting; he acts as +though he thinks you might cut him--which, of course, if you are a true +mate, you have not the slightest intention of doing. His coat is yellow +and frayed, his hat is battered and green, his trousers “gone” in +various places, his linen very cloudy, and his boots burst and innocent +of polish. You try not to notice these things--or rather, not to seem +to notice them--but you cannot help doing so, and you are afraid he'll +notice that you see these things, and put a wrong construction on it. +How men will misunderstand each other! You greet him with more than the +necessary enthusiasm. In your anxiety to set him at his ease and make +him believe that nothing--not even money--can make a difference in your +friendship, you over-act the business; and presently you are afraid that +he'll notice that too, and put a wrong construction on it. You wish that +your collar was not so clean, nor your clothes so new. Had you known you +would meet him, you would have put on some old clothes for the occasion. + +You are both embarrassed, but it is YOU who feel ashamed--you are +almost afraid to look at him lest he'll think you are looking at his +shabbiness. You ask him in to have a drink, but he doesn't respond +so heartily as you wish, as he did in the old days; he doesn't like +drinking with anybody when he isn't “fixed”, as he calls it--when he +can't shout. + +It didn't matter in the old days who held the money so long as there was +plenty of “stuff” in the camp. You think of the days when Jack stuck to +you through thick and thin. You would like to give him money now, but +he is so proud; he always was; he makes you mad with his beastly pride. +There wasn't any pride of that sort on the track or in the camp in +those days; but times have changed--your lives have drifted too widely +apart--you have taken different tracks since then; and Jack, without +intending to, makes you feel that it is so. + +You have a drink, but it isn't a success; it falls flat, as far as Jack +is concerned; he won't have another; he doesn't “feel on”, and presently +he escapes under plea of an engagement, and promises to see you again. + +And you wish that the time was come when no one could have more or less +to spend than another. + + . . . . . + +P.S.--I met an old mate of that description once, and so successfully +persuaded him out of his beastly pride that he borrowed two pounds off +me till Monday. I never got it back since, and I want it badly at +the present time. In future I'll leave old mates with their pride +unimpaired. + + + + +Two Larrikins + + + +“Y'orter do something, Ernie. Yer know how I am. YOU don't seem to care. +Y'orter to do something.” + +Stowsher slouched at a greater angle to the greasy door-post, and +scowled under his hat-brim. It was a little, low, frowsy room opening +into Jones' Alley. She sat at the table, sewing--a thin, sallow girl +with weak, colourless eyes. She looked as frowsy as her surroundings. + +“Well, why don't you go to some of them women, and get fixed up?” + +She flicked the end of the table-cloth over some tiny, unfinished +articles of clothing, and bent to her work. + +“But you know very well I haven't got a shilling, Ernie,” she said, +quietly. “Where am I to get the money from?” + +“Who asked yer to get it?” + +She was silent, with the exasperating silence of a woman who has +determined to do a thing in spite of all reasons and arguments that may +be brought against it. + +“Well, wot more do yer want?” demanded Stowsher, impatiently. + +She bent lower. “Couldn't we keep it, Ernie?” + +“Wot next?” asked Stowsher, sulkily--he had half suspected what was +coming. Then, with an impatient oath, “You must be gettin' ratty.” + +She brushed the corner of the cloth further over the little clothes. + +“It wouldn't cost anything, Ernie. I'd take a pride in him, and keep him +clean, and dress him like a little lord. He'll be different from all the +other youngsters. He wouldn't be like those dirty, sickly little brats +out there. He'd be just like you, Ernie; I know he would. I'll look +after him night and day, and bring him up well and strong. We'd train +his little muscles from the first, Ernie, and he'd be able to knock 'em +all out when he grew up. It wouldn't cost much, and I'd work hard and be +careful if you'd help me. And you'd be proud of him, too, Ernie--I know +you would.” + +Stowsher scraped the doorstep with his foot; but whether he was +“touched”, or feared hysterics and was wisely silent, was not apparent. + +“Do you remember the first day I met you, Ernie?” she asked, presently. + +Stowsher regarded her with an uneasy scowl: “Well--wot o' that?” + +“You came into the bar-parlour at the 'Cricketers' Arms' and caught a +push of 'em chyacking your old man.” + +“Well, I altered that.” + +“I know you did. You done for three of them, one after another, and two +was bigger than you.” + +“Yes! and when the push come up we done for the rest,” said Stowsher, +softening at the recollection. + +“And the day you come home and caught the landlord bullying your old +mother like a dog----” + +“Yes; I got three months for that job. But it was worth it!” he +reflected. “Only,” he added, “the old woman might have had the knocker +to keep away from the lush while I was in quod.... But wot's all this +got to do with it?” + +“HE might barrack and fight for you, some day, Ernie,” she said softly, +“when you're old and out of form and ain't got no push to back you.” + +The thing was becoming decidedly embarrassing to Stowsher; not that he +felt any delicacy on the subject, but because he hated to be drawn into +a conversation that might be considered “soft”. + +“Oh, stow that!” he said, comfortingly. “Git on yer hat, and I'll take +yer for a trot.” + +She rose quickly, but restrained herself, recollecting that it was not +good policy to betray eagerness in response to an invitation from Ernie. + +“But--you know--I don't like to go out like this. You can't--you +wouldn't like to take me out the way I am, Ernie!” + +“Why not? Wot rot!” + +“The fellows would see me, and--and----” + +“And... wot?” + +“They might notice----” + +“Well, wot o' that? I want 'em to. Are yer comin' or are yer ain't? +Fling round now. I can't hang on here all day.” + +They walked towards Flagstaff Hill. + +One or two, slouching round a pub. corner, saluted with “Wotcher, +Stowsher!” + +“Not too stinkin',” replied Stowsher. “Soak yer heads.” + +“Stowsher's goin' to stick,” said one privately. + +“An' so he orter,” said another. “Wish I had the chanst.” + +The two turned up a steep lane. + +“Don't walk so fast up hill, Ernie; I can't, you know.” + +“All right, Liz. I forgot that. Why didn't yer say so before?” + +She was contentedly silent most of the way, warned by instinct, after +the manner of women when they have gained their point by words. + +Once he glanced over his shoulder with a short laugh. “Gorblime!” he +said, “I nearly thought the little beggar was a-follerin' along behind!” + +When he left her at the door he said: “Look here, Liz. 'Ere's half a +quid. Git what yer want. Let her go. I'm goin' to graft again in the +mornin', and I'll come round and see yer to-morrer night.” + +Still she seemed troubled and uneasy. + +“Ernie.” + +“Well. Wot now?” + +“S'posin' it's a girl, Ernie.” + +Stowsher flung himself round impatiently. + +“Oh, for God's sake, stow that! Yer always singin' out before yer +hurt.... There's somethin' else, ain't there--while the bloomin' shop's +open?” + +“No, Ernie. Ain't you going to kiss me?... I'm satisfied.” + +“Satisfied! Yer don't want the kid to be arst 'oo 'is father was, do +yer? Yer'd better come along with me some day this week and git spliced. +Yer don't want to go frettin' or any of that funny business while it's +on.” + +“Oh, Ernie! do you really mean it?”--and she threw her arms round his +neck, and broke down at last. + + . . . . . + +“So-long, Liz. No more funny business now--I've had enough of it. Keep +yer pecker up, old girl. To-morrer night, mind.” Then he added suddenly: +“Yer might have known I ain't that sort of a bloke”--and left abruptly. + +Liz was very happy. + + + + +Mr. Smellingscheck + + + +I met him in a sixpenny restaurant--“All meals, 6d.--Good beds, 1s.” + That was before sixpenny restaurants rose to a third-class position, +and became possibly respectable places to live in, through the +establishment, beneath them, of fourpenny hash-houses (good beds, 6d.), +and, beneath THEM again, of THREE-penny “dining-rooms--CLEAN beds, 4d.” + +There were five beds in our apartment, the head of one against the foot +of the next, and so on round the room, with a space where the door and +washstand were. I chose the bed the head of which was near the foot of +his, because he looked like a man who took his bath regularly. I +should like, in the interests of sentiment, to describe the place as a +miserable, filthy, evil-smelling garret; but I can't--because it wasn't. +The room was large and airy; the floor was scrubbed and the windows +cleaned at least once a week, and the beds kept fresh and neat, which +is more--a good deal more--than can be said of many genteel private +boarding-houses. The lodgers were mostly respectable unemployed, and +one or two--fortunate men!--in work; it was the casual boozer, +the professional loafer, and the occasional spieler--the +one-shilling-bed-men--who made the place objectionable, not the +hard-working people who paid ten pounds a week for the house; and, but +for the one-night lodgers and the big gilt black-and-red bordered and +“shaded” “6d.” in the window--which made me glance guiltily up and down +the street, like a burglar about to do a job, before I went in--I was +pretty comfortable there. + +They called him “Mr. Smellingscheck”, and treated him with a peculiar +kind of deference, the reason for which they themselves were doubtless +unable to explain or even understand. The haggard woman who made the +beds called him “Mr. Smell-'is-check”. Poor fellow! I didn't think, by +the look of him, that he'd smelt his cheque, or anyone else's, or that +anyone else had smelt his, for many a long day. He was a fat man, slow +and placid. He looked like a typical monopolist who had unaccountably +got into a suit of clothes belonging to a Domain unemployed, and hadn't +noticed, or had entirely forgotten, the circumstance in his business +cares--if such a word as care could be connected with such a calm, +self-contained nature. He wore a suit of cheap slops of some kind of +shoddy “tweed”. The coat was too small and the trousers too short, and +they were drawn up to meet the waistcoat--which they did with painful +difficulty, now and then showing, by way of protest, two pairs of brass +buttons and the ends of the brace-straps; and they seemed to blame the +irresponsive waistcoat or the wearer for it all. Yet he never gave way +to assist them. A pair of burst elastic-sides were in full evidence, and +a rim of cloudy sock, with a hole in it, showed at every step. + +But he put on his clothes and wore them like--like a gentleman. He had +two white shirts, and they were both dirty. He'd lay them out on +the bed, turn them over, regard them thoughtfully, choose that which +appeared to his calm understanding to be the cleaner, and put it on, and +wear it until it was unmistakably dirtier than the other; then he'd +wear the other till it was dirtier than the first. He managed his three +collars the same way. His handkerchiefs were washed in the bathroom, and +dried, without the slightest disguise, in the bedroom. He never hurried +in anything. The way he cleaned his teeth, shaved, and made his toilet +almost transformed the place, in my imagination, into a gentleman's +dressing-room. + +He talked politics and such things in the abstract--always in the +abstract--calmly in the abstract. He was an old-fashioned Conservative +of the Sir Leicester Deadlock style. When he was moved by an extra +shower of aggressive democratic cant--which was seldom--he defended +Capital, but only as if it needed no defence, and as if its opponents +were merely thoughtless, ignorant children whom he condescended to set +right because of their inexperience and for their own good. He stuck +calmly to his own order--the order which had dropped him like a foul +thing when the bottom dropped out of his boom, whatever that was. He +never talked of his misfortunes. + +He took his meals at the little greasy table in the dark corner +downstairs, just as if he were dining at the Exchange. He had a +chop--rather well-done--and a sheet of the 'Herald' for breakfast. He +carried two handkerchiefs; he used one for a handkerchief and the other +for a table-napkin, and sometimes folded it absently and laid it on the +table. He rose slowly, putting his chair back, took down his battered +old green hat, and regarded it thoughtfully--as though it had just +occurred to him in a calm, casual way that he'd drop into his hatter's, +if he had time, on his way down town, and get it blocked, or else send +the messenger round with it during business hours. He'd draw his stick +out from behind the next chair, plant it, and, if you hadn't quite +finished your side of the conversation, stand politely waiting until you +were done. Then he'd look for a suitable reply into his hat, put it +on, give it a twitch to settle it on his head--as gentlemen do a +“chimney-pot”--step out into the gangway, turn his face to the door, and +walk slowly out on to the middle of the pavement--looking more placidly +well-to-do than ever. The saying is that clothes make a man, but HE +made his almost respectable just by wearing them. Then he'd consult his +watch--(he stuck to the watch all through, and it seemed a good one--I +often wondered why he didn't pawn it); then he'd turn slowly, right +turn, and look down the street. Then slowly back, left-about turn, and +take a cool survey in that direction, as if calmly undecided whether to +take a cab and drive to the Exchange, or (as it was a very fine morning, +and he had half an hour to spare) walk there and drop in at his club +on the way. He'd conclude to walk. I never saw him go anywhere in +particular, but he walked and stood as if he could. + +Coming quietly into the room one day, I surprised him sitting at the +table with his arms lying on it and his face resting on them. I heard +something like a sob. He rose hastily, and gathered up some papers which +were on the table; then he turned round, rubbing his forehead and +eyes with his forefinger and thumb, and told me that he suffered +from--something, I forget the name of it, but it was a well-to-do +ailment. His manner seemed a bit jolted and hurried for a minute or so, +and then he was himself again. He told me he was leaving for Melbourne +next day. He left while I was out, and left an envelope downstairs for +me. There was nothing in it except a pound note. + +I saw him in Brisbane afterwards, well-dressed, getting out of a cab at +the entrance of one of the leading hotels. But his manner was no more +self-contained and well-to-do than it had been in the old sixpenny +days--because it couldn't be. We had a well-to-do whisky together, and +he talked of things in the abstract. He seemed just as if he'd met me in +the Australia. + + + + +“A Rough Shed” + + + +A hot, breathless, blinding sunrise--the sun having appeared suddenly +above the ragged edge of the barren scrub like a great disc of molten +steel. No hint of a morning breeze before it, no sign on earth or sky to +show that it is morning--save the position of the sun. + +A clearing in the scrub--bare as though the surface of the earth were +ploughed and harrowed, and dusty as the road. Two oblong huts--one for +the shearers and one for the rouseabouts--in about the centre of the +clearing (as if even the mongrel scrub had shrunk away from them) built +end-to-end, of weatherboards, and roofed with galvanised iron. Little +ventilation; no verandah; no attempt to create, artificially, a breath +of air through the buildings. Unpainted, sordid--hideous. Outside, heaps +of ashes still hot and smoking. Close at hand, “butcher's shop”--a bush +and bag breakwind in the dust, under a couple of sheets of iron, with +offal, grease and clotted blood blackening the surface of the +ground about it. Greasy, stinking sheepskins hanging everywhere with +blood-blotched sides out. Grease inches deep in great black patches +about the fireplace ends of the huts, where wash-up and “boiling” water +is thrown. + +Inside, a rough table on supports driven into the black, greasy ground +floor, and formed of flooring boards, running on uneven lines the length +of the hut from within about 6ft. of the fire-place. Lengths of single +six-inch boards or slabs on each side, supported by the projecting ends +of short pieces of timber nailed across the legs of the table to serve +as seats. + +On each side of the hut runs a rough framework, like the partitions in a +stable; each compartment battened off to about the size of a manger, and +containing four bunks, one above the other, on each side--their ends, +of course, to the table. Scarcely breathing space anywhere between. +Fireplace, the full width of the hut in one end, where all the cooking +and baking for forty or fifty men is done, and where flour, sugar, etc., +are kept in open bags. Fire, like a very furnace. Buckets of tea and +coffee on roasting beds of coals and ashes on the hearth. Pile of +“brownie” on the bare black boards at the end of the table. Unspeakable +aroma of forty or fifty men who have little inclination and less +opportunity to wash their skins, and who soak some of the grease out +of their clothes--in buckets of hot water--on Saturday afternoons or +Sundays. And clinging to all, and over all, the smell of the dried, +stale yolk of wool--the stink of rams! + + . . . . . + +“I am a rouseabout of the rouseabouts. I have fallen so far that it +is beneath me to try to climb to the proud position of 'ringer' of the +shed. I had that ambition once, when I was the softest of green hands; +but then I thought I could work out my salvation and go home. I've got +used to hell since then. I only get twenty-five shillings a week (less +station store charges) and tucker here. I have been seven years west of +the Darling and never shore a sheep. Why don't I learn to shear, and +so make money? What should I do with more money? Get out of this and go +home? I would never go home unless I had enough money to keep me for +the rest of my life, and I'll never make that Out Back. Otherwise, what +should I do at home? And how should I account for the seven years, if +I were to go home? Could I describe shed life to them and explain how +I lived. They think shearing only takes a few days of the year--at the +beginning of summer. They'd want to know how I lived the rest of the +year. Could I explain that I 'jabbed trotters' and was a 'tea-and-sugar +burglar' between sheds. They'd think I'd been a tramp and a beggar all +the time. Could I explain ANYTHING so that they'd understand? I'd have +to be lying all the time and would soon be tripped up and found out. +For, whatever else I have been I was never much of a liar. No, I'll +never go home. + +“I become momentarily conscious about daylight. The flies on the track +got me into that habit, I think; they start at day-break--when the +mosquitoes give over. + +“The cook rings a bullock bell. + +“The cook is fire-proof. He is as a fiend from the nethermost sheol +and needs to be. No man sees him sleep, for he makes bread--or worse, +brownie--at night, and he rings a bullock bell loudly at half-past +five in the morning to rouse us from our animal torpors. Others, the +sheep-ho's or the engine-drivers at the shed or wool-wash, call him, if +he does sleep. They manage it in shifts, somehow, and sleep somewhere, +sometime. We haven't time to know. The cook rings the bullock bell and +yells the time. It was the same time five minutes ago--or a year ago. +No time to decide which. I dash water over my head and face and slap +handfuls on my eyelids--gummed over aching eyes--still blighted by the +yolk o' wool--grey, greasy-feeling water from a cut-down kerosene +tin which I sneaked from the cook and hid under my bunk and had the +foresight to refill from the cask last night, under cover of warm, +still, suffocating darkness. Or was it the night before last? Anyhow, it +will be sneaked from me to-day, and from the crawler who will collar it +to-morrow, and 'touched' and 'lifted' and 'collared' and recovered by +the cook, and sneaked back again, and cause foul language, and fights, +maybe, till we 'cut-out'. + +“No; we didn't have sweet dreams of home and mother, gentle poet--nor +yet of babbling brooks and sweethearts, and love's young dream. We are +too dirty and dog-tired when we tumble down, and have too little time to +sleep it off. We don't want to dream those dreams out here--they'd only +be nightmares for us, and we'd wake to remember. We MUSTN'T remember +here. + +“At the edge of the timber a great galvanised-iron shed, nearly all +roof, coming down to within 6ft. 6in. of the 'board' over the 'shoots'. +Cloud of red dust in the dead timber behind, going up--noon-day dust. +Fence covered with skins; carcases being burned; blue smoke going +straight up as in noonday. Great glossy (greasy-glossy) black crows +'flopping' around. + +“The first syren has gone. We hurry in single files from opposite ends +of rouseabouts' and shearers' huts (as the paths happen to run to the +shed) gulping hot tea or coffee from a pint-pot in one hand and biting +at a junk of brownie in the other. + +“Shed of forty hands. Shearers rush the pens and yank out sheep and +throw them like demons; grip them with their knees, take up machines, +jerk the strings; and with a rattling whirring roar the great +machine-shed starts for the day. + +“'Go it, you----tigers!' yells a tar-boy. 'Wool away!' 'Tar!' 'Sheep +Ho!' We rush through with a whirring roar till breakfast time. + +“We seize our tin plate from the pile, knife and fork from the +candle-box, and crowd round the camp-oven to jab out lean chops, dry as +chips, boiled in fat. Chops or curry-and-rice. There is some growling +and cursing. We slip into our places without removing our hats. There's +no time to hunt for mislaid hats when the whistle goes. Row of hat +brims, level, drawn over eyes, or thrust back--according to characters +or temperaments. Thrust back denotes a lucky absence of brains, I fancy. +Row of forks going up, or jabbing, or poised, loaded, waiting for last +mouthful to be bolted. + +“We pick up, sweep, tar, sew wounds, catch sheep that break from the +pens, jump down and pick up those that can't rise at the bottom of +the shoots, 'bring-my-combs-from-the-grinder-will-yer,' laugh at dirty +jokes, and swear--and, in short, are the 'will-yer' slaves, body and +soul, of seven, six, five, or four shearers, according to the distance +from the rolling tables. + +“The shearer on the board at the shed is a demon. He gets so much a +hundred; we, 25s. a week. He is not supposed, by the rules of the shed, +the Union, and humanity, to take a sheep out of the pen AFTER the bell +goes (smoke-ho, meals, or knock-off), but his watch is hanging on the +post, and he times himself to get so many sheep out of the pen BEFORE +the bell goes, and ONE MORE--the 'bell-sheep'--as it is ringing. We have +to take the last fleece to the table and leave our board clean. We go +through the day of eight hours in runs of about an hour and 20 minutes +between smoke-ho's--from 6 to 6. If the shearers shore 200 instead of +100, they'd get 2 Pounds a day instead of 1 Pound, and we'd have twice +as much work to do for our 25s. per week. But the shearers are racing +each other for tallies. And it's no use kicking. There is no God here +and no Unionism (though we all have tickets). But what am I growling +about? I've worked from 6 to 6 with no smoke-ho's for half the wages, +and food we wouldn't give the sheep-ho dog. It's the bush growl, born of +heat, flies, and dust. I'd growl now if I had a thousand a year. We MUST +growl, swear, and some of us drink to d.t.'s, or go mad sober. + +“Pants and shirts stiff with grease as though a couple of pounds of soft +black putty were spread on with a painter's knife. + +“No, gentle bard!--we don't sing at our work. Over the whirr and roar +and hum all day long, and with iteration that is childish and irritating +to the intelligent greenhand, float unthinkable adjectives and adverbs, +addressed to jumbucks, jackaroos, and mates indiscriminately. And worse +words for the boss over the board--behind his back. + +“I came of a Good Christian Family--perhaps that's why I went to the +Devil. When I came out here I'd shrink from the man who used foul +language. In a short time I used it with the worst. I couldn't help it. + +“That's the way of it. If I went back to a woman's country again I +wouldn't swear. I'd forget this as I would a nightmare. That's the +way of it. There's something of the larrikin about us. We don't exist +individually. Off the board, away from the shed (and each other) we are +quiet--even gentle. + +“A great-horned ram, in poor condition, but shorn of a heavy fleece, +picks himself up at the foot of the 'shoot', and hesitates, as if +ashamed to go down to the other end where the ewes are. The most +ridiculous object under Heaven. + +“A tar-boy of fifteen, of the bush, with a mouth so vile that +a street-boy, same age (up with a shearing uncle), kicks him +behind--having proved his superiority with his fists before the shed +started. Of which unspeakable little fiend the roughest shearer of a +rough shed was heard to say, in effect, that if he thought there was +the slightest possibility of his becoming the father of such a boy +he'd----take drastic measures to prevent the possibility of his becoming +a proud parent at all. + +“Twice a day the cooks and their familiars carry buckets of +oatmeal-water and tea to the shed, two each on a yoke. We cry, 'Where +are you coming to, my pretty maids?' + +“In ten minutes the surfaces of the buckets are black with flies. We +have given over trying to keep them clear. We stir the living cream +aside with the bottoms of the pints, and guzzle gallons, and sweat it +out again. Occasionally a shearer pauses and throws the perspiration +from his forehead in a rain. + +“Shearers live in such a greedy rush of excitement that often a strong +man will, at a prick of the shears, fall in a death-like faint on the +board. + +“We hate the Boss-of-the-Board as the shearers' 'slushy' hates the +shearers' cook. I don't know why. He's a very fair boss. + +“He refused to put on a traveller yesterday, and the traveller knocked +him down. He walked into the shed this morning with his hat back and +thumbs in waistcoat--a tribute to man's weakness. He threatened to +dismiss the traveller's mate, a bigger man, for rough shearing--a +tribute to man's strength. The shearer said nothing. We hate the boss +because he IS boss, but we respect him because he is a strong man. He is +as hard up as any of us, I hear, and has a sick wife and a large, small +family in Melbourne. God judge us all! + +“There is a gambling-school here, headed by the shearers' cook. After +tea they head-'em, and advance cheques are passed from hand to hand, and +thrown in the dust until they are black. When it's too dark to see with +nose to the ground, they go inside and gamble with cards. Sometimes +they start on Saturday afternoon, heading 'em till dark, play cards all +night, start again heading 'em Sunday afternoon, play cards all Sunday +night, and sleep themselves sane on Monday, or go to work ghastly--like +dead men. + +“Cry of 'Fight'; we all rush out. But there isn't much fighting. Afraid +of murdering each other. I'm beginning to think that most bush crime is +due to irritation born of dust, heat, and flies. + +“The smothering atmosphere shudders when the sun goes down. We call it +the sunset breeze. + +“Saturday night or Sunday we're invited into the shearers' hut. There +are songs that are not hymns and recitations and speeches that are not +prayers. + +“Last Sunday night: Slush lamps at long intervals on table. Men playing +cards, sewing on patches--(nearly all smoking)--some writing, and +the rest reading Deadwood Dick. At one end of the table a Christian +Endeavourer endeavouring; at the other a cockney Jew, from the hawker's +boat, trying to sell rotten clothes. In response to complaints, direct +and not chosen generally for Sunday, the shearers' rep. requests both +apostles to shut up or leave. + +“He couldn't be expected to take the Christian and leave the Jew, any +more than he could take the Jew and leave the Christian. We are just +amongst ourselves in our hell. + + . . . . . + +“Fiddle at the end of rouseabouts' hut. Voice of Jackeroo, from upper +bunk with apologetic oaths: 'For God's sake chuck that up; it makes a +man think of blanky old things!' + +“A lost soul laughs (mine) and dreadful night smothers us.” + + + + +Payable Gold + + + +Among the crowds who left the Victorian side for New South Wales about +the time Gulgong broke out was an old Ballarat digger named Peter +McKenzie. He had married and retired from the mining some years +previously and had made a home for himself and family at the village of +St. Kilda, near Melbourne; but, as was often the case with old diggers, +the gold fever never left him, and when the fields of New South Wales +began to blaze he mortgaged his little property in order to raise funds +for another campaign, leaving sufficient behind him to keep his wife and +family in comfort for a year or so. + +As he often remarked, his position was now very different from what it +had been in the old days when he first arrived from Scotland, in the +height of the excitement following on the great discovery. He was a +young man then with only himself to look out for, but now that he was +getting old and had a family to provide for he had staked too much on +this venture to lose. His position did certainly look like a forlorn +hope, but he never seemed to think so. + +Peter must have been very lonely and low-spirited at times. A young +or unmarried man can form new ties, and even make new sweethearts if +necessary, but Peter's heart was with his wife and little ones at home, +and they were mortgaged, as it were, to Dame Fortune. Peter had to lift +this mortgage off. + +Nevertheless he was always cheerful, even at the worst of times, and +his straight grey beard and scrubby brown hair encircled a smile which +appeared to be a fixture. He had to make an effort in order to look +grave, such as some men do when they want to force a smile. + +It was rumoured that Peter had made a vow never to return home until +he could take sufficient wealth to make his all-important family +comfortable, or, at least, to raise the mortgage from the property, for +the sacrifice of which to his mad gold fever he never forgave himself. +But this was one of the few things which Peter kept to himself. + +The fact that he had a wife and children at St. Kilda was well known to +all the diggers. They had to know it, and if they did not know the age, +complexion, history and peculiarities of every child and of the “old +woman” it was not Peter's fault. + +He would cross over to our place and talk to the mother for hours about +his wife and children. And nothing pleased him better than to discover +peculiarities in us children wherein we resembled his own. It pleased us +also for mercenary reasons. “It's just the same with my old woman,” + or “It's just the same with my youngsters,” Peter would exclaim +boisterously, for he looked upon any little similarity between the two +families as a remarkable coincidence. He liked us all, and was always +very kind to us, often standing between our backs and the rod that +spoils the child--that is, I mean, if it isn't used. I was very +short-tempered, but this failing was more than condoned by the fact that +Peter's “eldest” was given that way also. Mother's second son was very +good-natured; so was Peter's third. Her “third” had a great aversion +for any duty that threatened to increase his muscles; so had Peter's +“second”. Our baby was very fat and heavy and was given to sucking her +own thumb vigorously, and, according to the latest bulletins from home, +it was just the same with Peter's “last”. + +I think we knew more about Peter's family than we did about our own. +Although we had never seen them, we were as familiar with their features +as the photographer's art could make us, and always knew their domestic +history up to the date of the last mail. + +We became interested in the McKenzie family. Instead of getting bored by +them as some people were, we were always as much pleased when Peter got +a letter from home as he was himself, and if a mail were missed, which +seldom happened--we almost shared his disappointment and anxiety. Should +one of the youngsters be ill, we would be quite uneasy, on Peter's +account, until the arrival of a later bulletin removed his anxiety, and +ours. + +It must have been the glorious power of a big true heart that gained for +Peter the goodwill and sympathy of all who knew him. + +Peter's smile had a peculiar fascination for us children. We would +stand by his pointing forge when he'd be sharpening picks in the early +morning, and watch his face for five minutes at a time, wondering +sometimes whether he was always SMILING INSIDE, or whether the smile +went on externally irrespective of any variation in Peter's condition of +mind. + +I think it was the latter case, for often when he had received bad news +from home we have heard his voice quaver with anxiety, while the old +smile played on his round, brown features just the same. + +Little Nelse (one of those queer old-man children who seem to come into +the world by mistake, and who seldom stay long) used to say that Peter +“cried inside”. + +Once, on Gulgong, when he attended the funeral of an old Ballarat +mate, a stranger who had been watching his face curiously remarked that +McKenzie seemed as pleased as though the dead digger had bequeathed him +a fortune. But the stranger had soon reason to alter his opinion, for +when another old mate began in a tremulous voice to repeat the words +“Ashes to ashes, an' dust to dust,” two big tears suddenly burst from +Peter's eyes, and hurried down to get entrapped in his beard. + +Peter's goldmining ventures were not successful. He sank three duffers +in succession on Gulgong, and the fourth shaft, after paying expenses, +left a little over a hundred to each party, and Peter had to send the +bulk of his share home. He lived in a tent (or in a hut when he could +get one) after the manner of diggers, and he “did for himself”, even to +washing his own clothes. He never drank nor “played”, and he took little +enjoyment of any kind, yet there was not a digger on the field who would +dream of calling old Peter McKenzie “a mean man”. He lived, as we know +from our own observations, in a most frugal manner. He always tried to +hide this, and took care to have plenty of good things for us when he +invited us to his hut; but children's eyes are sharp. Some said that +Peter half-starved himself, but I don't think his family ever knew, +unless he told them so afterwards. + +Ah, well! the years go over. Peter was now three years from home, and he +and Fortune were enemies still. Letters came by the mail, full of little +home troubles and prayers for Peter's return, and letters went back by +the mail, always hopeful, always cheerful. Peter never gave up. When +everything else failed he would work by the day (a sad thing for a +digger), and he was even known to do a job of fencing until such time +as he could get a few pounds and a small party together to sink another +shaft. + +Talk about the heroic struggles of early explorers in a hostile country; +but for dogged determination and courage in the face of poverty, +illness, and distance, commend me to the old-time digger--the truest +soldier Hope ever had! + +In the fourth year of his struggle Peter met with a terrible +disappointment. His party put down a shaft called the Forlorn Hope near +Happy Valley, and after a few weeks' fruitless driving his mates jibbed +on it. Peter had his own opinion about the ground--an old digger's +opinion, and he used every argument in his power to induce his mates to +put a few days' more work in the claim. In vain he pointed out that the +quality of the wash and the dip of the bottom exactly resembled that of +the “Brown Snake”, a rich Victorian claim. In vain he argued that in the +case of the abovementioned claim, not a colour could be got until the +payable gold was actually reached. Home Rule and The Canadian and that +cluster of fields were going ahead, and his party were eager to shift. +They remained obstinate, and at last, half-convinced against his +opinion, Peter left with them to sink the “Iawatha”, in Log Paddock, +which turned out a rank duffer--not even paying its own expenses. + +A party of Italians entered the old claim and, after driving it a few +feet further, made their fortune. + + . . . . . + +We all noticed the change in Peter McKenzie when he came to “Log +Paddock”, whither we had shifted before him. The old smile still +flickered, but he had learned to “look” grave for an hour at a time +without much effort. He was never quite the same after the affair of +Forlorn Hope, and I often think how he must have “cried” sometimes +“inside”. + +However, he still read us letters from home, and came and smoked in +the evening by our kitchen-fire. He showed us some new portraits of his +family which he had received by a late mail, but something gave me +the impression that the portraits made him uneasy. He had them in his +possession for nearly a week before showing them to us, and to the best +of our knowledge he never showed them to anybody else. Perhaps they +reminded him of the flight of time--perhaps he would have preferred his +children to remain just as he left them until he returned. + +But stay! there was one portrait that seemed to give Peter infinite +pleasure. It was the picture of a chubby infant of about three years +or more. It was a fine-looking child taken in a sitting position on +a cushion, and arrayed in a very short shirt. On its fat, soft, white +face, which was only a few inches above the ten very podgy toes, was a +smile something like Peter's. Peter was never tired of looking at and +showing the picture of his child--the child he had never seen. Perhaps +he cherished a wild dream of making his fortune and returning home +before THAT child grew up. + + . . . . . + +McKenzie and party were sinking a shaft at the upper end of Log Paddock, +generally called “The other end”. We were at the lower end. + +One day Peter came down from “the other end” and told us that his party +expected to “bottom” during the following week, and if they got no +encouragement from the wash they intended to go prospecting at the +“Happy Thought”, near Specimen Flat. + +The shaft in Log Paddock was christened “Nil Desperandum”. Towards the +end of the week we heard that the wash in the “Nil” was showing good +colours. + +Later came the news that “McKenzie and party” had bottomed on payable +gold, and the red flag floated over the shaft. Long before the first +load of dirt reached the puddling machine on the creek, the news was all +round the diggings. The “Nil Desperandum” was a “Golden Hole”! + + . . . . . + +We will not forget the day when Peter went home. He hurried down in the +morning to have an hour or so with us before Cobb and Co. went by. He +told us all about his little cottage by the bay at St. Kilda. He had +never spoken of it before, probably because of the mortgage. He told us +how it faced the bay--how many rooms it had, how much flower garden, and +how on a clear day he could see from the window all the ships that came +up to the Yarra, and how with a good telescope he could even distinguish +the faces of the passengers on the big ocean liners. + +And then, when the mother's back was turned, he hustled us children +round the corner, and surreptitiously slipped a sovereign into each +of our dirty hands, making great pantomimic show for silence, for the +mother was very independent. + +And when we saw the last of Peter's face setting like a good-humoured +sun on the top of Cobb and Co.'s, a great feeling of discontent and +loneliness came over all our hearts. Little Nelse, who had been Peter's +favourite, went round behind the pig-stye, where none might disturb him, +and sat down on the projecting end of a trough to “have a cry”, in his +usual methodical manner. But old “Alligator Desolation”, the dog, had +suspicions of what was up, and, hearing the sobs, went round to offer +whatever consolation appertained to a damp and dirty nose and a pair of +ludicrously doleful yellow eyes. + + + + +An Oversight of Steelman's + + + +Steelman and Smith--professional wanderers--were making back for +Wellington, down through the wide and rather dreary-looking Hutt Valley. +They were broke. They carried their few remaining belongings in two +skimpy, amateurish-looking swags. Steelman had fourpence left. They were +very tired and very thirsty--at least Steelman was, and he answered for +both. It was Smith's policy to feel and think just exactly as Steelman +did. Said Steelman: + +“The landlord of the next pub. is not a bad sort. I won't go in--he +might remember me. You'd best go in. You've been tramping round in the +Wairarapa district for the last six months, looking for work. You're +going back to Wellington now, to try and get on the new corporation +works just being started there--the sewage works. You think you've got a +show. You've got some mates in Wellington, and they're looking out for +a chance for you. You did get a job last week on a sawmill at +Silverstream, and the boss sacked you after three days and wouldn't pay +you a penny. That's just his way. I know him--at least a mate of mine +does. I've heard of him often enough. His name's Cowman. Don't forget +the name, whatever you do. The landlord here hates him like poison; +he'll sympathize with you. Tell him you've got a mate with you; he's +gone ahead--took a short cut across the paddocks. Tell him you've got +only fourpence left, and see if he'll give you a drop in a bottle. Says +you: 'Well, boss, the fact is we've only got fourpence, but you might +let us have a drop in a bottle'; and very likely he'll stand you a +couple of pints in a gin-bottle. You can fling the coppers on the +counter, but the chances are he won't take them. He's not a bad sort. +Beer's fourpence a pint out here, same's in Wellington. See that +gin-bottle lying there by the stump; get it and we'll take it down to +the river with us and rinse it out.” + +They reached the river bank. + +“You'd better take my swag--it looks more decent,” said Steelman. “No, +I'll tell you what we'll do: we'll undo both swags and make them into +one--one decent swag, and I'll cut round through the lanes and wait for +you on the road ahead of the pub.” + +He rolled up the swag with much care and deliberation and considerable +judgment. He fastened Smith's belt round one end of it, and +the handkerchiefs round the other, and made a towel serve as a +shoulder-strap. + +“I wish we had a canvas bag to put it in,” he said, “or a cover of some +sort. But never mind. The landlord's an old Australian bushman, now +I come to think of it; the swag looks Australian enough, and it might +appeal to his feelings, you know--bring up old recollections. But you'd +best not say you come from Australia, because he's been there, and he'd +soon trip you up. He might have been where you've been, you know, so +don't try to do too much. You always do mug-up the business when you +try to do more than I tell you. You might tell him your mate came from +Australia--but no, he might want you to bring me in. Better stick to +Maoriland. I don't believe in too much ornamentation. Plain lies are the +best.” + +“What's the landlord's name?” asked Smith. + +“Never mind that. You don't want to know that. You are not supposed to +know him at all. It might look suspicious if you called him by his name, +and lead to awkward questions; then you'd be sure to put your foot into +it.” + +“I could say I read it over the door.” + +“Bosh. Travellers don't read the names over the doors, when they go into +pubs. You're an entire stranger to him. Call him 'Boss'. Say 'Good-day, +Boss,' when you go in, and swing down your swag as if you're used to +it. Ease it down like this. Then straighten yourself up, stick your hat +back, and wipe your forehead, and try to look as hearty and independent +and cheerful as you possibly can. Curse the Government, and say the +country's done. It don't matter what Government it is, for he's always +against it. I never knew a real Australian that wasn't. Say that you're +thinking about trying to get over to Australia, and then listen to +him talking about it--and try to look interested, too! Get that damned +stone-deaf expression off your face!... He'll run Australia down most +likely (I never knew an Other-sider that had settled down over here who +didn't). But don't you make any mistake and agree with him, because, +although successful Australians over here like to run their own country +down, there's very few of them that care to hear anybody else do it.... +Don't come away as soon as you get your beer. Stay and listen to him for +a while, as if you're interested in his yarning, and give him time to +put you on to a job, or offer you one. Give him a chance to ask how you +and your mate are off for tobacco or tucker. Like as not he'll sling you +half a crown when you come away--that is, if you work it all right. +Now try to think of something to say to him, and make yourself a bit +interesting--if you possibly can. Tell him about the fight we saw back +at the pub. the other day. He might know some of the chaps. This is a +sleepy hole, and there ain't much news knocking round.... I wish I could +go in myself, but he's sure to remember ME. I'm afraid he got left the +last time I stayed there (so did one or two others); and, besides, I +came away without saying good-bye to him, and he might feel a bit sore +about it. That's the worst of travelling on the old road. Come on now, +wake up!” + +“Bet I'll get a quart,” said Smith, brightening up, “and some tucker for +it to wash down.” + +“If you don't,” said Steelman, “I'll stoush you. Never mind the bottle; +fling it away. It doesn't look well for a traveller to go into a pub. +with an empty bottle in his hand. A real swagman never does. It looks +much better to come out with a couple of full ones. That's what you've +got to do. Now, come along.” + +Steelman turned off into a lane, cut across the paddocks to the road +again, and waited for Smith. He hadn't long to wait. + +Smith went on towards the public-house, rehearsing his part as +he walked--repeating his “lines” to himself, so as to be sure of +remembering all that Steelman had told him to say to the landlord, and +adding, with what he considered appropriate gestures, some fancy touches +of his own, which he determined to throw in in spite of Steelman's +advice and warning. “I'll tell him (this)--I'll tell him (that). Well, +look here, boss, I'll say you're pretty right and I quite agree with you +as far as that's concerned, but,” &c. And so, murmuring and mumbling +to himself, Smith reached the hotel. The day was late, and the bar was +small, and low, and dark. Smith walked in with all the assurance he +could muster, eased down his swag in a corner in what he no doubt +considered the true professional style, and, swinging round to the bar, +said in a loud voice which he intended to be cheerful, independent, and +hearty: + +“Good-day, boss!” + +But it wasn't a “boss”. It was about the hardest-faced old woman that +Smith had ever seen. The pub. had changed hands. + +“I--I beg your pardon, missus,” stammered poor Smith. + +It was a knock-down blow for Smith. He couldn't come to time. He and +Steelman had had a landlord in their minds all the time, and laid +their plans accordingly; the possibility of having a she--and one like +this--to deal with never entered into their calculations. Smith had no +time to reorganise, even if he had had the brains to do so, without the +assistance of his mate's knowledge of human nature. + +“I--I beg your pardon, missus,” he stammered. + +Painful pause. She sized him up. + +“Well, what do you want?” + +“Well, missus--I--the fact is--will you give me a bottle of beer for +fourpence?” + +“Wha--what?” + +“I mean----. The fact is, we've only got fourpence left, and--I've got a +mate outside, and you might let us have a quart or so, in a bottle, for +that. I mean--anyway, you might let us have a pint. I'm very sorry to +bother you, missus.” + +But she couldn't do it. No. Certainly not. Decidedly not! All her drinks +were sixpence. She had her license to pay, and the rent, and a family to +keep. It wouldn't pay out there--it wasn't worth her while. It wouldn't +pay the cost of carting the liquor out, &c., &c. + +“Well, missus,” poor Smith blurted out at last, in sheer desperation, +“give me what you can in a bottle for this. I've--I've got a mate +outside.” And he put the four coppers on the bar. + +“Have you got a bottle?” + +“No--but----” + +“If I give you one, will you bring it back? You can't expect me to give +you a bottle as well as a drink.” + +“Yes, mum; I'll bring it back directly.” + +She reached out a bottle from under the bar, and very deliberately +measured out a little over a pint and poured it into the bottle, which +she handed to Smith without a cork. + +Smith went his way without rejoicing. It struck him forcibly that he +should have saved the money until they reached Petone, or the city, +where Steelman would be sure to get a decent drink. But how was he to +know? He had chanced it, and lost; Steelman might have done the same. +What troubled Smith most was the thought of what Steelman would say; he +already heard him, in imagination, saying: “You're a mug, Smith--Smith, +you ARE a mug.” + +But Steelman didn't say much. He was prepared for the worst by seeing +Smith come along so soon. He listened to his story with an air of gentle +sadness, even as a stern father might listen to the voluntary confession +of a wayward child; then he held the bottle up to the fading light of +departing day, looked through it (the bottle), and said: + +“Well--it ain't worth while dividing it.” + +Smith's heart shot right down through a hole in the sole of his left +boot into the hard road. + +“Here, Smith,” said Steelman, handing him the bottle, “drink it, old +man; you want it. It wasn't altogether your fault; it was an oversight +of mine. I didn't bargain for a woman of that kind, and, of course, YOU +couldn't be expected to think of it. Drink it! Drink it down, Smith. +I'll manage to work the oracle before this night is out.” + +Smith was forced to believe his ears, and, recovering from his surprise, +drank. + +“I promised to take back the bottle,” he said, with the ghost of a +smile. + +Steelman took the bottle by the neck and broke it on the fence. + +“Come on, Smith; I'll carry the swag for a while.” + +And they tramped on in the gathering starlight. + + + + +How Steelman told his Story + + + +It was Steelman's humour, in some of his moods, to take Smith into his +confidence, as some old bushmen do their dogs. + +“You're nearly as good as an intelligent sheep-dog to talk to, +Smith--when a man gets tired of thinking to himself and wants a relief. +You're a bit of a mug and a good deal of an idiot, and the chances are +that you don't know what I'm driving at half the time--that's the main +reason why I don't mind talking to you. You ought to consider yourself +honoured; it ain't every man I take into my confidence, even that far.” + +Smith rubbed his head. + +“I'd sooner talk to you--or a stump--any day than to one of those +silent, suspicious, self-contained, worldly-wise chaps that listen to +everything you say--sense and rubbish alike--as if you were trying to +get them to take shares in a mine. I drop the man who listens to me all +the time and doesn't seem to get bored. He isn't safe. He isn't to be +trusted. He mostly wants to grind his axe against yours, and there's +too little profit for me where there are two axes to grind, and no +stone--though I'd manage it once, anyhow.” + +“How'd you do it?” asked Smith. + +“There are several ways. Either you join forces, for instance, and find +a grindstone--or make one of the other man's axe. But the last way is +too slow, and, as I said, takes too much brain-work--besides, it doesn't +pay. It might satisfy your vanity or pride, but I've got none. I had +once, when I was younger, but it--well, it nearly killed me, so I +dropped it. + +“You can mostly trust the man who wants to talk more than you do; he'll +make a safe mate--or a good grindstone.” + +Smith scratched the nape of his neck and sat blinking at the fire, with +the puzzled expression of a woman pondering over a life-question or the +trimming of a hat. Steelman took his chin in his hand and watched Smith +thoughtfully. + +“I--I say, Steely,” exclaimed Smith, suddenly, sitting up and scratching +his head and blinking harder than ever--“wha--what am I?” + +“How do you mean?” + +“Am I the axe or the grindstone?” + +“Oh! your brain seems in extra good working order to-night, Smith. Well, +you turn the grindstone and I grind.” Smith settled. “If you could +grind better than I, I'd turn the stone and let YOU grind, I'd never go +against the interests of the firm--that's fair enough, isn't it?” + +“Ye-es,” admitted Smith; “I suppose so.” + +“So do I. Now, Smith, we've got along all right together for years, off +and on, but you never know what might happen. I might stop breathing, +for instance--and so might you.” + +Smith began to look alarmed. + +“Poetical justice might overtake one or both of us--such things have +happened before, though not often. Or, say, misfortune or death might +mistake us for honest, hard-working mugs with big families to keep, and +cut us off in the bloom of all our wisdom. You might get into trouble, +and, in that case, I'd be bound to leave you there, on principle; or +I might get into trouble, and you wouldn't have the brains to get me +out--though I know you'd be mug enough to try. I might make a rise and +cut you, or you might be misled into showing some spirit, and clear out +after I'd stoushed you for it. You might get tired of me calling you a +mug, and bossing you and making a tool or convenience of you, you know. +You might go in for honest graft (you were always a bit weak-minded) and +then I'd have to wash my hands of you (unless you agreed to keep me) +for an irreclaimable mug. Or it might suit me to become a respected and +worthy fellow townsman, and then, if you came within ten miles of me +or hinted that you ever knew me, I'd have you up for vagrancy, or +soliciting alms, or attempting to levy blackmail. I'd have to fix +you--so I give you fair warning. Or we might get into some desperate +fix (and it needn't be very desperate, either) when I'd be obliged to +sacrifice you for my own personal safety, comfort, and convenience. +Hundreds of things might happen. + +“Well, as I said, we've been at large together for some years, and I've +found you sober, trustworthy, and honest; so, in case we do part--as we +will sooner or later--and you survive, I'll give you some advice from my +own experience. + +“In the first place: If you ever happen to get born again--and it +wouldn't do you much harm--get born with the strength of a bullock and +the hide of one as well, and a swelled head, and no brains--at least +no more brains than you've got now. I was born with a skin like +tissue-paper, and brains; also a heart. + +“Get born without relatives, if you can: if you can't help it, clear out +on your own just as soon after you're born as you possibly can. I hung +on. + +“If you have relations, and feel inclined to help them any time when +you're flush (and there's no telling what a weak-minded man like you +might take it into his head to do)--don't do it. They'll get a down on +you if you do. It only causes family troubles and bitterness. There's +no dislike like that of a dependant. You'll get neither gratitude +nor civility in the end, and be lucky if you escape with a character. +(You've got NO character, Smith; I'm only just supposing you have.) +There's no hatred too bitter for, and nothing too bad to be said of, the +mug who turns. The worst yarns about a man are generally started by his +own tribe, and the world believes them at once on that very account. +Well, the first thing to do in life is to escape from your friends. + +“If you ever go to work--and miracles have happened before--no matter +what your wages are, or how you are treated, you can take it for granted +that you're sweated; act on that to the best of your ability, or you'll +never rise in the world. If you go to see a show on the nod you'll be +found a comfortable seat in a good place; but if you pay the chances +are the ticket clerk will tell you a lie, and you'll have to hustle for +standing room. The man that doesn't ante gets the best of this world; +anything he'll stand is good enough for the man that pays. If you try to +be too sharp you'll get into gaol sooner or later; if you try to be too +honest the chances are that the bailiff will get into your house--if you +have one--and make a holy show of you before the neighbours. The honest +softy is more often mistaken for a swindler, and accused of being one, +than the out-and-out scamp; and the man that tells the truth too much +is set down as an irreclaimable liar. But most of the time crow low +and roost high, for it's a funny world, and you never know what might +happen. + +“And if you get married (and there's no accounting for a woman's taste) +be as bad as you like, and then moderately good, and your wife will +love you. If you're bad all the time she can't stand it for ever, and if +you're good all the time she'll naturally treat you with contempt. Never +explain what you're going to do, and don't explain afterwards, if you +can help it. If you find yourself between two stools, strike hard for +your own self, Smith--strike hard, and you'll be respected more than if +you fought for all the world. Generosity isn't understood nowadays, and +what the people don't understand is either 'mad' or 'cronk'. Failure has +no case, and you can't build one for it.... I started out in life very +young--and very soft.” + + . . . . . + +“I thought you were going to tell me your story, Steely,” remarked +Smith. + +Steelman smiled sadly. + + + + +[End of original text.] + + + + + +About the author: + + + +Henry Lawson was born near Grenfell, New South Wales, Australia on +17 June 1867. Although he has since become Australia's most acclaimed +writer, in his own lifetime his writing was often “on the side”--his +“real” work being whatever he could find. His writing was frequently +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 at +Sydney, 2 September 1922. He is most famous for his short stories. + +“On the Track” and “Over the Sliprails” were both published at Sydney +in 1900, the prefaces being dated March and June respectively--and so, +though printed separately, a combined edition was printed the same +year (the two separate, complete works were simply put together in one +binding); hence they are sometimes referred to as “On the Track and Over +the Sliprails”. + + . . . . . + +An incomplete Glossary of Australian terms and concepts which may prove +helpful to understanding this book: + + Anniversary Day: Alluded to 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. + + Billy: A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil water for + tea. + + Cabbage-tree/Cabbage-tree hat: A wide-brimmed hat made with the + leaves of the cabbage tree palm (Livistona australis). It was a + common hat in early colonial days, and later became associated with + patriotism. + + Gin: An aboriginal woman; use of the term is analogous to “squaw” + in N. America. May be considered derogatory in modern usage. + + Graft: Work; hard work. + + Humpy: (Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in the bush, + especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. A gunyah, + wurley, or mia-mia. + + Jackeroo/Jackaroo: At the time Lawson wrote, a Jackeroo 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. + + Jumbuck: A sheep. + + Larrikin: A hoodlum. + + Lollies: Candy, sweets. + + 'Possum/Possum: In Australia, a class of marsupials that were + originally mistaken for the American animal of the same name. They + are not especially related to the possums of North and South + America, other than 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. + + Push: A group of people sharing something in common; Lawson uses the + word in an older and more particular sense, as a gang of violent + city hoodlums. + + Ratty: Shabby, dilapidated; somewhat eccentric, perhaps even + slightly mad. + + Selector: A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled land + by lease or license from the government. + + Shout: To buy a round of drinks. + + Sliprails/slip-rails: movable rails, forming a section of fence, + which can be taken down in lieu of a gate. + + Sly grog shop or shanty: An unlicensed bar or liquor-store, + especially one selling cheap or poor-quality liquor. + + Squatter: A person who first settled on land without government + permission, and later continued by lease or license, generally to + raise stock; a wealthy rural landowner. + + Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + + Stoush: Violence; to do violence to. + + 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. + + + Also: a hint with the seasons--remember that the seasons are + reversed from those in the northern hemisphere, hence June may be + hot, but December is even hotter. Australia is at a lower latitude + than the United States, so the winters are not harsh by US + standards, and are not even mild in the north. In fact, large parts + of Australia are governed more by “dry” versus “wet” than by Spring- + Summer-Fall-Winter. + + +(Alan Light, Monroe, North Carolina, March 1998.) + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of On the Track, by Henry Lawson + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1231 *** diff --git a/1231-h/1231-h.htm b/1231-h/1231-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cf339bc --- /dev/null +++ b/1231-h/1231-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5684 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + On the Track, by Henry Lawson + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1231 ***</div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + ON THE TRACK + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Henry Lawson + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h4> + Author of “While the Billy Boils”, and “When the World was Wide” + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> [Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are CAPITALISED.<br /> + Some obvious errors have been corrected after being confirmed.] <br /> + <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + Preface + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of the stories in this volume many have already appeared + in (various periodicals), while several now appear in print + for the first time. + + H. L. + Sydney, March 17th, 1900. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> Preface </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>ON THE TRACK</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> The Songs They used to Sing </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> A Vision of Sandy Blight </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> Andy Page's Rival </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> The Iron-Bark Chip </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> “Middleton's Peter” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> The Mystery of Dave Regan </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> Mitchell on Matrimony </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> Mitchell on Women </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> No Place for a Woman </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> Mitchell's Jobs </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> Bush Cats </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> Meeting Old Mates </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> Two Larrikins </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> Mr. Smellingscheck </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> “A Rough Shed” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> Payable Gold </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> An Oversight of Steelman's </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> How Steelman told his Story </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> About the author </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + ON THE TRACK + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Songs They used to Sing + </h2> + <p> + On the diggings up to twenty odd years ago—and as far back as I can + remember—on Lambing Flat, the Pipe Clays, Gulgong, Home Rule, and so + through the roaring list; in bark huts, tents, public-houses, sly grog + shanties, and—well, the most glorious voice of all belonged to a bad + girl. We were only children and didn't know why she was bad, but we + weren't allowed to play near or go near the hut she lived in, and we were + trained to believe firmly that something awful would happen to us if we + stayed to answer a word, and didn't run away as fast as our legs could + carry us, if she attempted to speak to us. We had before us the dread + example of one urchin, who got an awful hiding and went on bread and water + for twenty-four hours for allowing her to kiss him and give him lollies. + She didn't look bad—she looked to us like a grand and beautiful + lady-girl—but we got instilled into us the idea that she was an + awful bad woman, something more terrible even than a drunken man, and one + whose presence was to be feared and fled from. There were two other girls + in the hut with her, also a pretty little girl, who called her “Auntie”, + and with whom we were not allowed to play—for they were all bad; + which puzzled us as much as child-minds can be puzzled. We couldn't make + out how everybody in one house could be bad. We used to wonder why these + bad people weren't hunted away or put in gaol if they were so bad. And + another thing puzzled us. Slipping out after dark, when the bad girls + happened to be singing in their house, we'd sometimes run against men + hanging round the hut by ones and twos and threes, listening. They seemed + mysterious. They were mostly good men, and we concluded they were + listening and watching the bad women's house to see that they didn't kill + anyone, or steal and run away with any bad little boys—ourselves, + for instance—who ran out after dark; which, as we were informed, + those bad people were always on the lookout for a chance to do. + </p> + <p> + We were told in after years that old Peter McKenzie (a respectable, + married, hard-working digger) would sometimes steal up opposite the bad + door in the dark, and throw in money done up in a piece of paper, and + listen round until the bad girl had sung the “Bonnie Hills of Scotland” + two or three times. Then he'd go and get drunk, and stay drunk two or + three days at a time. And his wife caught him throwing the money in one + night, and there was a terrible row, and she left him; and people always + said it was all a mistake. But we couldn't see the mistake then. + </p> + <p> + But I can hear that girl's voice through the night, twenty years ago: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh! the bloomin' heath, and the pale blue bell, + In my bonnet then I wore; + And memory knows no brighter theme + Than those happy days of yore. + Scotland! Land of chief and song! + Oh, what charms to thee belong! +</pre> + <p> + And I am old enough to understand why poor Peter McKenzie—who was + married to a Saxon, and a Tartar—went and got drunk when the bad + girl sang “The Bonnie Hills of Scotland.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + His anxious eye might look in vain + For some loved form it knew! + + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + And yet another thing puzzled us greatly at the time. Next door to the bad + girl's house there lived a very respectable family—a family of good + girls with whom we were allowed to play, and from whom we got lollies + (those hard old red-and-white “fish lollies” that grocers sent home with + parcels of groceries and receipted bills). Now one washing day, they being + as glad to get rid of us at home as we were to get out, we went over to + the good house and found no one at home except the grown-up daughter, who + used to sing for us, and read “Robinson Crusoe” of nights, “out loud”, and + give us more lollies than any of the rest—and with whom we were + passionately in love, notwithstanding the fact that she was engaged to a + “grown-up man”—(we reckoned he'd be dead and out of the way by the + time we were old enough to marry her). She was washing. She had carried + the stool and tub over against the stick fence which separated her house + from the bad house; and, to our astonishment and dismay, the bad girl had + brought HER tub over against her side of the fence. They stood and worked + with their shoulders to the fence between them, and heads bent down close + to it. The bad girl would sing a few words, and the good girl after her, + over and over again. They sang very low, we thought. Presently the good + grown-up girl turned her head and caught sight of us. She jumped, and her + face went flaming red; she laid hold of the stool and carried it, tub and + all, away from that fence in a hurry. And the bad grown-up girl took her + tub back to her house. The good grown-up girl made us promise never to + tell what we saw—that she'd been talking to a bad girl—else + she would never, never marry us. + </p> + <p> + She told me, in after years, when she'd grown up to be a grandmother, that + the bad girl was surreptitiously teaching her to sing “Madeline” that day. + </p> + <p> + I remember a dreadful story of a digger who went and shot himself one + night after hearing that bad girl sing. We thought then what a frightfully + bad woman she must be. The incident terrified us; and thereafter we kept + carefully and fearfully out of reach of her voice, lest we should go and + do what the digger did. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + I have a dreamy recollection of a circus on Gulgong in the roaring days, + more than twenty years ago, and a woman (to my child-fancy a being from + another world) standing in the middle of the ring, singing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Out in the cold world—out in the street— + Asking a penny from each one I meet; + Cheerless I wander about all the day, + Wearing my young life in sorrow away! +</pre> + <p> + That last line haunted me for many years. I remember being frightened by + women sobbing (and one or two great grown-up diggers also) that night in + that circus. + </p> + <p> + “Father, Dear Father, Come Home with Me Now”, was a sacred song then, not + a peg for vulgar parodies and more vulgar “business” for fourth-rate + clowns and corner-men. Then there was “The Prairie Flower”. “Out on the + Prairie, in an Early Day”—I can hear the digger's wife yet: she was + the prettiest girl on the field. They married on the sly and crept into + camp after dark; but the diggers got wind of it and rolled up with + gold-dishes, shovels, &c., &c., and gave them a real good + tinkettling in the old-fashioned style, and a nugget or two to start + housekeeping on. She had a very sweet voice. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Fair as a lily, joyous and free, + Light of the prairie home was she. +</pre> + <p> + She's a “granny” now, no doubt—or dead. + </p> + <p> + And I remember a poor, brutally ill-used little wife, wearing a black eye + mostly, and singing “Love Amongst the Roses” at her work. And they sang + the “Blue Tail Fly”, and all the first and best coon songs—in the + days when old John Brown sank a duffer on the hill. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + The great bark kitchen of Granny Mathews' “Redclay Inn”. A fresh back-log + thrown behind the fire, which lights the room fitfully. Company settled + down to pipes, subdued yarning, and reverie. + </p> + <p> + Flash Jack—red sash, cabbage-tree hat on back of head with nothing + in it, glossy black curls bunched up in front of brim. Flash Jack + volunteers, without invitation, preparation, or warning, and through his + nose: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hoh!— + There was a wild kerlonial youth, + John Dowlin was his name! + He bountied on his parients, + Who lived in Castlemaine! +</pre> + <p> + and so on to— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He took a pistol from his breast + And waved that lit—tle toy— +</pre> + <p> + “Little toy” with an enthusiastic flourish and great unction on Flash + Jack's part— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I'll fight, but I won't surrender!” said + The wild Kerlonial Boy. +</pre> + <p> + Even this fails to rouse the company's enthusiasm. “Give us a song, Abe! + Give us the 'Lowlands'!” Abe Mathews, bearded and grizzled, is lying on + the broad of his back on a bench, with his hands clasped under his head—his + favourite position for smoking, reverie, yarning, or singing. He had a + strong, deep voice, which used to thrill me through and through, from hair + to toenails, as a child. + </p> + <p> + They bother Abe till he takes his pipe out of his mouth and puts it behind + his head on the end of the stool: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The ship was built in Glasgow; + 'Twas the “Golden Vanitee”— +Lines have dropped out of my memory during the thirty years gone +between— + + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low! +</pre> + <p> + The public-house people and more diggers drop into the kitchen, as all do + within hearing, when Abe sings. + </p> + <p> + “Now then, boys: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low! +</pre> + <p> + “Now, all together! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Low Lands! The Low Lands! + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!” + </pre> + <p> + Toe and heel and flat of foot begin to stamp the clay floor, and horny + hands to slap patched knees in accompaniment. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh! save me, lads!” he cried, + “I'm drifting with the current, + And I'm drifting with the tide! + And I'm sinking in the Low Lands, Low! + + The Low Lands! The Low Lands!”— +</pre> + <p> + The old bark kitchen is a-going now. Heels drumming on gin-cases under + stools; hands, knuckles, pipe-bowls, and pannikins keeping time on the + table. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And we sewed him in his hammock, + And we slipped him o'er the side, + And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low! + The Low Lands! The Low Lands! + And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low! +</pre> + <p> + Old Boozer Smith—a dirty gin-sodden bundle of rags on the floor in + the corner with its head on a candle box, and covered by a horse rug—old + Boozer Smith is supposed to have been dead to the universe for hours past, + but the chorus must have disturbed his torpor; for, with a suddenness and + unexpectedness that makes the next man jump, there comes a bellow from + under the horse rug: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Wot though!—I wear!—a rag!—ged coat! + I'll wear it like a man! +</pre> + <p> + and ceases as suddenly as it commenced. He struggles to bring his ruined + head and bloated face above the surface, glares round; then, no one + questioning his manhood, he sinks back and dies to creation; and + subsequent proceedings are only interrupted by a snore, as far as he is + concerned. + </p> + <p> + Little Jimmy Nowlett, the bullock-driver, is inspired. “Go on, Jimmy! Give + us a song!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the days when we were hard up + For want of wood and wire— +Jimmy always blunders; it should have been “food and fire”— + + We used to tie our boots up + With lit—tle bits—er wire; +</pre> + <p> + and— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I'm sitting in my lit—tle room, + It measures six by six; + The work-house wall is opposite, + I've counted all the bricks! +</pre> + <p> + “Give us a chorus, Jimmy!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy does, giving his head a short, jerky nod for nearly every word, and + describing a circle round his crown—as if he were stirring a pint of + hot tea—with his forefinger, at the end of every line: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hall!—Round!—Me—Hat! + I wore a weepin' willer! +</pre> + <p> + Jimmy is a Cockney. + </p> + <p> + “Now then, boys!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hall—round—me hat! +</pre> + <p> + How many old diggers remember it? + </p> + <p> + And: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A butcher, and a baker, and a quiet-looking quaker, + All a-courting pretty Jessie at the Railway Bar. +</pre> + <p> + I used to wonder as a child what the “railway bar” meant. + </p> + <p> + And: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I would, I would, I would in vain + That I were single once again! + But ah, alas, that will not be + Till apples grow on the willow tree. +</pre> + <p> + A drunken gambler's young wife used to sing that song—to herself. + </p> + <p> + A stir at the kitchen door, and a cry of “Pinter,” and old Poynton, + Ballarat digger, appears and is shoved in; he has several drinks aboard, + and they proceed to “git Pinter on the singin' lay,” and at last talk him + round. He has a good voice, but no “theory”, and blunders worse than Jimmy + Nowlett with the words. He starts with a howl— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hoh! + Way down in Covent Gar-ar-r-dings + A-strolling I did go, + To see the sweetest flow-ow-wers + That e'er in gardings grow. +</pre> + <p> + He saw the rose and lily—the red and white and blue—and he saw + the sweetest flow-ow-ers that e'er in gardings grew; for he saw two lovely + maidens (Pinter calls 'em “virgings”) underneath (he must have meant on + top of) “a garding chair”, sings Pinter. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And one was lovely Jessie, + With the jet black eyes and hair, +</pre> + <p> + roars Pinter, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And the other was a vir-ir-ging, + I solemn-lye declare! +</pre> + <p> + “Maiden, Pinter!” interjects Mr. Nowlett. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's all the same,” retorts Pinter. “A maiden IS a virging, Jimmy. + If you're singing, Jimmy, and not me, I'll leave off!” Chorus of “Order! + Shut up, Jimmy!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I quicklye step-ped up to her, + And unto her did sa-a-y: + Do you belong to any young man, + Hoh, tell me that, I pra-a-y? +</pre> + <p> + Her answer, according to Pinter, was surprisingly prompt and + unconventional; also full and concise: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No; I belong to no young man— + I solemnlye declare! + I mean to live a virging + And still my laurels wear! +</pre> + <p> + Jimmy Nowlett attempts to move an amendment in favour of “maiden”, but is + promptly suppressed. It seems that Pinter's suit has a happy termination, + for he is supposed to sing in the character of a “Sailor Bold”, and as he + turns to pursue his stroll in “Covent Gar-ar-dings”: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!” she cried, + “I love a Sailor Bold!” + </pre> + <p> + “Hong-kore, Pinter! Give us the 'Golden Glove', Pinter!” + </p> + <p> + Thus warmed up, Pinter starts with an explanatory “spoken” to the effect + that the song he is about to sing illustrates some of the little ways of + woman, and how, no matter what you say or do, she is bound to have her own + way in the end; also how, in one instance, she set about getting it. + </p> + <p> + Hoh! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now, it's of a young squoire near Timworth did dwell, + Who courted a nobleman's daughter so well— +</pre> + <p> + The song has little or nothing to do with the “squire”, except so far as + “all friends and relations had given consent,” and— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The troo-soo was ordered—appointed the day, + And a farmer were appointed for to give her away— +</pre> + <p> + which last seemed a most unusual proceeding, considering the wedding was a + toney affair; but perhaps there were personal interests—the nobleman + might have been hard up, and the farmer backing him. But there was an + extraordinary scene in the church, and things got mixed. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For as soon as this maiding this farmer espied: + “Hoh, my heart! Hoh, my heart! + Hoh, my heart!” then she cried. +</pre> + <p> + Hysterics? Anyway, instead of being wed— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This maiden took sick and she went to her bed. +</pre> + <p> + (N.B.—Pinter sticks to 'virging'.) + </p> + <p> + Whereupon friends and relations and guests left the house in a body (a + strange but perhaps a wise proceeding, after all—maybe they smelt a + rat) and left her to recover alone, which she did promptly. And then: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Shirt, breeches, and waistcoat this maiding put on, + And a-hunting she went with her dog and her gun; + She hunted all round where this farmier did dwell, + Because in her own heart she love-ed him well. +</pre> + <p> + The cat's out of the bag now: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And often she fired, but no game she killed— +</pre> + <p> + which was not surprising— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Till at last the young farmier came into the field— +</pre> + <p> + No wonder. She put it to him straight: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh, why are you not at the wedding?” she cried, + “For to wait on the squoire, and to give him his bride.” + </pre> + <p> + He was as prompt and as delightfully unconventional in his reply as the + young lady in Covent Gardings: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh, no! and oh, no! For the truth I must sa-a-y, + I love her too well for to give her a-w-a-a-y!” + </pre> + <p> + which was satisfactory to the disguised “virging”. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “.... and I'd take sword in hand, + And by honour I'd win her if she would command.” + </pre> + <p> + Which was still more satisfactory. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now this virging, being— +(Jimmy Nowlett: “Maiden, Pinter—” Jim is thrown on a stool and sat on +by several diggers.) + + Now this maiding, being please-ed to see him so bold, + She gave him her glove that was flowered with gold, +</pre> + <p> + and explained that she found it in his field while hunting around with her + dog and her gun. It is understood that he promised to look up the owner. + Then she went home and put an advertisement in the local 'Herald'; and + that ad. must have caused considerable sensation. She stated that she had + lost her golden glove, and + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The young man that finds it and brings it to me, + Hoh! that very young man my husband shall be! +</pre> + <p> + She had a saving clause in case the young farmer mislaid the glove before + he saw the ad., and an OLD bloke got holt of it and fetched it along. But + everything went all right. The young farmer turned up with the glove. He + was a very respectable young farmer, and expressed his gratitude to her + for having “honour-ed him with her love.” They were married, and the song + ends with a picture of the young farmeress milking the cow, and the young + farmer going whistling to plough. The fact that they lived and grafted on + the selection proves that I hit the right nail on the head when I guessed, + in the first place, that the old nobleman was “stony”. + </p> + <p> + In after years, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ... she told him of the fun, + How she hunted him up with her dog and her gun. +</pre> + <p> + But whether he was pleased or otherwise to hear it, after years of + matrimonial experiences, the old song doesn't say, for it ends there. + </p> + <p> + Flash Jack is more successful with “Saint Patrick's Day”. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I come to the river, I jumped it quite clever! + Me wife tumbled in, and I lost her for ever, + St. Patrick's own day in the mornin'! +</pre> + <p> + This is greatly appreciated by Jimmy Nowlett, who is suspected, especially + by his wife, of being more cheerful when on the roads than when at home. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “Sam Holt” was a great favourite with Jimmy Nowlett in after years. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, do you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt? + Black Alice so dirty and dark— + Who'd a nose on her face—I forget how it goes— + And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark. +</pre> + <p> + Sam Holt must have been very hard up for tucker as well as beauty then, + for + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Do you remember the 'possums and grubs + She baked for you down by the creek? +</pre> + <p> + Sam Holt was, apparently, a hardened flash Jack. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You were not quite the cleanly potato, Sam Holt. +</pre> + <p> + Reference is made to his “manner of holding a flush”, and he is asked to + remember several things which he, no doubt, would rather forget, including + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ... the hiding you got from the boys. +</pre> + <p> + The song is decidedly personal. + </p> + <p> + But Sam Holt makes a pile and goes home, leaving many a better and worse + man to pad the hoof Out Back. And—Jim Nowlett sang this with so much + feeling as to make it appear a personal affair between him and the absent + Holt— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And, don't you remember the fiver, Sam Holt, + You borrowed so careless and free? + I reckon I'll whistle a good many tunes +</pre> + <p> + (with increasing feeling) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ere you think of that fiver and me. +</pre> + <p> + For the chances will be that Sam Holt's old mate + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden Road + To the end of the chapter of fate. + + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + An echo from “The Old Bark Hut”, sung in the opposition camp across the + gully: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You may leave the door ajar, but if you keep it shut, + There's no need of suffocation in the Ould Barrk Hut. + + . . . . . + + The tucker's in the gin-case, but you'd better keep it shut— + For the flies will canther round it in the Ould Bark Hut. +</pre> + <p> + However: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What's out of sight is out of mind, in the Ould Bark Hut. + + . . . . . + + We washed our greasy moleskins + On the banks of the Condamine.— +</pre> + <p> + Somebody tackling the “Old Bullock Dray”; it must be over fifty verses + now. I saw a bushman at a country dance start to sing that song; he'd get + up to ten or fifteen verses, break down, and start afresh. At last he sat + down on his heel to it, in the centre of the clear floor, resting his + wrist on his knee, and keeping time with an index finger. It was very + funny, but the thing was taken seriously all through. + </p> + <p> + Irreverent echo from the old Lambing Flat trouble, from camp across the + gully: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! + No more Chinamen will enter Noo South Wales! +</pre> + <p> + and + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yankee Doodle came to town + On a little pony— + Stick a feather in his cap, + And call him Maccaroni! +</pre> + <p> + All the camps seem to be singing to-night: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ring the bell, watchman! + Ring! Ring! Ring! + Ring, for the good news + Is now on the wing! +</pre> + <p> + Good lines, the introduction: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + High on the belfry the old sexton stands, + Grasping the rope with his thin bony hands!... + Bon-fires are blazing throughout the land... + Glorious and blessed tidings! Ring! Ring the bell! + + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + Granny Mathews fails to coax her niece into the kitchen, but persuades her + to sing inside. She is the girl who learnt 'sub rosa' from the bad girl + who sang “Madeline”. Such as have them on instinctively take their hats + off. Diggers, &c., strolling past, halt at the first notes of the + girl's voice, and stand like statues in the moonlight: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Shall we gather at the river, + Where bright angel feet have trod? + The beautiful—the beautiful river + That flows by the throne of God!— +</pre> + <p> + Diggers wanted to send that girl “Home”, but Granny Mathews had the + old-fashioned horror of any of her children becoming “public”— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Gather with the saints at the river, + That flows by the throne of God! + + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + But it grows late, or rather, early. The “Eyetalians” go by in the frosty + moonlight, from their last shift in the claim (for it is Saturday night), + singing a litany. + </p> + <p> + “Get up on one end, Abe!—stand up all!” Hands are clasped across the + kitchen table. Redclay, one of the last of the alluvial fields, has + petered out, and the Roaring Days are dying.... The grand old song that is + known all over the world; yet how many in ten thousand know more than one + verse and the chorus? Let Peter McKenzie lead: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And never brought to min'? +</pre> + <p> + And hearts echo from far back in the past and across wide, wide seas: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And days o' lang syne? +</pre> + <p> + Now boys! all together! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For auld lang syne, my dear, + For auld lang syne, + We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + + We twa hae run about the braes, + And pu'd the gowans fine; + But we've wandered mony a weary foot, + Sin' auld lang syne. +</pre> + <p> + The world was wide then. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, + Frae mornin' sun till dine: +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +the log fire seems to grow watery, for in wide, lonely Australia— + But seas between us braid hae roar'd, + Sin' auld lang syne. +</pre> + <p> + The kitchen grows dimmer, and the forms of the digger-singers seemed + suddenly vague and unsubstantial, fading back rapidly through a misty + veil. But the words ring strong and defiant through hard years: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And here's a hand, my trusty frien', + And gie's a grup o' thine; + And we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + And the nettles have been growing for over twenty years on the spot where + Granny Mathews' big bark kitchen stood. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Vision of Sandy Blight + </h2> + <p> + I'd been humping my back, and crouching and groaning for an hour or so in + the darkest corner of the travellers' hut, tortured by the demon of sandy + blight. It was too hot to travel, and there was no one there except + ourselves and Mitchell's cattle pup. We were waiting till after sundown, + for I couldn't have travelled in the daylight, anyway. Mitchell had tied a + wet towel round my eyes, and led me for the last mile or two by another + towel—one end fastened to his belt behind, and the other in my hand + as I walked in his tracks. And oh! but this was a relief! It was out of + the dust and glare, and the flies didn't come into the dark hut, and I + could hump and stick my knees in my eyes and groan in comfort. I didn't + want a thousand a year, or anything; I only wanted relief for my eyes—that + was all I prayed for in this world. When the sun got down a bit, Mitchell + started poking round, and presently he found amongst the rubbish a + dirty-looking medicine bottle, corked tight; when he rubbed the dirt off a + piece of notepaper that was pasted on, he saw “eye-water” written on it. + He drew the cork with his teeth, smelt the water, stuck his little finger + in, turned the bottle upside down, tasted the top of his finger, and + reckoned the stuff was all right. + </p> + <p> + “Here! Wake up, Joe!” he shouted. “Here's a bottle of tears.” + </p> + <p> + “A bottler wot?” I groaned. + </p> + <p> + “Eye-water,” said Mitchell. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure it's all right?” I didn't want to be poisoned or have my + eyes burnt out by mistake; perhaps some burning acid had got into that + bottle, or the label had been put on, or left on, in mistake or + carelessness. + </p> + <p> + “I dunno,” said Mitchell, “but there's no harm in tryin'.” + </p> + <p> + I chanced it. I lay down on my back in a bunk, and Mitchell dragged my + lids up and spilt half a bottle of eye-water over my eye-balls. + </p> + <p> + The relief was almost instantaneous. I never experienced such a quick cure + in my life. I carried the bottle in my swag for a long time afterwards, + with an idea of getting it analysed, but left it behind at last in a camp. + </p> + <p> + Mitchell scratched his head thoughtfully, and watched me for a while. + </p> + <p> + “I think I'll wait a bit longer,” he said at last, “and if it doesn't + blind you I'll put some in my eyes. I'm getting a touch of blight myself + now. That's the fault of travelling with a mate who's always catching + something that's no good to him.” + </p> + <p> + As it grew dark outside we talked of sandy-blight and fly-bite, and + sand-flies up north, and ordinary flies, and branched off to Barcoo rot, + and struck the track again at bees and bee stings. When we got to bees, + Mitchell sat smoking for a while and looking dreamily backwards along + tracks and branch tracks, and round corners and circles he had travelled, + right back to the short, narrow, innocent bit of track that ends in a + vague, misty point—like the end of a long, straight, cleared road in + the moonlight—as far back as we can remember. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “I had about fourteen hives,” said Mitchell—“we used to call them + 'swarms', no matter whether they were flying or in the box—when I + left home first time. I kept them behind the shed, in the shade, on tables + of galvanised iron cases turned down on stakes; but I had to make legs + later on, and stand them in pans of water, on account of the ants. When + the bees swarmed—and some hives sent out the Lord knows how many + swarms in a year, it seemed to me—we'd tin-kettle 'em, and throw + water on 'em, to make 'em believe the biggest thunderstorm was coming to + drown the oldest inhabitant; and, if they didn't get the start of us and + rise, they'd settle on a branch—generally on one of the scraggy + fruit trees. It was rough on the bees—come to think of it; their + instinct told them it was going to be fine, and the noise and water told + them it was raining. They must have thought that nature was mad, drunk, or + gone ratty, or the end of the world had come. We'd rig up a table, with a + box upside down, under the branch, cover our face with a piece of mosquito + net, have rags burning round, and then give the branch a sudden jerk, turn + the box down, and run. If we got most of the bees in, the rest that were + hanging to the bough or flying round would follow, and then we reckoned + we'd shook the queen in. If the bees in the box came out and joined the + others, we'd reckon we hadn't shook the queen in, and go for them again. + When a hive was full of honey we'd turn the box upside down, turn the + empty box mouth down on top of it, and drum and hammer on the lower box + with a stick till all the bees went up into the top box. I suppose it made + their heads ache, and they went up on that account. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose things are done differently on proper bee-farms. I've heard + that a bee-farmer will part a hanging swarm with his fingers, take out the + queen bee and arrange matters with her; but our ways suited us, and there + was a lot of expectation and running and excitement in it, especially when + a swarm took us by surprise. The yell of 'Bees swarmin'!' was as good to + us as the yell of 'Fight!' is now, or 'Bolt!' in town, or 'Fire' or 'Man + overboard!' at sea. + </p> + <p> + “There was tons of honey. The bees used to go to the vineyards at + wine-making and get honey from the heaps of crushed grape-skins thrown out + in the sun, and get so drunk sometimes that they wobbled in their + bee-lines home. They'd fill all the boxes, and then build in between and + under the bark, and board, and tin covers. They never seemed to get the + idea out of their heads that this wasn't an evergreen country, and it + wasn't going to snow all winter. My younger brother Joe used to put pieces + of meat on the tables near the boxes, and in front of the holes where the + bees went in and out, for the dogs to grab at. But one old dog, 'Black + Bill', was a match for him; if it was worth Bill's while, he'd camp there, + and keep Joe and the other dogs from touching the meat—once it was + put down—till the bees turned in for the night. And Joe would get + the other kids round there, and when they weren't looking or thinking, + he'd brush the bees with a stick and run. I'd lam him when I caught him at + it. He was an awful young devil, was Joe, and he grew up steady, and + respectable, and respected—and I went to the bad. I never trust a + good boy now.... Ah, well! + </p> + <p> + “I remember the first swarm we got. We'd been talking of getting a few + swarms for a long time. That was what was the matter with us English and + Irish and English-Irish Australian farmers: we used to talk so much about + doing things while the Germans and Scotch did them. And we even talked in + a lazy, easy-going sort of way. + </p> + <p> + “Well, one blazing hot day I saw father coming along the road, home to + dinner (we had it in the middle of the day), with his axe over his + shoulder. I noticed the axe particularly because father was bringing it + home to grind, and Joe and I had to turn the stone; but, when I noticed + Joe dragging along home in the dust about fifty yards behind father, I + felt easier in my mind. Suddenly father dropped the axe and started to run + back along the road towards Joe, who, as soon as he saw father coming, + shied for the fence and got through. He thought he was going to catch it + for something he'd done—or hadn't done. Joe used to do so many + things and leave so many things not done that he could never be sure of + father. Besides, father had a way of starting to hammer us unexpectedly—when + the idea struck him. But father pulled himself up in about thirty yards + and started to grab up handfuls of dust and sand and throw them into the + air. My idea, in the first flash, was to get hold of the axe, for I + thought it was sun-stroke, and father might take it into his head to start + chopping up the family before I could persuade him to put it (his head, I + mean) in a bucket of water. But Joe came running like mad, yelling: + </p> + <p> + “'Swarmer—bees! Swawmmer—bee—ee—es! Bring—a—tin—dish—and—a—dippera—wa-a-ter!' + </p> + <p> + “I ran with a bucket of water and an old frying-pan, and pretty soon the + rest of the family were on the spot, throwing dust and water, and banging + everything, tin or iron, they could get hold of. The only bullock bell in + the district (if it was in the district) was on the old poley cow, and + she'd been lost for a fortnight. Mother brought up the rear—but soon + worked to the front—with a baking-dish and a big spoon. The old lady—she + wasn't old then—had a deep-rooted prejudice that she could do + everything better than anybody else, and that the selection and all on it + would go to the dogs if she wasn't there to look after it. There was no + jolting that idea out of her. She not only believed that she could do + anything better than anybody, and hers was the only right or possible way, + and that we'd do everything upside down if she wasn't there to do it or + show us how—but she'd try to do things herself or insist on making + us do them her way, and that led to messes and rows. She was excited now, + and took command at once. She wasn't tongue-tied, and had no impediment in + her speech. + </p> + <p> + “'Don't throw up dust!—Stop throwing up dust!—Do you want to + smother 'em?—Don't throw up so much water!—Only throw up a + pannikin at a time!—D'yer want to drown 'em? Bang! Keep on banging, + Joe!—Look at that child! Run, someone!—run! you, Jack!—D'yer + want the child to be stung to death?—Take her inside!... Dy' hear + me?... Stop throwing up dust, Tom! (To father.) You're scaring 'em away! + Can't you see they want to settle?' [Father was getting mad and yelping: + 'For Godsake shettup and go inside.'] 'Throw up water, Jack! Throw up—Tom! + Take that bucket from him and don't make such a fool of yourself before + the children! Throw up water! Throw—keep on banging, children! Keep + on banging!' [Mother put her faith in banging.] 'There!—they're off! + You've lost 'em! I knew you would! I told yer—keep on bang—!' + </p> + <p> + “A bee struck her in the eye, and she grabbed at it! + </p> + <p> + “Mother went home—and inside. + </p> + <p> + “Father was good at bees—could manage them like sheep when he got to + know their ideas. When the swarm settled, he sent us for the old washing + stool, boxes, bags, and so on; and the whole time he was fixing the bees I + noticed that whenever his back was turned to us his shoulders would jerk + up as if he was cold, and he seemed to shudder from inside, and now and + then I'd hear a grunting sort of whimper like a boy that was just starting + to blubber. But father wasn't weeping, and bees weren't stinging him; it + was the bee that stung mother that was tickling father. When he went into + the house, mother's other eye had bunged for sympathy. Father was always + gentle and kind in sickness, and he bathed mother's eyes and rubbed mud + on, but every now and then he'd catch inside, and jerk and shudder, and + grunt and cough. Mother got wild, but presently the humour of it struck + her, and she had to laugh, and a rum laugh it was, with both eyes bunged + up. Then she got hysterical, and started to cry, and father put his arm + round her shoulder and ordered us out of the house. + </p> + <p> + “They were very fond of each other, the old people were, under it all—right + up to the end.... Ah, well!” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell pulled the swags out of a bunk, and started to fasten the + nose-bags on. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Andy Page's Rival + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tall and freckled and sandy, + Face of a country lout; + That was the picture of Andy— + Middleton's rouseabout. + On Middleton's wide dominions + Plied the stock-whip and shears; + Hadn't any opinions——— +</pre> + <p> + And he hadn't any “ideers”—at least, he said so himself—except + as regarded anything that looked to him like what he called “funny + business”, under which heading he catalogued tyranny, treachery, + interference with the liberty of the subject by the subject, “blanky” + lies, or swindles—all things, in short, that seemed to his slow + understanding dishonest, mean or paltry; most especially, and above all, + treachery to a mate. THAT he could never forget. Andy was uncomfortably + “straight”. His mind worked slowly and his decisions were, as a rule, + right and just; and when he once came to a conclusion concerning any man + or matter, or decided upon a course of action, nothing short of an + earthquake or a Nevertire cyclone could move him back an inch—unless + a conviction were severely shaken, and then he would require as much time + to “back” to his starting point as he did to come to the decision. + </p> + <p> + Andy had come to a conclusion with regard to a selector's daughter—name, + Lizzie Porter—who lived (and slaved) on her father's selection, near + the township corner of the run on which Andy was a general “hand”. He had + been in the habit for several years of calling casually at the selector's + house, as he rode to and fro between the station and the town, to get a + drink of water and exchange the time of day with old Porter and his + “missus”. The conversation concerned the drought, and the likelihood or + otherwise of their ever going to get a little rain; or about Porter's + cattle, with an occasional enquiry concerning, or reference to, a stray + cow belonging to the selection, but preferring the run; a little, plump, + saucy, white cow, by-the-way, practically pure white, but referred to by + Andy—who had eyes like a blackfellow—as “old Speckledy”. No + one else could detect a spot or speckle on her at a casual glance. Then + after a long bovine silence, which would have been painfully embarrassing + in any other society, and a tilting of his cabbage-tree hat forward, which + came of tickling and scratching the sun-blotched nape of his neck with his + little finger, Andy would slowly say: “Ah, well. I must be gettin'. + So-long, Mr. Porter. So-long, Mrs. Porter.” And, if SHE were in evidence—as + she generally was on such occasions—“So-long, Lizzie.” And they'd + shout: “So-long, Andy,” as he galloped off from the jump. Strange that + those shy, quiet, gentle-voiced bushmen seem the hardest and most reckless + riders. + </p> + <p> + But of late his horse had been seen hanging up outside Porter's for an + hour or so after sunset. He smoked, talked over the results of the last + drought (if it happened to rain), and the possibilities of the next one, + and played cards with old Porter; who took to winking, automatically, at + his “old woman”, and nudging, and jerking his thumb in the direction of + Lizzie when her back was turned, and Andy was scratching the nape of his + neck and staring at the cards. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie told a lady friend of mine, years afterwards, how Andy popped the + question; told it in her quiet way—you know Lizzie's quiet way + (something of the old, privileged house-cat about her); never a sign in + expression or tone to show whether she herself saw or appreciated the + humour of anything she was telling, no matter how comical it might be. She + had witnessed two tragedies, and had found a dead man in the bush, and + related the incidents as though they were common-place. + </p> + <p> + It happened one day—after Andy had been coming two or three times a + week for about a year—that she found herself sitting with him on a + log of the woodheap, in the cool of the evening, enjoying the sunset + breeze. Andy's arm had got round her—just as it might have gone + round a post he happened to be leaning against. They hadn't been talking + about anything in particular. Andy said he wouldn't be surprised if they + had a thunderstorm before mornin'—it had been so smotherin' hot all + day. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie said, “Very likely.” + </p> + <p> + Andy smoked a good while, then he said: “Ah, well! It's a weary world.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie didn't say anything. + </p> + <p> + By-and-bye Andy said: “Ah, well; it's a lonely world, Lizzie.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel lonely, Andy?” asked Lizzie, after a while. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Lizzie; I do.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie let herself settle, a little, against him, without either seeming + to notice it, and after another while she said, softly: “So do I, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + Andy knocked the ashes from his pipe very slowly and deliberately, and put + it away; then he seemed to brighten suddenly, and said briskly: “Well, + Lizzie! Are you satisfied!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Andy; I'm satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite sure, now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I'm quite sure, Andy. I'm perfectly satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, Lizzie—it's settled!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + But to-day—a couple of months after the proposal described above—Andy + had trouble on his mind, and the trouble was connected with Lizzie Porter. + He was putting up a two-rail fence along the old log-paddock on the + frontage, and working like a man in trouble, trying to work it off his + mind; and evidently not succeeding—for the last two panels were out + of line. He was ramming a post—Andy rammed honestly, from the bottom + of the hole, not the last few shovelfuls below the surface, as some do. He + was ramming the last layer of clay when a cloud of white dust came along + the road, paused, and drifted or poured off into the scrub, leaving long + Dave Bentley, the horse-breaker, on his last victim. + </p> + <p> + “'Ello, Andy! Graftin'?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to speak to you, Dave,” said Andy, in a strange voice. + </p> + <p> + “All—all right!” said Dave, rather puzzled. He got down, wondering + what was up, and hung his horse to the last post but one. + </p> + <p> + Dave was Andy's opposite in one respect: he jumped to conclusions, as + women do; but, unlike women, he was mostly wrong. He was an old chum and + mate of Andy's who had always liked, admired, and trusted him. But now, to + his helpless surprise, Andy went on scraping the earth from the surface + with his long-handled shovel, and heaping it conscientiously round the + butt of the post, his face like a block of wood, and his lips set grimly. + Dave broke out first (with bush oaths): + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with you? Spit it out! What have I been doin' to you? + What's yer got yer rag out about, anyway?” + </p> + <p> + Andy faced him suddenly, with hatred for “funny business” flashing in his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “What did you say to my sister Mary about Lizzie Porter?” + </p> + <p> + Dave started; then he whistled long and low. “Spit it all out, Andy!” he + advised. + </p> + <p> + “You said she was travellin' with a feller!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what's the harm in that? Everybody knows that—” + </p> + <p> + “If any crawler says a word about Lizzie Porter—look here, me and + you's got to fight, Dave Bentley!” Then, with still greater vehemence, as + though he had a share in the garment: “Take off that coat!” + </p> + <p> + “Not if I know it!” said Dave, with the sudden quietness that comes to + brave but headstrong and impulsive men at a critical moment: “Me and you + ain't goin' to fight, Andy; and” (with sudden energy) “if you try it on + I'll knock you into jim-rags!” + </p> + <p> + Then, stepping close to Andy and taking him by the arm: “Andy, this thing + will have to be fixed up. Come here; I want to talk to you.” And he led + him some paces aside, inside the boundary line, which seemed a ludicrously + unnecessary precaution, seeing that there was no one within sight or + hearing save Dave's horse. + </p> + <p> + “Now, look here, Andy; let's have it over. What's the matter with you and + Lizzie Porter?” + </p> + <p> + “I'M travellin' with her, that's all; and we're going to get married in + two years!” + </p> + <p> + Dave gave vent to another long, low whistle. He seemed to think and make + up his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Now, look here, Andy: we're old mates, ain't we?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I know that.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you think I'd tell you a blanky lie, or crawl behind your back? Do + you? Spit it out!” + </p> + <p> + “N—no, I don't!” + </p> + <p> + “I've always stuck up for you, Andy, and—why, I've fought for you + behind your back!” + </p> + <p> + “I know that, Dave.” + </p> + <p> + “There's my hand on it!” + </p> + <p> + Andy took his friend's hand mechanically, but gripped it hard. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Andy, I'll tell you straight: It's Gorstruth about Lizzie Porter!” + </p> + <p> + They stood as they were for a full minute, hands clasped; Andy with his + jaw dropped and staring in a dazed sort of way at Dave. He raised his + disengaged hand helplessly to his thatch, gulped suspiciously, and asked + in a broken voice: + </p> + <p> + “How—how do you know it, Dave?” + </p> + <p> + “Know it? Andy, I SEEN 'EM MESELF!” + </p> + <p> + “You did, Dave?” in a tone that suggested sorrow more than anger at Dave's + part in the seeing of them. + </p> + <p> + “Gorstruth, Andy!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “Tell me, Dave, who was the feller? That's all I want to know.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't tell you that. I only seen them when I was canterin' past in the + dusk.” + </p> + <p> + “Then how'd you know it was a man at all?” + </p> + <p> + “It wore trousers, anyway, and was as big as you; so it couldn't have been + a girl. I'm pretty safe to swear it was Mick Kelly. I saw his horse + hangin' up at Porter's once or twice. But I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll + find out for you, Andy. And, what's more, I'll job him for you if I catch + him!” + </p> + <p> + Andy said nothing; his hands clenched and his chest heaved. Dave laid a + friendly hand on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “It's red hot, Andy, I know. Anybody else but you and I wouldn't have + cared. But don't be a fool; there's any Gorsquantity of girls knockin' + round. You just give it to her straight and chuck her, and have done with + it. You must be bad off to bother about her. Gorstruth! she ain't much to + look at anyway! I've got to ride like blazes to catch the coach. Don't + knock off till I come back; I won't be above an hour. I'm goin' to give + you some points in case you've got to fight Mick; and I'll have to be + there to back you!” And, thus taking the right moment instinctively, he + jumped on his horse and galloped on towards the town. + </p> + <p> + His dust-cloud had scarcely disappeared round a corner of the paddocks + when Andy was aware of another one coming towards him. He had a dazed idea + that it was Dave coming back, but went on digging another post-hole, + mechanically, until a spring-cart rattled up, and stopped opposite him. + Then he lifted his head. It was Lizzie herself, driving home from town. + She turned towards him with her usual faint smile. Her small features were + “washed out” and rather haggard. + </p> + <p> + “'Ello, Andy!” + </p> + <p> + But, at the sight of her, all his hatred of “funny business”—intensified, + perhaps, by a sense of personal injury—came to a head, and he + exploded: + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Lizzie Porter! I know all about you. You needn't think you're + goin' to cotton on with me any more after this! I wouldn't be seen in a + paddock with yer! I'm satisfied about you! Get on out of this!” + </p> + <p> + The girl stared at him for a moment thunderstruck; then she lammed into + the old horse with a stick she carried in place of a whip. + </p> + <p> + She cried, and wondered what she'd done, and trembled so that she could + scarcely unharness the horse, and wondered if Andy had got a touch of the + sun, and went in and sat down and cried again; and pride came to her aid + and she hated Andy; thought of her big brother, away droving, and made a + cup of tea. She shed tears over the tea, and went through it all again. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Andy was suffering a reaction. He started to fill the hole + before he put the post in; then to ram the post before the rails were in + position. Dubbing off the ends of the rails, he was in danger of + amputating a toe or a foot with every stroke of the adze. And, at last, + trying to squint along the little lumps of clay which he had placed in the + centre of the top of each post for several panels back—to assist him + to take a line—he found that they swam and doubled, and ran off in + watery angles, for his eyes were too moist to see straight and single. + </p> + <p> + Then he threw down the tools hopelessly, and was standing helplessly + undecided whether to go home or go down to the creek and drown himself, + when Dave turned up again. + </p> + <p> + “Seen her?” asked Dave. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Andy. + </p> + <p> + “Did you chuck her?” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Dave; are you sure the feller was Mick Kelly?” + </p> + <p> + “I never said I was. How was I to know? It was dark. You don't expect I'd + 'fox' a feller I see doing a bit of a bear-up to a girl, do you? It might + have been you, for all I knowed. I suppose she's been talking you round?” + </p> + <p> + “No, she ain't,” said Andy. “But, look here, Dave; I was properly gone on + that girl, I was, and—and I want to be sure I'm right.” + </p> + <p> + The business was getting altogether too psychological for Dave Bentley. + “You might as well,” he rapped out, “call me a liar at once!” + </p> + <p> + “'Taint that at all, Dave. I want to get at who the feller is; that's what + I want to get at now. Where did you see them, and when?” + </p> + <p> + “I seen them Anniversary night, along the road, near Ross' farm; and I + seen 'em Sunday night afore that—in the trees near the old culvert—near + Porter's sliprails; and I seen 'em one night outside Porter's, on a log + near the woodheap. They was thick that time, and bearin' up proper, and no + mistake. So I can swear to her. Now, are you satisfied about her?” + </p> + <p> + But Andy was wildly pitchforking his thatch under his hat with all ten + fingers and staring at Dave, who began to regard him uneasily; then there + came to Andy's eyes an awful glare, which caused Dave to step back + hastily. + </p> + <p> + “Good God, Andy! Are yer goin' ratty?” + </p> + <p> + “No!” cried Andy, wildly. + </p> + <p> + “Then what the blazes is the matter with you? You'll have rats if you + don't look out!” + </p> + <p> + “JIMMINY FROTH!—It was ME all the time!” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “It was me that was with her all them nights. It was me that you seen. + WHY, I POPPED ON THE WOODHEAP!” + </p> + <p> + Dave was taken too suddenly to whistle this time. + </p> + <p> + “And you went for her just now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” yelled Andy. + </p> + <p> + “Well—you've done it!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Andy, hopelessly; “I've done it!” + </p> + <p> + Dave whistled now—a very long, low whistle. “Well, you're a bloomin' + goat, Andy, after this. But this thing'll have to be fixed up!” and he + cantered away. Poor Andy was too badly knocked to notice the abruptness of + Dave's departure, or to see that he turned through the sliprails on to the + track that led to Porter's. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + Half an hour later Andy appeared at Porter's back door, with an expression + on his face as though the funeral was to start in ten minutes. In a tone + befitting such an occasion, he wanted to see Lizzie. + </p> + <p> + Dave had been there with the laudable determination of fixing the business + up, and had, of course, succeeded in making it much worse than it was + before. But Andy made it all right. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Iron-Bark Chip + </h2> + <p> + Dave Regan and party—bush-fencers, tank-sinkers, rough carpenters, + &c.—were finishing the third and last culvert of their contract + on the last section of the new railway line, and had already sent in their + vouchers for the completed contract, so that there might be no excuse for + extra delay in connection with the cheque. + </p> + <p> + Now it had been expressly stipulated in the plans and specifications that + the timber for certain beams and girders was to be iron-bark and no other, + and Government inspectors were authorised to order the removal from the + ground of any timber or material they might deem inferior, or not in + accordance with the stipulations. The railway contractor's foreman and + inspector of sub-contractors was a practical man and a bushman, but he had + been a timber-getter himself; his sympathies were bushy, and he was on + winking terms with Dave Regan. Besides, extended time was expiring, and + the contractors were in a hurry to complete the line. But the Government + inspector was a reserved man who poked round on his independent own and + appeared in lonely spots at unexpected times—with apparently no + definite object in life—like a grey kangaroo bothered by a new wire + fence, but unsuspicious of the presence of humans. He wore a grey suit, + rode, or mostly led, an ashen-grey horse; the grass was long and grey, so + he was seldom spotted until he was well within the horizon and bearing + leisurely down on a party of sub-contractors, leading his horse. + </p> + <p> + Now iron-bark was scarce and distant on those ridges, and another timber, + similar in appearance, but much inferior in grain and “standing” quality, + was plentiful and close at hand. Dave and party were “about full of” the + job and place, and wanted to get their cheque and be gone to another + “spec” they had in view. So they came to reckon they'd get the last girder + from a handy tree, and have it squared, in place, and carefully and + conscientiously tarred before the inspector happened along, if he did. But + they didn't. They got it squared, and ready to be lifted into its place; + the kindly darkness of tar was ready to cover a fraud that took four + strong men with crowbars and levers to shift; and now (such is the regular + cussedness of things) as the fraudulent piece of timber lay its last hour + on the ground, looking and smelling, to their guilty imaginations like + anything but iron-bark, they were aware of the Government inspector + drifting down upon them obliquely, with something of the atmosphere of a + casual Bill or Jim who had dropped out of his easy-going track to see how + they were getting on, and borrow a match. They had more than half hoped + that, as he had visited them pretty frequently during the progress of the + work, and knew how near it was to completion, he wouldn't bother coming + any more. But it's the way with the Government. You might move heaven and + earth in vain endeavour to get the “Guvermunt” to flutter an eyelash over + something of the most momentous importance to yourself and mates and the + district—even to the country; but just when you are leaving + authority severely alone, and have strong reasons for not wanting to worry + or interrupt it, and not desiring it to worry about you, it will take a + fancy into its head to come along and bother. + </p> + <p> + “It's always the way!” muttered Dave to his mates. “I knew the beggar + would turn up!... And the only cronk log we've had, too!” he added, in an + injured tone. “If this had 'a' been the only blessed iron-bark in the + whole contract, it would have been all right.... Good-day, sir!” (to the + inspector). “It's hot?” + </p> + <p> + The inspector nodded. He was not of an impulsive nature. He got down from + his horse and looked at the girder in an abstracted way; and presently + there came into his eyes a dreamy, far-away, sad sort of expression, as if + there had been a very sad and painful occurrence in his family, way back + in the past, and that piece of timber in some way reminded him of it and + brought the old sorrow home to him. He blinked three times, and asked, in + a subdued tone: + </p> + <p> + “Is that iron-bark?” + </p> + <p> + Jack Bentley, the fluent liar of the party, caught his breath with a jerk + and coughed, to cover the gasp and gain time. “I—iron-bark? Of + course it is! I thought you would know iron-bark, mister.” (Mister was + silent.) “What else d'yer think it is?” + </p> + <p> + The dreamy, abstracted expression was back. The inspector, by-the-way, + didn't know much about timber, but he had a great deal of instinct, and + went by it when in doubt. + </p> + <p> + “L—look here, mister!” put in Dave Regan, in a tone of innocent + puzzlement and with a blank bucolic face. “B—but don't the plans and + specifications say iron-bark? Ours does, anyway. I—I'll git the + papers from the tent and show yer, if yer like.” + </p> + <p> + It was not necessary. The inspector admitted the fact slowly. He stooped, + and with an absent air picked up a chip. He looked at it abstractedly for + a moment, blinked his threefold blink; then, seeming to recollect an + appointment, he woke up suddenly and asked briskly: + </p> + <p> + “Did this chip come off that girder?” + </p> + <p> + Blank silence. The inspector blinked six times, divided in threes, + rapidly, mounted his horse, said “Day,” and rode off. + </p> + <p> + Regan and party stared at each other. + </p> + <p> + “Wha—what did he do that for?” asked Andy Page, the third in the + party. + </p> + <p> + “Do what for, you fool?” enquired Dave. + </p> + <p> + “Ta—take that chip for?” + </p> + <p> + “He's taking it to the office!” snarled Jack Bentley. + </p> + <p> + “What—what for? What does he want to do that for?” + </p> + <p> + “To get it blanky well analysed! You ass! Now are yer satisfied?” And Jack + sat down hard on the timber, jerked out his pipe, and said to Dave, in a + sharp, toothache tone: + </p> + <p> + “Gimmiamatch!” + </p> + <p> + “We—well! what are we to do now?” enquired Andy, who was the hardest + grafter, but altogether helpless, hopeless, and useless in a crisis like + this. + </p> + <p> + “Grain and varnish the bloomin' culvert!” snapped Bentley. + </p> + <p> + But Dave's eyes, that had been ruefully following the inspector, suddenly + dilated. The inspector had ridden a short distance along the line, + dismounted, thrown the bridle over a post, laid the chip (which was too + big to go in his pocket) on top of it, got through the fence, and was now + walking back at an angle across the line in the direction of the fencing + party, who had worked up on the other side, a little more than opposite + the culvert. + </p> + <p> + Dave took in the lay of the country at a glance and thought rapidly. + </p> + <p> + “Gimme an iron-bark chip!” he said suddenly. + </p> + <p> + Bentley, who was quick-witted when the track was shown him, as is a + kangaroo dog (Jack ran by sight, not scent), glanced in the line of Dave's + eyes, jumped up, and got a chip about the same size as that which the + inspector had taken. + </p> + <p> + Now the “lay of the country” sloped generally to the line from both sides, + and the angle between the inspector's horse, the fencing party, and the + culvert was well within a clear concave space; but a couple of hundred + yards back from the line and parallel to it (on the side on which Dave's + party worked their timber) a fringe of scrub ran to within a few yards of + a point which would be about in line with a single tree on the cleared + slope, the horse, and the fencing party. + </p> + <p> + Dave took the iron-bark chip, ran along the bed of the water-course into + the scrub, raced up the siding behind the bushes, got safely, though + without breathing, across the exposed space, and brought the tree into + line between him and the inspector, who was talking to the fencers. Then + he began to work quickly down the slope towards the tree (which was a thin + one), keeping it in line, his arms close to his sides, and working, as it + were, down the trunk of the tree, as if the fencing party were kangaroos + and Dave was trying to get a shot at them. The inspector, by-the-bye, had + a habit of glancing now and then in the direction of his horse, as though + under the impression that it was flighty and restless and inclined to bolt + on opportunity. It was an anxious moment for all parties concerned—except + the inspector. They didn't want HIM to be perturbed. And, just as Dave + reached the foot of the tree, the inspector finished what he had to say to + the fencers, turned, and started to walk briskly back to his horse. There + was a thunderstorm coming. Now was the critical moment—there were + certain prearranged signals between Dave's party and the fencers which + might have interested the inspector, but none to meet a case like this. + </p> + <p> + Jack Bentley gasped, and started forward with an idea of intercepting the + inspector and holding him for a few minutes in bogus conversation. + Inspirations come to one at a critical moment, and it flashed on Jack's + mind to send Andy instead. Andy looked as innocent and guileless as he + was, but was uncomfortable in the vicinity of “funny business”, and must + have an honest excuse. “Not that that mattered,” commented Jack + afterwards; “it would have taken the inspector ten minutes to get at what + Andy was driving at, whatever it was.” + </p> + <p> + “Run, Andy! Tell him there's a heavy thunderstorm coming and he'd better + stay in our humpy till it's over. Run! Don't stand staring like a blanky + fool. He'll be gone!” + </p> + <p> + Andy started. But just then, as luck would have it, one of the fencers + started after the inspector, hailing him as “Hi, mister!” He wanted to be + set right about the survey or something—or to pretend to want to be + set right—from motives of policy which I haven't time to explain + here. + </p> + <p> + That fencer explained afterwards to Dave's party that he “seen what you + coves was up to,” and that's why he called the inspector back. But he told + them that after they had told their yarn—which was a mistake. + </p> + <p> + “Come back, Andy!” cried Jack Bentley. + </p> + <p> + Dave Regan slipped round the tree, down on his hands and knees, and made + quick time through the grass which, luckily, grew pretty tall on the + thirty or forty yards of slope between the tree and the horse. Close to + the horse, a thought struck Dave that pulled him up, and sent a shiver + along his spine and a hungry feeling under it. The horse would break away + and bolt! But the case was desperate. Dave ventured an interrogatory + “Cope, cope, cope?” The horse turned its head wearily and regarded him + with a mild eye, as if he'd expected him to come, and come on all fours, + and wondered what had kept him so long; then he went on thinking. Dave + reached the foot of the post; the horse obligingly leaning over on the + other leg. Dave reared head and shoulders cautiously behind the post, like + a snake; his hand went up twice, swiftly—the first time he grabbed + the inspector's chip, and the second time he put the iron-bark one in its + place. He drew down and back, and scuttled off for the tree like a + gigantic tailless “goanna”. + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later he walked up to the culvert from along the creek, + smoking hard to settle his nerves. + </p> + <p> + The sky seemed to darken suddenly; the first great drops of the + thunderstorm came pelting down. The inspector hurried to his horse, and + cantered off along the line in the direction of the fettlers' camp. + </p> + <p> + He had forgotten all about the chip, and left it on top of the post! + </p> + <p> + Dave Regan sat down on the beam in the rain and swore comprehensively. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “Middleton's Peter” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + The First Born +</pre> + <p> + The struggling squatter is to be found in Australia as well as the + “struggling farmer”. The Australian squatter is not always the mighty wool + king that English and American authors and other uninformed people + apparently imagine him to be. Squatting, at the best, is but a game of + chance. It depends mainly on the weather, and that, in New South Wales at + least, depends on nothing. + </p> + <p> + Joe Middleton was a struggling squatter, with a station some distance to + the westward of the furthest line reached by the ordinary “new chum”. His + run, at the time of our story, was only about six miles square, and his + stock was limited in proportion. The hands on Joe's run consisted of his + brother Dave, a middle-aged man known only as “Middleton's Peter” (who had + been in the service of the Middleton family ever since Joe Middleton could + remember), and an old black shepherd, with his gin and two boys. + </p> + <p> + It was in the first year of Joe's marriage. He had married a very ordinary + girl, as far as Australian girls go, but in his eyes she was an angel. He + really worshipped her. + </p> + <p> + One sultry afternoon in midsummer all the station hands, with the + exception of Dave Middleton, were congregated about the homestead door, + and it was evident from their solemn faces that something unusual was the + matter. They appeared to be watching for something or someone across the + flat, and the old black shepherd, who had been listening intently with + bent head, suddenly straightened himself up and cried: + </p> + <p> + “I can hear the cart. I can see it!” + </p> + <p> + You must bear in mind that our blackfellows do not always talk the + gibberish with which they are credited by story writers. + </p> + <p> + It was not until some time after Black Bill had spoken that the white—or, + rather, the brown—portion of the party could see or even hear the + approaching vehicle. At last, far out through the trunks of the native + apple-trees, the cart was seen approaching; and as it came nearer it was + evident that it was being driven at a break-neck pace, the horses + cantering all the way, while the motion of the cart, as first one wheel + and then the other sprang from a root or a rut, bore a striking + resemblance to the Highland Fling. There were two persons in the cart. One + was Mother Palmer, a stout, middle-aged party (who sometimes did the + duties of a midwife), and the other was Dave Middleton, Joe's brother. + </p> + <p> + The cart was driven right up to the door with scarcely any abatement of + speed, and was stopped so suddenly that Mrs. Palmer was sent sprawling on + to the horse's rump. She was quickly helped down, and, as soon as she had + recovered sufficient breath, she followed Black Mary into the bedroom + where young Mrs. Middleton was lying, looking very pale and frightened. + The horse which had been driven so cruelly had not done blowing before + another cart appeared, also driven very fast. It contained old Mr. and + Mrs. Middleton, who lived comfortably on a small farm not far from + Palmer's place. + </p> + <p> + As soon as he had dumped Mrs. Palmer, Dave Middleton left the cart and, + mounting a fresh horse which stood ready saddled in the yard, galloped off + through the scrub in a different direction. + </p> + <p> + Half an hour afterwards Joe Middleton came home on a horse that had been + almost ridden to death. His mother came out at the sound of his arrival, + and he anxiously asked her: + </p> + <p> + “How is she?” + </p> + <p> + “Did you find Doc. Wild?” asked the mother. + </p> + <p> + “No, confound him!” exclaimed Joe bitterly. “He promised me faithfully to + come over on Wednesday and stay until Maggie was right again. Now he has + left Dean's and gone—Lord knows where. I suppose he is drinking + again. How is Maggie?” + </p> + <p> + “It's all over now—the child is born. It's a boy; but she is very + weak. Dave got Mrs. Palmer here just in time. I had better tell you at + once that Mrs. Palmer says if we don't get a doctor here to-night poor + Maggie won't live.” + </p> + <p> + “Good God! and what am I to do?” cried Joe desperately. + </p> + <p> + “Is there any other doctor within reach?” + </p> + <p> + “No; there is only the one at B——; that's forty miles away, + and he is laid up with the broken leg he got in the buggy accident. + Where's Dave?” + </p> + <p> + “Gone to Black's shanty. One of Mrs. Palmer's sons thought he remembered + someone saying that Doc. Wild was there last week. That's fifteen miles + away.” + </p> + <p> + “But it is our only hope,” said Joe dejectedly. “I wish to God that I had + taken Maggie to some civilised place a month ago.” + </p> + <p> + Doc. Wild was a well-known character among the bushmen of New South Wales, + and although the profession did not recognise him, and denounced him as an + empiric, his skill was undoubted. Bushmen had great faith in him, and + would often ride incredible distances in order to bring him to the bedside + of a sick friend. He drank fearfully, but was seldom incapable of treating + a patient; he would, however, sometimes be found in an obstinate mood and + refuse to travel to the side of a sick person, and then the devil himself + could not make the doctor budge. But for all this he was very generous—a + fact that could, no doubt, be testified to by many a grateful sojourner in + the lonely bush. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. + + The Only Hope +</pre> + <p> + Night came on, and still there was no change in the condition of the young + wife, and no sign of the doctor. Several stockmen from the neighbouring + stations, hearing that there was trouble at Joe Middleton's, had ridden + over, and had galloped off on long, hopeless rides in search of a doctor. + Being generally free from sickness themselves, these bushmen look upon it + as a serious business even in its mildest form; what is more, their + sympathy is always practical where it is possible for it to be so. One + day, while out on the run after an “outlaw”, Joe Middleton was badly + thrown from his horse, and the break-neck riding that was done on that + occasion from the time the horse came home with empty saddle until the + rider was safe in bed and attended by a doctor was something + extraordinary, even for the bush. + </p> + <p> + Before the time arrived when Dave Middleton might reasonably have been + expected to return, the station people were anxiously watching for him, + all except the old blackfellow and the two boys, who had gone to yard the + sheep. + </p> + <p> + The party had been increased by Jimmy Nowlett, the bullocky, who had just + arrived with a load of fencing wire and provisions for Middleton. Jimmy + was standing in the moonlight, whip in hand, looking as anxious as the + husband himself, and endeavouring to calculate by mental arithmetic the + exact time it ought to take Dave to complete his double journey, taking + into consideration the distance, the obstacles in the way, and the chances + of horse-flesh. + </p> + <p> + But the time which Jimmy fixed for the arrival came without Dave. + </p> + <p> + Old Peter (as he was generally called, though he was not really old) stood + aside in his usual sullen manner, his hat drawn down over his brow and + eyes, and nothing visible but a thick and very horizontal black beard, + from the depth of which emerged large clouds of very strong tobacco smoke, + the product of a short, black, clay pipe. + </p> + <p> + They had almost given up all hope of seeing Dave return that night, when + Peter slowly and deliberately removed his pipe and grunted: + </p> + <p> + “He's a-comin'.” + </p> + <p> + He then replaced the pipe, and smoked on as before. + </p> + <p> + All listened, but not one of them could hear a sound. + </p> + <p> + “Yer ears must be pretty sharp for yer age, Peter. We can't hear him,” + remarked Jimmy Nowlett. + </p> + <p> + “His dog ken,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + The pipe was again removed and its abbreviated stem pointed in the + direction of Dave's cattle dog, who had risen beside his kennel with + pointed ears, and was looking eagerly in the direction from which his + master was expected to come. + </p> + <p> + Presently the sound of horse's hoofs was distinctly heard. + </p> + <p> + “I can hear two horses,” cried Jimmy Nowlett excitedly. + </p> + <p> + “There's only one,” said old Peter quietly. + </p> + <p> + A few moments passed, and a single horseman appeared on the far side of + the flat. + </p> + <p> + “It's Doc. Wild on Dave's horse,” cried Jimmy Nowlett. “Dave don't ride + like that.” + </p> + <p> + “It's Dave,” said Peter, replacing his pipe and looking more unsociable + than ever. + </p> + <p> + Dave rode up and, throwing himself wearily from the saddle, stood + ominously silent by the side of his horse. + </p> + <p> + Joe Middleton said nothing, but stood aside with an expression of utter + hopelessness on his face. + </p> + <p> + “Not there?” asked Jimmy Nowlett at last, addressing Dave. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he's there,” answered Dave, impatiently. + </p> + <p> + This was not the answer they expected, but nobody seemed surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Drunk?” asked Jimmy. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Here old Peter removed his pipe, and pronounced the one word—“How?” + </p> + <p> + “What the hell do you mean by that?” muttered Dave, whose patience had + evidently been severely tried by the clever but intemperate bush doctor. + </p> + <p> + “How drunk?” explained Peter, with great equanimity. + </p> + <p> + “Stubborn drunk, blind drunk, beastly drunk, dead drunk, and damned well + drunk, if that's what you want to know!” + </p> + <p> + “What did Doc. say?” asked Jimmy. + </p> + <p> + “Said he was sick—had lumbago—wouldn't come for the Queen of + England; said he wanted a course of treatment himself. Curse him! I have + no patience to talk about him.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd give him a course of treatment,” muttered Jimmy viciously, trailing + the long lash of his bullock-whip through the grass and spitting + spitefully at the ground. + </p> + <p> + Dave turned away and joined Joe, who was talking earnestly to his mother + by the kitchen door. He told them that he had spent an hour trying to + persuade Doc. Wild to come, and, that before he had left the shanty, Black + had promised him faithfully to bring the doctor over as soon as his + obstinate mood wore off. + </p> + <p> + Just then a low moan was heard from the sick room, followed by the sound + of Mother Palmer's voice calling old Mrs. Middleton, who went inside + immediately. + </p> + <p> + No one had noticed the disappearance of Peter, and when he presently + returned from the stockyard, leading the only fresh horse that remained, + Jimmy Nowlett began to regard him with some interest. Peter transferred + the saddle from Dave's horse to the other, and then went into a small room + off the kitchen, which served him as a bedroom; from it he soon returned + with a formidable-looking revolver, the chambers of which he examined in + the moonlight in full view of all the company. They thought for a moment + the man had gone mad. Old Middleton leaped quickly behind Nowlett, and + Black Mary, who had come out to the cask at the corner for a dipper of + water, dropped the dipper and was inside like a shot. One of the black + boys came softly up at that moment; as soon as his sharp eye “spotted” the + weapon, he disappeared as though the earth had swallowed him. + </p> + <p> + “What the mischief are yer goin' ter do, Peter?” asked Jimmy. + </p> + <p> + “Goin' to fetch him,” said Peter, and, after carefully emptying his pipe + and replacing it in a leather pouch at his belt, he mounted and rode off + at an easy canter. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy watched the horse until it disappeared at the edge of the flat, and + then after coiling up the long lash of his bullock-whip in the dust until + it looked like a sleeping snake, he prodded the small end of the long pine + handle into the middle of the coil, as though driving home a point, and + said in a tone of intense conviction: + </p> + <p> + “He'll fetch him.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III. + + Doc. Wild +</pre> + <p> + Peter gradually increased his horse's speed along the rough bush track + until he was riding at a good pace. It was ten miles to the main road, and + five from there to the shanty kept by Black. + </p> + <p> + For some time before Peter started the atmosphere had been very close and + oppressive. The great black edge of a storm-cloud had risen in the east, + and everything indicated the approach of a thunderstorm. It was not long + coming. Before Peter had completed six miles of his journey, the clouds + rolled over, obscuring the moon, and an Australian thunderstorm came on + with its mighty downpour, its blinding lightning, and its earth-shaking + thunder. Peter rode steadily on, only pausing now and then until a flash + revealed the track in front of him. + </p> + <p> + Black's shanty—or, rather, as the sign had it, “Post Office and + General Store”—was, as we have said, five miles along the main road + from the point where Middleton's track joined it. The building was of the + usual style of bush architecture. About two hundred yards nearer the + creek, which crossed the road further on, stood a large bark and slab + stable, large enough to have met the requirements of a legitimate bush + “public”. + </p> + <p> + The reader may doubt that a “sly grog shop” could openly carry on business + on a main Government road along which mounted troopers were continually + passing. But then, you see, mounted troopers get thirsty like other men; + moreover, they could always get their thirst quenched 'gratis' at these + places; so the reader will be prepared to hear that on this very night two + troopers' horses were stowed snugly away in the stable, and two troopers + were stowed snugly away in the back room of the shanty, sleeping off the + effects of their cheap but strong potations. + </p> + <p> + There were two rooms, of a sort, attached to the stables—one at each + end. One was occupied by a man who was “generally useful”, and the other + was the surgery, office, and bedroom 'pro tem.' of Doc. Wild. + </p> + <p> + Doc. Wild was a tall man, of spare proportions. He had a cadaverous face, + black hair, bushy black eyebrows, eagle nose, and eagle eyes. He never + slept while he was drinking. On this occasion he sat in front of the fire + on a low three-legged stool. His knees were drawn up, his toes hooked + round the front legs of the stool, one hand resting on one knee, and one + elbow (the hand supporting the chin) resting on the other. He was staring + intently into the fire, on which an old black saucepan was boiling and + sending forth a pungent odour of herbs. There seemed something uncanny + about the doctor as the red light of the fire fell on his hawk-like face + and gleaming eyes. He might have been Mephistopheles watching some + infernal brew. + </p> + <p> + He had sat there some time without stirring a finger, when the door + suddenly burst open and Middleton's Peter stood within, dripping wet. The + doctor turned his black, piercing eyes upon the intruder (who regarded him + silently) for a moment, and then asked quietly: + </p> + <p> + “What the hell do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “I want you,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “And what do you want me for?” + </p> + <p> + “I want you to come to Joe Middleton's wife. She's bad,” said Peter + calmly. + </p> + <p> + “I won't come,” shouted the doctor. “I've brought enough horse-stealers + into the world already. If any more want to come they can go to blazes for + me. Now, you get out of this!” + </p> + <p> + “Don't get yer rag out,” said Peter quietly. “The hoss-stealer's come, an' + nearly killed his mother ter begin with; an' if yer don't get yer + physic-box an' come wi' me, by the great God I'll——” + </p> + <p> + Here the revolver was produced and pointed at Doc. Wild's head. The sight + of the weapon had a sobering effect upon the doctor. He rose, looked at + Peter critically for a moment, knocked the weapon out of his hand, and + said slowly and deliberately: + </p> + <p> + “Wall, ef the case es as serious as that, I (hic) reckon I'd better come.” + </p> + <p> + Peter was still of the same opinion, so Doc. Wild proceeded to get his + medicine chest ready. He explained afterwards, in one of his softer + moments, that the shooter didn't frighten him so much as it touched his + memory—“sorter put him in mind of the old days in California, and + made him think of the man he might have been,” he'd say,—“kinder + touched his heart and slid the durned old panorama in front of him like a + flash; made him think of the time when he slipped three leaden pills into + 'Blue Shirt' for winking at a new chum behind his (the Doc.'s) back when + he was telling a truthful yarn, and charged the said 'Blue Shirt' a + hundred dollars for extracting the said pills.” + </p> + <p> + Joe Middleton's wife is a grandmother now. + </p> + <p> + Peter passed after the manner of his sort; he was found dead in his bunk. + </p> + <p> + Poor Doc. Wild died in a shepherd's hut at the Dry Creeks. The shepherds + (white men) found him, “naked as he was born and with the hide half burned + off him with the sun,” rounding up imaginary snakes on a dusty clearing, + one blazing hot day. The hut-keeper had some “quare” (queer) experiences + with the doctor during the next three days and used, in after years, to + tell of them, between the puffs of his pipe, calmly and solemnly and as if + the story was rather to the doctor's credit than otherwise. The shepherds + sent for the police and a doctor, and sent word to Joe Middleton. Doc. + Wild was sensible towards the end. His interview with the other doctor was + characteristic. “And, now you see how far I am,” he said in conclusion—“have + you brought the brandy?” The other doctor had. Joe Middleton came with his + waggonette, and in it the softest mattress and pillows the station + afforded. He also, in his innocence, brought a dozen of soda-water. Doc. + Wild took Joe's hand feebly, and, a little later, he “passed out” (as he + would have said) murmuring “something that sounded like poetry”, in an + unknown tongue. Joe took the body to the home station. “Who's the boss + bringin'?” asked the shearers, seeing the waggonette coming very slowly + and the boss walking by the horses' heads. “Doc. Wild,” said a station + hand. “Take yer hats off.” + </p> + <p> + They buried him with bush honours, and chiselled his name on a slab of + bluegum—a wood that lasts. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Mystery of Dave Regan + </h2> + <p> + “And then there was Dave Regan,” said the traveller. “Dave used to die + oftener than any other bushman I knew. He was always being reported dead + and turnin' up again. He seemed to like it—except once, when his + brother drew his money and drank it all to drown his grief at what he + called Dave's 'untimely end'. Well, Dave went up to Queensland once with + cattle, and was away three years and reported dead, as usual. He was + drowned in the Bogan this time while tryin' to swim his horse acrost a + flood—and his sweetheart hurried up and got spliced to a worse man + before Dave got back. + </p> + <p> + “Well, one day I was out in the bush lookin' for timber, when the biggest + storm ever knowed in that place come on. There was hail in it, too, as big + as bullets, and if I hadn't got behind a stump and crouched down in time + I'd have been riddled like a—like a bushranger. As it was, I got + soakin' wet. The storm was over in a few minutes, the water run off down + the gullies, and the sun come out and the scrub steamed—and stunk + like a new pair of moleskin trousers. I went on along the track, and + presently I seen a long, lanky chap get on to a long, lanky horse and ride + out of a bush yard at the edge of a clearin'. I knowed it was Dave + d'reckly I set eyes on him. + </p> + <p> + “Dave used to ride a tall, holler-backed thoroughbred with a body and + limbs like a kangaroo dog, and it would circle around you and sidle away + as if it was frightened you was goin' to jab a knife into it. + </p> + <p> + “''Ello! Dave!' said I, as he came spurrin' up. 'How are yer!' + </p> + <p> + “''Ello, Jim!' says he. 'How are you?' + </p> + <p> + “'All right!' says I. 'How are yer gettin' on?' + </p> + <p> + “But, before we could say any more, that horse shied away and broke off + through the scrub to the right. I waited, because I knowed Dave would come + back again if I waited long enough; and in about ten minutes he came + sidlin' in from the scrub to the left. + </p> + <p> + “'Oh, I'm all right,' says he, spurrin' up sideways; 'How are you?' + </p> + <p> + “'Right!' says I. 'How's the old people?' + </p> + <p> + “'Oh, I ain't been home yet,' says he, holdin' out his hand; but, afore I + could grip it, the cussed horse sidled off to the south end of the + clearin' and broke away again through the scrub. + </p> + <p> + “I heard Dave swearin' about the country for twenty minutes or so, and + then he came spurrin' and cursin' in from the other end of the clearin'. + </p> + <p> + “'Where have you been all this time?' I said, as the horse came curvin' up + like a boomerang. + </p> + <p> + “'Gulf country,' said Dave. + </p> + <p> + “'That was a storm, Dave,' said I. + </p> + <p> + “'My oath!' says Dave. + </p> + <p> + “'Get caught in it?' + </p> + <p> + “'Yes.' + </p> + <p> + “'Got to shelter?' + </p> + <p> + “'No.' + </p> + <p> + “'But you're as dry's a bone, Dave!' + </p> + <p> + “Dave grinned. '———and———and———the————!' + he yelled. + </p> + <p> + “He said that to the horse as it boomeranged off again and broke away + through the scrub. I waited; but he didn't come back, and I reckoned he'd + got so far away before he could pull up that he didn't think it worth + while comin' back; so I went on. By-and-bye I got thinkin'. Dave was as + dry as a bone, and I knowed that he hadn't had time to get to shelter, for + there wasn't a shed within twelve miles. He wasn't only dry, but his coat + was creased and dusty too—same as if he'd been sleepin' in a holler + log; and when I come to think of it, his face seemed thinner and whiter + than it used ter, and so did his hands and wrists, which always stuck a + long way out of his coat-sleeves; and there was blood on his face—but + I thought he'd got scratched with a twig. (Dave used to wear a coat three + or four sizes too small for him, with sleeves that didn't come much below + his elbows and a tail that scarcely reached his waist behind.) And his + hair seemed dark and lank, instead of bein' sandy and stickin' out like an + old fibre brush, as it used ter. And then I thought his voice sounded + different, too. And, when I enquired next day, there was no one heard of + Dave, and the chaps reckoned I must have been drunk, or seen his ghost. + </p> + <p> + “It didn't seem all right at all—it worried me a lot. I couldn't + make out how Dave kept dry; and the horse and saddle and saddle-cloth was + wet. I told the chaps how he talked to me and what he said, and how he + swore at the horse; but they only said it was Dave's ghost and nobody + else's. I told 'em about him bein' dry as a bone after gettin' caught in + that storm; but they only laughed and said it was a dry place where Dave + went to. I talked and argued about it until the chaps began to tap their + foreheads and wink—then I left off talking. But I didn't leave off + thinkin'—I always hated a mystery. Even Dave's father told me that + Dave couldn't be alive or else his ghost wouldn't be round—he said + he knew Dave better than that. One or two fellers did turn up afterwards + that had seen Dave about the time that I did—and then the chaps said + they was sure that Dave was dead. + </p> + <p> + “But one fine day, as a lot of us chaps was playin' pitch and toss at the + shanty, one of the fellers yelled out: + </p> + <p> + “'By Gee! Here comes Dave Regan!' + </p> + <p> + “And I looked up and saw Dave himself, sidlin' out of a cloud of dust on a + long lanky horse. He rode into the stockyard, got down, hung his horse up + to a post, put up the rails, and then come slopin' towards us with a + half-acre grin on his face. Dave had long, thin bow-legs, and when he was + on the ground he moved as if he was on roller skates. + </p> + <p> + “''El-lo, Dave!' says I. 'How are yer?' + </p> + <p> + “''Ello, Jim!' said he. 'How the blazes are you?' + </p> + <p> + “'All right!' says I, shakin' hands. 'How are yer?' + </p> + <p> + “'Oh! I'm all right!' he says. 'How are yer poppin' up!' + </p> + <p> + “Well, when we'd got all that settled, and the other chaps had asked how + he was, he said: 'Ah, well! Let's have a drink.' + </p> + <p> + “And all the other chaps crawfished up and flung themselves round the + corner and sidled into the bar after Dave. We had a lot of talk, and he + told us that he'd been down before, but had gone away without seein' any + of us, except me, because he'd suddenly heard of a mob of cattle at a + station two hundred miles away; and after a while I took him aside and + said: + </p> + <p> + “'Look here, Dave! Do you remember the day I met you after the storm?' + </p> + <p> + “He scratched his head. + </p> + <p> + “'Why, yes,' he says. + </p> + <p> + “'Did you get under shelter that day?' + </p> + <p> + “'Why—no.' + </p> + <p> + “'Then how the blazes didn't yer get wet?' + </p> + <p> + “Dave grinned; then he says: + </p> + <p> + “'Why, when I seen the storm coming I took off me clothes and stuck 'em in + a holler log till the rain was over.' + </p> + <p> + “'Yes,' he says, after the other coves had done laughin', but before I'd + done thinking; 'I kept my clothes dry and got a good refreshin' + shower-bath into the bargain.' + </p> + <p> + “Then he scratched the back of his neck with his little finger, and + dropped his jaw, and thought a bit; then he rubbed the top of his head and + his shoulder, reflective-like, and then he said: + </p> + <p> + “'But I didn't reckon for them there blanky hailstones.'” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mitchell on Matrimony + </h2> + <p> + “I suppose your wife will be glad to see you,” said Mitchell to his mate + in their camp by the dam at Hungerford. They were overhauling their swags, + and throwing away the blankets, and calico, and old clothes, and rubbish + they didn't want—everything, in fact, except their pocket-books and + letters and portraits, things which men carry about with them always, that + are found on them when they die, and sent to their relations if possible. + Otherwise they are taken in charge by the constable who officiates at the + inquest, and forwarded to the Minister of Justice along with the + depositions. + </p> + <p> + It was the end of the shearing season. Mitchell and his mate had been + lucky enough to get two good sheds in succession, and were going to take + the coach from Hungerford to Bourke on their way to Sydney. The morning + stars were bright yet, and they sat down to a final billy of tea, two + dusty Johnny-cakes, and a scrag of salt mutton. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Mitchell's mate, “and I'll be glad to see her too.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you will,” said Mitchell. He placed his pint-pot between his + feet, rested his arm against his knee, and stirred the tea meditatively + with the handle of his pocket-knife. It was vaguely understood that + Mitchell had been married at one period of his chequered career. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think we ever understood women properly,” he said, as he took a + cautious sip to see if his tea was cool and sweet enough, for his lips + were sore; “I don't think we ever will—we never took the trouble to + try, and if we did it would be only wasted brain power that might just as + well be spent on the blackfellow's lingo; because by the time you've + learnt it they'll be extinct, and woman 'll be extinct before you've + learnt her.... The morning star looks bright, doesn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well,” said Mitchell after a while, “there's many little things we + might try to understand women in. I read in a piece of newspaper the other + day about how a man changes after he's married; how he gets short, and + impatient, and bored (which is only natural), and sticks up a wall of + newspaper between himself and his wife when he's at home; and how it comes + like a cold shock to her, and all her air-castles vanish, and in the end + she often thinks about taking the baby and the clothes she stands in, and + going home for sympathy and comfort to mother. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps she never got a word of sympathy from her mother in her life, nor + a day's comfort at home before she was married; but that doesn't make the + slightest difference. It doesn't make any difference in your case either, + if you haven't been acting like a dutiful son-in-law. + </p> + <p> + “Somebody wrote that a woman's love is her whole existence, while a man's + love is only part of his—which is true, and only natural and + reasonable, all things considered. But women never consider as a rule. A + man can't go on talking lovey-dovey talk for ever, and listening to his + young wife's prattle when he's got to think about making a living, and + nursing her and answering her childish questions and telling her he loves + his little ownest every minute in the day, while the bills are running up, + and rent mornings begin to fly round and hustle and crowd him. + </p> + <p> + “He's got her and he's satisfied; and if the truth is known he loves her + really more than he did when they were engaged, only she won't be + satisfied about it unless he tells her so every hour in the day. At least + that's how it is for the first few months. + </p> + <p> + “But a woman doesn't understand these things—she never will, she + can't—and it would be just as well for us to try and understand that + she doesn't and can't understand them.” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell knocked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin against his boot, and + reached for the billy. + </p> + <p> + “There's many little things we might do that seem mere trifles and + nonsense to us, but mean a lot to her; that wouldn't be any trouble or + sacrifice to us, but might help to make her life happy. It's just because + we never think about these little things—don't think them worth + thinking about, in fact—they never enter our intellectual foreheads. + </p> + <p> + “For instance, when you're going out in the morning you might put your + arms round her and give her a hug and a kiss, without her having to remind + you. You may forget about it and never think any more of it—but she + will. + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn't be any trouble to you, and would only take a couple of + seconds, and would give her something to be happy about when you're gone, + and make her sing to herself for hours while she bustles about her work + and thinks up what she'll get you for dinner.” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell's mate sighed, and shifted the sugar-bag over towards Mitchell. + He seemed touched and bothered over something. + </p> + <p> + “Then again,” said Mitchell, “it mightn't be convenient for you to go home + to dinner—something might turn up during the morning—you might + have some important business to do, or meet some chaps and get invited to + lunch and not be very well able to refuse, when it's too late, or you + haven't a chance to send a message to your wife. But then again, chaps and + business seem very big things to you, and only little things to the wife; + just as lovey-dovey talk is important to her and nonsense to you. And when + you come to analyse it, one is not so big, nor the other so small, after + all; especially when you come to think that chaps can always wait, and + business is only an inspiration in your mind, nine cases out of ten. + </p> + <p> + “Think of the trouble she takes to get you a good dinner, and how she + keeps it hot between two plates in the oven, and waits hour after hour + till the dinner gets dried up, and all her morning's work is wasted. Think + how it hurts her, and how anxious she'll be (especially if you're inclined + to booze) for fear that something has happened to you. You can't get it + out of the heads of some young wives that you're liable to get run over, + or knocked down, or assaulted, or robbed, or get into one of the fixes + that a woman is likely to get into. But about the dinner waiting. Try and + put yourself in her place. Wouldn't you get mad under the same + circumstances? I know I would. + </p> + <p> + “I remember once, only just after I was married, I was invited + unexpectedly to a kidney pudding and beans—which was my favourite + grub at the time—and I didn't resist, especially as it was washing + day and I told the wife not to bother about anything for dinner. I got + home an hour or so late, and had a good explanation thought out, when the + wife met me with a smile as if we had just been left a thousand pounds. + She'd got her washing finished without assistance, though I'd told her to + get somebody to help her, and she had a kidney pudding and beans, with a + lot of extras thrown in, as a pleasant surprise for me. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I kissed her, and sat down, and stuffed till I thought every + mouthful would choke me. I got through with it somehow, but I've never + cared for kidney pudding or beans since.” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell felt for his pipe with a fatherly smile in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “And then again,” he continued, as he cut up his tobacco, “your wife might + put on a new dress and fix herself up and look well, and you might think + so and be satisfied with her appearance and be proud to take her out; but + you want to tell her so, and tell her so as often as you think about it—and + try to think a little oftener than men usually do, too.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “You should have made a good husband, Jack,” said his mate, in a softened + tone. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well, perhaps I should,” said Mitchell, rubbing up his tobacco; then + he asked abstractedly: “What sort of a husband did you make, Joe?” + </p> + <p> + “I might have made a better one than I did,” said Joe seriously, and + rather bitterly, “but I know one thing, I'm going to try and make up for + it when I go back this time.” + </p> + <p> + “We all say that,” said Mitchell reflectively, filling his pipe. “She + loves you, Joe.” + </p> + <p> + “I know she does,” said Joe. + </p> + <p> + Mitchell lit up. + </p> + <p> + “And so would any man who knew her or had seen her letters to you,” he + said between the puffs. “She's happy and contented enough, I believe?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Joe, “at least while I was there. She's never easy when I'm + away. I might have made her a good deal more happy and contented without + hurting myself much.” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell smoked long, soft, measured puffs. + </p> + <p> + His mate shifted uneasily and glanced at him a couple of times, and seemed + to become impatient, and to make up his mind about something; or perhaps + he got an idea that Mitchell had been “having” him, and felt angry over + being betrayed into maudlin confidences; for he asked abruptly: + </p> + <p> + “How is your wife now, Mitchell?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” said Mitchell calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Don't know?” echoed the mate. “Didn't you treat her well?” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell removed his pipe and drew a long breath. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well, I tried to,” he said wearily. + </p> + <p> + “Well, did you put your theory into practice?” + </p> + <p> + “I did,” said Mitchell very deliberately. + </p> + <p> + Joe waited, but nothing came. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he asked impatiently, “How did it act? Did it work well?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” said Mitchell (puff); “she left me.” + </p> + <p> + “What!” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell jerked the half-smoked pipe from his mouth, and rapped the + burning tobacco out against the toe of his boot. + </p> + <p> + “She left me,” he said, standing up and stretching himself. Then, with a + vicious jerk of his arm, “She left me for—another kind of a fellow!” + </p> + <p> + He looked east towards the public-house, where they were taking the + coach-horses from the stable. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you finish your tea, Joe? The billy's getting cold.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mitchell on Women + </h2> + <p> + “All the same,” said Mitchell's mate, continuing an argument by the + camp-fire; “all the same, I think that a woman can stand cold water better + than a man. Why, when I was staying in a boarding-house in Dunedin, one + very cold winter, there was a lady lodger who went down to the shower-bath + first thing every morning; never missed one; sometimes went in freezing + weather when I wouldn't go into a cold bath for a fiver; and sometimes + she'd stay under the shower for ten minutes at a time.” + </p> + <p> + “How'd you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, my room was near the bath-room, and I could hear the shower and tap + going, and her floundering about.” + </p> + <p> + “Hear your grandmother!” exclaimed Mitchell, contemptuously. “You don't + know women yet. Was this woman married? Did she have a husband there?” + </p> + <p> + “No; she was a young widow.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! well, it would have been the same if she was a young girl—or an + old one. Were there some passable men-boarders there?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> was there.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes! But I mean, were there any there beside you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, there were three or four; there was—a clerk and a——” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, as long as there was something with trousers on. Did it ever + strike you that she never got into the bath at all?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, no! What would she want to go there at all for, in that case?” + </p> + <p> + “To make an impression on the men,” replied Mitchell promptly. “She wanted + to make out she was nice, and wholesome, and well-washed, and particular. + Made an impression on YOU, it seems, or you wouldn't remember it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, yes, I suppose so; and, now I come to think of it, the bath didn't + seem to injure her make-up or wet her hair; but I supposed she held her + head from under the shower somehow.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she make-up so early in the morning?” asked Mitchell. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I'm sure.” + </p> + <p> + “That's unusual; but it might have been so where there was a lot of + boarders. And about the hair—that didn't count for anything, because + washing-the-head ain't supposed to be always included in a lady's bath; + it's only supposed to be washed once a fortnight, and some don't do it + once a month. The hair takes so long to dry; it don't matter so much if + the woman's got short, scraggy hair; but if a girl's hair was down to her + waist it would take hours to dry.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, how do they manage it without wetting their heads?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's easy enough. They have a little oilskin cap that fits tight + over the forehead, and they put it on, and bunch their hair up in it when + they go under the shower. Did you ever see a woman sit in a sunny place + with her hair down after having a wash?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I used to see one do that regular where I was staying; but I thought + she only did it to show off.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all—she was drying her hair; though perhaps she was showing + off at the same time, for she wouldn't sit where you—or even a + Chinaman—could see her, if she didn't think she had a good head of + hair. Now, I'LL tell you a yarn about a woman's bath. I was stopping at a + shabby-genteel boarding-house in Melbourne once, and one very cold winter, + too; and there was a rather good-looking woman there, looking for a + husband. She used to go down to the bath every morning, no matter how cold + it was, and flounder and splash about as if she enjoyed it, till you'd + feel as though you'd like to go and catch hold of her and wrap her in a + rug and carry her in to the fire and nurse her till she was warm again.” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell's mate moved uneasily, and crossed the other leg; he seemed + greatly interested. + </p> + <p> + “But she never went into the water at all!” continued Mitchell. “As soon + as one or two of the men was up in the morning she'd come down from her + room in a dressing-gown. It was a toney dressing-gown, too, and set her + off properly. She knew how to dress, anyway; most of that sort of women + do. The gown was a kind of green colour, with pink and white flowers all + over it, and red lining, and a lot of coffee-coloured lace round the neck + and down the front. Well, she'd come tripping downstairs and along the + passage, holding up one side of the gown to show her little bare white + foot in a slipper; and in the other hand she carried her tooth-brush and + bath-brush, and soap—like this—so's we all could see 'em; + trying to make out she was too particular to use soap after anyone else. + She could afford to buy her own soap, anyhow; it was hardly ever wet. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she'd go into the bathroom and turn on the tap and shower; when she + got about three inches of water in the bath, she'd step in, holding up her + gown out of the water, and go slithering and kicking up and down the bath, + like this, making a tremendous splashing. Of course she'd turn off the + shower first, and screw it off very tight—wouldn't do to let that + leak, you know; she might get wet; but she'd leave the other tap on, so as + to make all the more noise.” + </p> + <p> + “But how did you come to know all about this?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the servant girl told me. One morning she twigged her through a + corner of the bathroom window that the curtain didn't cover.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to have been pretty thick with servant girls.” + </p> + <p> + “So do you with landladies! But never mind—let me finish the yarn. + When she thought she'd splashed enough, she'd get out, wipe her feet, wash + her face and hands, and carefully unbutton the two top buttons of her + gown; then throw a towel over her head and shoulders, and listen at the + door till she thought she heard some of the men moving about. Then she'd + start for her room, and, if she met one of the men-boarders in the passage + or on the stairs, she'd drop her eyes, and pretend to see for the first + time that the top of her dressing-gown wasn't buttoned—and she'd + give a little start and grab the gown and scurry off to her room buttoning + it up. + </p> + <p> + “And sometimes she'd come skipping into the breakfast-room late, looking + awfully sweet in her dressing-gown; and if she saw any of us there, she'd + pretend to be much startled, and say that she thought all the men had gone + out, and make as though she was going to clear; and someone 'd jump up and + give her a chair, while someone else said, 'Come in, Miss Brown! come in! + Don't let us frighten you. Come right in, and have your breakfast before + it gets cold.' So she'd flutter a bit in pretty confusion, and then make a + sweet little girly-girly dive for her chair, and tuck her feet away under + the table; and she'd blush, too, but I don't know how she managed that. + </p> + <p> + “I know another trick that women have; it's mostly played by private + barmaids. That is, to leave a stocking by accident in the bathroom for the + gentlemen to find. If the barmaid's got a nice foot and ankle, she uses + one of her own stockings; but if she hasn't she gets hold of a stocking + that belongs to a girl that has. Anyway, she'll have one readied up + somehow. The stocking must be worn and nicely darned; one that's been worn + will keep the shape of the leg and foot—at least till it's washed + again. Well, the barmaid generally knows what time the gentlemen go to + bath, and she'll make it a point of going down just as a gentleman's + going. Of course he'll give her the preference—let her go first, you + know—and she'll go in and accidentally leave the stocking in a place + where he's sure to see it, and when she comes out he'll go in and find it; + and very likely he'll be a jolly sort of fellow, and when they're all + sitting down to breakfast he'll come in and ask them to guess what he's + found, and then he'll hold up the stocking. The barmaid likes this sort of + thing; but she'll hold down her head, and pretend to be confused, and keep + her eyes on her plate, and there'll be much blushing and all that sort of + thing, and perhaps she'll gammon to be mad at him, and the landlady'll + say, 'Oh, Mr. Smith! how can yer? At the breakfast table, too!' and + they'll all laugh and look at the barmaid, and she'll get more embarrassed + than ever, and spill her tea, and make out as though the stocking didn't + belong to her.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + No Place for a Woman + </h2> + <p> + He had a selection on a long box-scrub siding of the ridges, about half a + mile back and up from the coach road. There were no neighbours that I ever + heard of, and the nearest “town” was thirty miles away. He grew wheat + among the stumps of his clearing, sold the crop standing to a Cockie who + lived ten miles away, and had some surplus sons; or, some seasons, he + reaped it by hand, had it thrashed by travelling “steamer” (portable steam + engine and machine), and carried the grain, a few bags at a time, into the + mill on his rickety dray. + </p> + <p> + He had lived alone for upwards of 15 years, and was known to those who + knew him as “Ratty Howlett”. + </p> + <p> + Trav'lers and strangers failed to see anything uncommonly ratty about him. + It was known, or, at least, it was believed, without question, that while + at work he kept his horse saddled and bridled, and hung up to the fence, + or grazing about, with the saddle on—or, anyway, close handy for a + moment's notice—and whenever he caught sight, over the scrub and + through the quarter-mile break in it, of a traveller on the road, he would + jump on his horse and make after him. If it was a horseman he usually + pulled him up inside of a mile. Stories were told of unsuccessful chases, + misunderstandings, and complications arising out of Howlett's mania for + running down and bailing up travellers. Sometimes he caught one every day + for a week, sometimes not one for weeks—it was a lonely track. + </p> + <p> + The explanation was simple, sufficient, and perfectly natural—from a + bushman's point of view. Ratty only wanted to have a yarn. He and the + traveller would camp in the shade for half an hour or so and yarn and + smoke. The old man would find out where the traveller came from, and how + long he'd been there, and where he was making for, and how long he + reckoned he'd be away; and ask if there had been any rain along the + traveller's back track, and how the country looked after the drought; and + he'd get the traveller's ideas on abstract questions—if he had any. + If it was a footman (swagman), and he was short of tobacco, old Howlett + always had half a stick ready for him. Sometimes, but very rarely, he'd + invite the swagman back to the hut for a pint of tea, or a bit of meat, + flour, tea, or sugar, to carry him along the track. + </p> + <p> + And, after the yarn by the road, they said, the old man would ride back, + refreshed, to his lonely selection, and work on into the night as long as + he could see his solitary old plough horse, or the scoop of his + long-handled shovel. + </p> + <p> + And so it was that I came to make his acquaintance—or, rather, that + he made mine. I was cantering easily along the track—I was making + for the north-west with a pack horse—when about a mile beyond the + track to the selection I heard, “Hi, Mister!” and saw a dust cloud + following me. I had heard of “Old Ratty Howlett” casually, and so was + prepared for him. + </p> + <p> + A tall gaunt man on a little horse. He was clean-shaven, except for a + frill beard round under his chin, and his long wavy, dark hair was turning + grey; a square, strong-faced man, and reminded me of one full-faced + portrait of Gladstone more than any other face I had seen. He had large + reddish-brown eyes, deep set under heavy eyebrows, and with something of + the blackfellow in them—the sort of eyes that will peer at something + on the horizon that no one else can see. He had a way of talking to the + horizon, too—more than to his companion; and he had a deep vertical + wrinkle in his forehead that no smile could lessen. + </p> + <p> + I got down and got out my pipe, and we sat on a log and yarned awhile on + bush subjects; and then, after a pause, he shifted uneasily, it seemed to + me, and asked rather abruptly, and in an altered tone, if I was married. A + queer question to ask a traveller; more especially in my case, as I was + little more than a boy then. + </p> + <p> + He talked on again of old things and places where we had both been, and + asked after men he knew, or had known—drovers and others—and + whether they were living yet. Most of his inquiries went back before my + time; but some of the drovers, one or two overlanders with whom he had + been mates in his time, had grown old into mine, and I knew them. I notice + now, though I didn't then—and if I had it would not have seemed + strange from a bush point of view—that he didn't ask for news, nor + seem interested in it. + </p> + <p> + Then after another uneasy pause, during which he scratched crosses in the + dust with a stick, he asked me, in the same queer tone and without looking + at me or looking up, if I happened to know anything about doctoring—if + I'd ever studied it. + </p> + <p> + I asked him if anyone was sick at his place. He hesitated, and said “No.” + Then I wanted to know why he had asked me that question, and he was so + long about answering that I began to think he was hard of hearing, when, + at last, he muttered something about my face reminding him of a young + fellow he knew of who'd gone to Sydney to “study for a doctor”. That might + have been, and looked natural enough; but why didn't he ask me straight + out if I was the chap he “knowed of”? Travellers do not like beating about + the bush in conversation. + </p> + <p> + He sat in silence for a good while, with his arms folded, and looking + absently away over the dead level of the great scrubs that spread from the + foot of the ridge we were on to where a blue peak or two of a distant + range showed above the bush on the horizon. + </p> + <p> + I stood up and put my pipe away and stretched. Then he seemed to wake up. + “Better come back to the hut and have a bit of dinner,” he said. “The + missus will about have it ready, and I'll spare you a handful of hay for + the horses.” + </p> + <p> + The hay decided it. It was a dry season. I was surprised to hear of a + wife, for I thought he was a hatter—I had always heard so; but + perhaps I had been mistaken, and he had married lately; or had got a + housekeeper. The farm was an irregularly-shaped clearing in the scrub, + with a good many stumps in it, with a broken-down two-rail fence along the + frontage, and logs and “dog-leg” the rest. It was about as lonely-looking + a place as I had seen, and I had seen some out-of-the-way, God-forgotten + holes where men lived alone. The hut was in the top corner, a two-roomed + slab hut, with a shingle roof, which must have been uncommon round there + in the days when that hut was built. I was used to bush carpentering, and + saw that the place had been put up by a man who had plenty of life and + hope in front of him, and for someone else beside himself. But there were + two unfinished skilling rooms built on to the back of the hut; the posts, + sleepers, and wall-plates had been well put up and fitted, and the slab + walls were up, but the roof had never been put on. There was nothing but + burrs and nettles inside those walls, and an old wooden bullock plough and + a couple of yokes were dry-rotting across the back doorway. The remains of + a straw-stack, some hay under a bark humpy, a small iron plough, and an + old stiff coffin-headed grey draught horse, were all that I saw about the + place. + </p> + <p> + But there was a bit of a surprise for me inside, in the shape of a clean + white tablecloth on the rough slab table which stood on stakes driven into + the ground. The cloth was coarse, but it was a tablecloth—not a + spare sheet put on in honour of unexpected visitors—and perfectly + clean. The tin plates, pannikins, and jam tins that served as sugar bowls + and salt cellars were polished brightly. The walls and fireplace were + whitewashed, the clay floor swept, and clean sheets of newspaper laid on + the slab mantleshelf under the row of biscuit tins that held the + groceries. I thought that his wife, or housekeeper, or whatever she was, + was a clean and tidy woman about a house. I saw no woman; but on the sofa—a + light, wooden, batten one, with runged arms at the ends—lay a + woman's dress on a lot of sheets of old stained and faded newspapers. He + looked at it in a puzzled way, knitting his forehead, then took it up + absently and folded it. I saw then that it was a riding skirt and jacket. + He bundled them into the newspapers and took them into the bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “The wife was going on a visit down the creek this afternoon,” he said + rapidly and without looking at me, but stooping as if to have another look + through the door at those distant peaks. “I suppose she got tired o' + waitin', and went and took the daughter with her. But, never mind, the + grub is ready.” There was a camp-oven with a leg of mutton and potatoes + sizzling in it on the hearth, and billies hanging over the fire. I noticed + the billies had been scraped, and the lids polished. + </p> + <p> + There seemed to be something queer about the whole business, but then he + and his wife might have had a “breeze” during the morning. I thought so + during the meal, when the subject of women came up, and he said one never + knew how to take a woman, etc.; but there was nothing in what he said that + need necessarily have referred to his wife or to any woman in particular. + For the rest he talked of old bush things, droving, digging, and old + bushranging—but never about live things and living men, unless any + of the old mates he talked about happened to be alive by accident. He was + very restless in the house, and never took his hat off. + </p> + <p> + There was a dress and a woman's old hat hanging on the wall near the door, + but they looked as if they might have been hanging there for a lifetime. + There seemed something queer about the whole place—something + wanting; but then all out-of-the-way bush homes are haunted by that + something wanting, or, more likely, by the spirits of the things that + should have been there, but never had been. + </p> + <p> + As I rode down the track to the road I looked back and saw old Howlett + hard at work in a hole round a big stump with his long-handled shovel. + </p> + <p> + I'd noticed that he moved and walked with a slight list to port, and put + his hand once or twice to the small of his back, and I set it down to + lumbago, or something of that sort. + </p> + <p> + Up in the Never Never I heard from a drover who had known Howlett that his + wife had died in the first year, and so this mysterious woman, if she was + his wife, was, of course, his second wife. The drover seemed surprised and + rather amused at the thought of old Howlett going in for matrimony again. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + I rode back that way five years later, from the Never Never. It was early + in the morning—I had ridden since midnight. I didn't think the old + man would be up and about; and, besides, I wanted to get on home, and have + a look at the old folk, and the mates I'd left behind—and the girl. + But I hadn't got far past the point where Howlett's track joined the road, + when I happened to look back, and saw him on horseback, stumbling down the + track. I waited till he came up. + </p> + <p> + He was riding the old grey draught horse this time, and it looked very + much broken down. I thought it would have come down every step, and fallen + like an old rotten humpy in a gust of wind. And the old man was not much + better off. I saw at once that he was a very sick man. His face was drawn, + and he bent forward as if he was hurt. He got down stiffly and awkwardly, + like a hurt man, and as soon as his feet touched the ground he grabbed my + arm, or he would have gone down like a man who steps off a train in + motion. He hung towards the bank of the road, feeling blindly, as it were, + for the ground, with his free hand, as I eased him down. I got my blanket + and calico from the pack saddle to make him comfortable. + </p> + <p> + “Help me with my back agen the tree,” he said. “I must sit up—it's + no use lyin' me down.” + </p> + <p> + He sat with his hand gripping his side, and breathed painfully. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I run up to the hut and get the wife?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “No.” He spoke painfully. “No!” Then, as if the words were jerked out of + him by a spasm: “She ain't there.” + </p> + <p> + I took it that she had left him. + </p> + <p> + “How long have you been bad? How long has this been coming on?” + </p> + <p> + He took no notice of the question. I thought it was a touch of rheumatic + fever, or something of that sort. “It's gone into my back and sides now—the + pain's worse in me back,” he said presently. + </p> + <p> + I had once been mates with a man who died suddenly of heart disease, while + at work. He was washing a dish of dirt in the creek near a claim we were + working; he let the dish slip into the water, fell back, crying, “O, my + back!” and was gone. And now I felt by instinct that it was poor old + Howlett's heart that was wrong. A man's heart is in his back as well as in + his arms and hands. + </p> + <p> + The old man had turned pale with the pallor of a man who turns faint in a + heat wave, and his arms fell loosely, and his hands rocked helplessly with + the knuckles in the dust. I felt myself turning white, too, and the sick, + cold, empty feeling in my stomach, for I knew the signs. Bushmen stand in + awe of sickness and death. + </p> + <p> + But after I'd fixed him comfortably and given him a drink from the water + bag the greyness left his face, and he pulled himself together a bit; he + drew up his arms and folded them across his chest. He let his head rest + back against the tree—his slouch hat had fallen off revealing a + broad, white brow, much higher than I expected. He seemed to gaze on the + azure fin of the range, showing above the dark blue-green bush on the + horizon. + </p> + <p> + Then he commenced to speak—taking no notice of me when I asked him + if he felt better now—to talk in that strange, absent, far-away tone + that awes one. He told his story mechanically, monotonously—in set + words, as I believe now, as he had often told it before; if not to others, + then to the loneliness of the bush. And he used the names of people and + places that I had never heard of—just as if I knew them as well as + he did. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't want to bring her up the first year. It was no place for a + woman. I wanted her to stay with her people and wait till I'd got the + place a little more ship-shape. The Phippses took a selection down the + creek. I wanted her to wait and come up with them so's she'd have some + company—a woman to talk to. They came afterwards, but they didn't + stop. It was no place for a woman. + </p> + <p> + “But Mary would come. She wouldn't stop with her people down country. She + wanted to be with me, and look after me, and work and help me.” + </p> + <p> + He repeated himself a great deal—said the same thing over and over + again sometimes. He was only mad on one track. He'd tail off and sit + silent for a while; then he'd become aware of me in a hurried, half-scared + way, and apologise for putting me to all that trouble, and thank me. “I'll + be all right d'reckly. Best take the horses up to the hut and have some + breakfast; you'll find it by the fire. I'll foller you, d'reckly. The + wife'll be waitin' an'——” He would drop off, and be going + again presently on the old track:— + </p> + <p> + “Her mother was coming up to stay awhile at the end of the year, but the + old man hurt his leg. Then her married sister was coming, but one of the + youngsters got sick and there was trouble at home. I saw the doctor in the + town—thirty miles from here—and fixed it up with him. He was a + boozer—I'd 'a shot him afterwards. I fixed up with a woman in the + town to come and stay. I thought Mary was wrong in her time. She must have + been a month or six weeks out. But I listened to her.... Don't argue with + a woman. Don't listen to a woman. Do the right thing. We should have had a + mother woman to talk to us. But it was no place for a woman!” + </p> + <p> + He rocked his head, as if from some old agony of mind, against the + tree-trunk. + </p> + <p> + “She was took bad suddenly one night, but it passed off. False alarm. I + was going to ride somewhere, but she said to wait till daylight. Someone + was sure to pass. She was a brave and sensible girl, but she had a terror + of being left alone. It was no place for a woman! + </p> + <p> + “There was a black shepherd three or four miles away. I rode over while + Mary was asleep, and started the black boy into town. I'd 'a shot him + afterwards if I'd 'a caught him. The old black gin was dead the week + before, or Mary would a' bin alright. She was tied up in a bunch with + strips of blanket and greenhide, and put in a hole. So there wasn't even a + gin near the place. It was no place for a woman! + </p> + <p> + “I was watchin' the road at daylight, and I was watchin' the road at dusk. + I went down in the hollow and stooped down to get the gap agen the sky, + so's I could see if anyone was comin' over.... I'd get on the horse and + gallop along towards the town for five miles, but something would drag me + back, and then I'd race for fear she'd die before I got to the hut. I + expected the doctor every five minutes. + </p> + <p> + “It come on about daylight next morning. I ran back'ards and for'ards + between the hut and the road like a madman. And no one come. I was running + amongst the logs and stumps, and fallin' over them, when I saw a cloud of + dust agen sunrise. It was her mother an' sister in the spring-cart, an' + just catchin' up to them was the doctor in his buggy with the woman I'd + arranged with in town. The mother and sister was staying at the town for + the night, when they heard of the black boy. It took him a day to ride + there. I'd 'a shot him if I'd 'a caught him ever after. The doctor'd been + on the drunk. If I'd had the gun and known she was gone I'd have shot him + in the buggy. They said she was dead. And the child was dead, too. + </p> + <p> + “They blamed me, but I didn't want her to come; it was no place for a + woman. I never saw them again after the funeral. I didn't want to see them + any more.” + </p> + <p> + He moved his head wearily against the tree, and presently drifted on again + in a softer tone—his eyes and voice were growing more absent and + dreamy and far away. + </p> + <p> + “About a month after—or a year, I lost count of the time long ago—she + came back to me. At first she'd come in the night, then sometimes when I + was at work—and she had the baby—it was a girl—in her + arms. And by-and-bye she came to stay altogether.... I didn't blame her + for going away that time—it was no place for a woman.... She was a + good wife to me. She was a jolly girl when I married her. The little girl + grew up like her. I was going to send her down country to be educated—it + was no place for a girl. + </p> + <p> + “But a month, or a year, ago, Mary left me, and took the daughter, and + never came back till last night—this morning, I think it was. I + thought at first it was the girl with her hair done up, and her mother's + skirt on, to surprise her old dad. But it was Mary, my wife—as she + was when I married her. She said she couldn't stay, but she'd wait for me + on the road; on—the road....” + </p> + <p> + His arms fell, and his face went white. I got the water-bag. “Another turn + like that and you'll be gone,” I thought, as he came to again. Then I + suddenly thought of a shanty that had been started, when I came that way + last, ten or twelve miles along the road, towards the town. There was + nothing for it but to leave him and ride on for help, and a cart of some + kind. + </p> + <p> + “You wait here till I come back,” I said. “I'm going for the doctor.” + </p> + <p> + He roused himself a little. “Best come up to the hut and get some grub. + The wife'll be waiting....” He was off the track again. + </p> + <p> + “Will you wait while I take the horse down to the creek?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I'll wait by the road.” + </p> + <p> + “Look!” I said, “I'll leave the water-bag handy. Don't move till I come + back.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't move—I'll wait by the road,” he said. + </p> + <p> + I took the packhorse, which was the freshest and best, threw the + pack-saddle and bags into a bush, left the other horse to take care of + itself, and started for the shanty, leaving the old man with his back to + the tree, his arms folded, and his eyes on the horizon. + </p> + <p> + One of the chaps at the shanty rode on for the doctor at once, while the + other came back with me in a spring-cart. He told me that old Howlett's + wife had died in child-birth the first year on the selection—“she + was a fine girl he'd heered!” He told me the story as the old man had told + it, and in pretty well the same words, even to giving it as his opinion + that it was no place for a woman. “And he 'hatted' and brooded over it + till he went ratty.” + </p> + <p> + I knew the rest. He not only thought that his wife, or the ghost of his + wife, had been with him all those years, but that the child had lived and + grown up, and that the wife did the housework; which, of course, he must + have done himself. + </p> + <p> + When we reached him his knotted hands had fallen for the last time, and + they were at rest. I only took one quick look at his face, but could have + sworn that he was gazing at the blue fin of the range on the horizon of + the bush. + </p> + <p> + Up at the hut the table was set as on the first day I saw it, and + breakfast in the camp-oven by the fire. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mitchell's Jobs + </h2> + <p> + “I'm going to knock off work and try to make some money,” said Mitchell, + as he jerked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin and reached for the billy. + “It's been the great mistake of my life—if I hadn't wasted all my + time and energy working and looking for work I might have been an + independent man to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Joe!” he added in a louder voice, condescendingly adapting his language + to my bushed comprehension. “I'm going to sling graft and try and get some + stuff together.” + </p> + <p> + I didn't feel in a responsive humour, but I lit up and settled back + comfortably against the tree, and Jack folded his arms on his knees and + presently continued, reflectively: + </p> + <p> + “I remember the first time I went to work. I was a youngster then. Mother + used to go round looking for jobs for me. She reckoned, perhaps, that I + was too shy to go in where there was a boy wanted and barrack for myself + properly, and she used to help me and see me through to the best of her + ability. I'm afraid I didn't always feel as grateful to her as I should + have felt. I was a thankless kid at the best of times—most kids are—but + otherwise I was a straight enough little chap as nippers go. Sometimes I + almost wish I hadn't been. My relations would have thought a good deal + more of me and treated me better—and, besides, it's a comfort, at + times, to sit and watch the sun going down in the bed of the bush, and + think of your wicked childhood and wasted life, and the way you treated + your parents and broke their hearts, and feel just properly repentant and + bitter and remorseful and low-spirited about it when it's too late. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well!... I generally did feel a bit backward in going in when I came + to the door of an office or shop where there was a 'Strong Lad', or a + 'Willing Youth', wanted inside to make himself generally useful. I was a + strong lad and a willing youth enough, in some things, for that matter; + but I didn't like to see it written up on a card in a shop window, and I + didn't want to make myself generally useful in a close shop in a hot dusty + street on mornings when the weather was fine and the great sunny rollers + were coming in grand on the Bondi Beach and down at Coogee, and I could + swim.... I'd give something to be down along there now.” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell looked away out over the sultry sandy plain that we were to + tackle next day, and sighed. + </p> + <p> + “The first job I got was in a jam factory. They only had 'Boy Wanted' on + the card in the window, and I thought it would suit me. They set me to + work to peel peaches, and, as soon as the foreman's back was turned, I + picked out a likely-looking peach and tried it. They soaked those peaches + in salt or acid or something—it was part of the process—and I + had to spit it out. Then I got an orange from a boy who was slicing them, + but it was bitter, and I couldn't eat it. I saw that I'd been had + properly. I was in a fix, and had to get out of it the best way I could. + I'd left my coat down in the front shop, and the foreman and boss were + there, so I had to work in that place for two mortal hours. It was about + the longest two hours I'd ever spent in my life. At last the foreman came + up, and I told him I wanted to go down to the back for a minute. I slipped + down, watched my chance till the boss' back was turned, got my coat, and + cleared. + </p> + <p> + “The next job I got was in a mat factory; at least, Aunt got that for me. + I didn't want to have anything to do with mats or carpets. The worst of it + was the boss didn't seem to want me to go, and I had a job to get him to + sack me, and when he did he saw some of my people and took me back again + next week. He sacked me finally the next Saturday. + </p> + <p> + “I got the next job myself. I didn't hurry; I took my time and picked out + a good one. It was in a lolly factory. I thought it would suit me—and + it did, for a while. They put me on stirring up and mixing stuff in the + jujube department; but I got so sick of the smell of it and so full of + jujube and other lollies that I soon wanted a change; so I had a row with + the chief of the jujube department and the boss gave me the sack. + </p> + <p> + “I got a job in a grocery then. I thought I'd have more variety there. But + one day the boss was away, sick or something, all the afternoon, and I + sold a lot of things too cheap. I didn't know. When a customer came in and + asked for something I'd just look round in the window till I saw a card + with the price written up on it, and sell the best quality according to + that price; and once or twice I made a mistake the other way about and + lost a couple of good customers. It was a hot, drowsy afternoon, and + by-and-bye I began to feel dull and sleepy. So I looked round the corner + and saw a Chinaman coming. I got a big tin garden syringe and filled it + full of brine from the butter keg, and, when he came opposite the door, I + let him have the full force of it in the ear. + </p> + <p> + “That Chinaman put down his baskets and came for me. I was strong for my + age, and thought I could fight, but he gave me a proper mauling. + </p> + <p> + “It was like running up against a thrashing machine, and it wouldn't have + been well for me if the boss of the shop next door hadn't interfered. He + told my boss, and my boss gave me the sack at once. + </p> + <p> + “I took a spell of eighteen months or so after that, and was growing up + happy and contented when a married sister of mine must needs come to live + in town and interfere. I didn't like married sisters, though I always got + on grand with my brothers-in-law, and wished there were more of them. The + married sister comes round and cleans up the place and pulls your things + about and finds your pipe and tobacco and things, and cigarette portraits, + and “Deadwood Dicks”, that you've got put away all right, so's your mother + and aunt wouldn't find them in a generation of cats, and says: + </p> + <p> + “'Mother, why don't you make that boy go to work. It's a scandalous shame + to see a big boy like that growing up idle. He's going to the bad before + your eyes.' And she's always trying to make out that you're a liar, and + trying to make mother believe it, too. My married sister got me a job with + a chemist, whose missus she knew. + </p> + <p> + “I got on pretty well there, and by-and-bye I was put upstairs in the + grinding and mixing department; but, after a while, they put another boy + that I was chummy with up there with me, and that was a mistake. I didn't + think so at the time, but I can see it now. We got up to all sorts of + tricks. We'd get mixing together chemicals that weren't related to see how + they'd agree, and we nearly blew up the shop several times, and set it on + fire once. But all the chaps liked us, and fixed things up for us. One day + we got a big black dog—that we meant to take home that evening—and + sneaked him upstairs and put him on a flat roof outside the laboratory. He + had a touch of the mange and didn't look well, so we gave him a dose of + something; and he scrambled over the parapet and slipped down a steep iron + roof in front, and fell on a respected townsman that knew my people. We + were awfully frightened, and didn't say anything. Nobody saw it but us. + The dog had the presence of mind to leave at once, and the respected + townsman was picked up and taken home in a cab; and he got it hot from his + wife, too, I believe, for being in that drunken, beastly state in the main + street in the middle of the day. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think he was ever quite sure that he hadn't been drunk or what + had happened, for he had had one or two that morning; so it didn't matter + much. Only we lost the dog. + </p> + <p> + “One day I went downstairs to the packing-room and saw a lot of phosphorus + in jars of water. I wanted to fix up a ghost for Billy, my mate, so I + nicked a bit and slipped it into my trouser pocket. + </p> + <p> + “I stood under the tap and let it pour on me. The phosphorus burnt clean + through my pocket and fell on the ground. I was sent home that night with + my leg dressed with lime-water and oil, and a pair of the boss's pants on + that were about half a yard too long for me, and I felt miserable enough, + too. They said it would stop my tricks for a while, and so it did. I'll + carry the mark to my dying day—and for two or three days after, for + that matter.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + I fell asleep at this point, and left Mitchell's cattle pup to hear it + out. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster + </h2> + <p> + “When we were up country on the selection, we had a rooster at our place, + named Bill,” said Mitchell; “a big mongrel of no particular breed, though + the old lady said he was a 'brammer'—and many an argument she had + with the old man about it too; she was just as stubborn and obstinate in + her opinion as the governor was in his. But, anyway, we called him Bill, + and didn't take any particular notice of him till a cousin of some of us + came from Sydney on a visit to the country, and stayed at our place + because it was cheaper than stopping at a pub. Well, somehow this chap got + interested in Bill, and studied him for two or three days, and at last he + says: + </p> + <p> + “'Why, that rooster's a ventriloquist!' + </p> + <p> + “'A what?' + </p> + <p> + “'A ventriloquist!' + </p> + <p> + “'Go along with yer!' + </p> + <p> + “'But he is. I've heard of cases like this before; but this is the first + I've come across. Bill's a ventriloquist right enough.' + </p> + <p> + “Then we remembered that there wasn't another rooster within five miles—our + only neighbour, an Irishman named Page, didn't have one at the time—and + we'd often heard another cock crow, but didn't think to take any notice of + it. We watched Bill, and sure enough he WAS a ventriloquist. The + 'ka-cocka' would come all right, but the 'co-ka-koo-oi-oo' seemed to come + from a distance. And sometimes the whole crow would go wrong, and come + back like an echo that had been lost for a year. Bill would stand on + tiptoe, and hold his elbows out, and curve his neck, and go two or three + times as if he was swallowing nest-eggs, and nearly break his neck and + burst his gizzard; and then there'd be no sound at all where he was—only + a cock crowing in the distance. + </p> + <p> + “And pretty soon we could see that Bill was in great trouble about it + himself. You see, he didn't know it was himself—thought it was + another rooster challenging him, and he wanted badly to find that other + bird. He would get up on the wood-heap, and crow and listen—crow and + listen again—crow and listen, and then he'd go up to the top of the + paddock, and get up on the stack, and crow and listen there. Then down to + the other end of the paddock, and get up on a mullock-heap, and crow and + listen there. Then across to the other side and up on a log among the + saplings, and crow 'n' listen some more. He searched all over the place + for that other rooster, but, of course, couldn't find him. Sometimes he'd + be out all day crowing and listening all over the country, and then come + home dead tired, and rest and cool off in a hole that the hens had + scratched for him in a damp place under the water-cask sledge. + </p> + <p> + “Well, one day Page brought home a big white rooster, and when he let it + go it climbed up on Page's stack and crowed, to see if there was any more + roosters round there. Bill had come home tired; it was a hot day, and he'd + rooted out the hens, and was having a spell-oh under the cask when the + white rooster crowed. Bill didn't lose any time getting out and on to the + wood-heap, and then he waited till he heard the crow again; then he + crowed, and the other rooster crowed again, and they crowed at each other + for three days, and called each other all the wretches they could lay + their tongues to, and after that they implored each other to come out and + be made into chicken soup and feather pillows. But neither'd come. You + see, there were THREE crows—there was Bill's crow, and the + ventriloquist crow, and the white rooster's crow—and each rooster + thought that there was TWO roosters in the opposition camp, and that he + mightn't get fair play, and, consequently, both were afraid to put up + their hands. + </p> + <p> + “But at last Bill couldn't stand it any longer. He made up his mind to go + and have it out, even if there was a whole agricultural show of prize and + honourable-mention fighting-cocks in Page's yard. He got down from the + wood-heap and started off across the ploughed field, his head down, his + elbows out, and his thick awkward legs prodding away at the furrows behind + for all they were worth. + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to go down badly and see the fight, and barrack for Bill. But I + daren't, because I'd been coming up the road late the night before with my + brother Joe, and there was about three panels of turkeys roosting along on + the top rail of Page's front fence; and we brushed 'em with a bough, and + they got up such a blessed gobbling fuss about it that Page came out in + his shirt and saw us running away; and I knew he was laying for us with a + bullock whip. Besides, there was friction between the two families on + account of a thoroughbred bull that Page borrowed and wouldn't lend to us, + and that got into our paddock on account of me mending a panel in the + party fence, and carelessly leaving the top rail down after sundown while + our cows was moving round there in the saplings. + </p> + <p> + “So there was too much friction for me to go down, but I climbed a tree as + near the fence as I could and watched. Bill reckoned he'd found that + rooster at last. The white rooster wouldn't come down from the stack, so + Bill went up to him, and they fought there till they tumbled down the + other side, and I couldn't see any more. Wasn't I wild? I'd have given my + dog to have seen the rest of the fight. I went down to the far side of + Page's fence and climbed a tree there, but, of course, I couldn't see + anything, so I came home the back way. Just as I got home Page came round + to the front and sung out, 'Insoid there!' And me and Jim went under the + house like snakes and looked out round a pile. But Page was all right—he + had a broad grin on his face, and Bill safe under his arm. He put Bill + down on the ground very carefully, and says he to the old folks: + </p> + <p> + “'Yer rooster knocked the stuffin' out of my rooster, but I bear no + malice. 'Twas a grand foight.' + </p> + <p> + “And then the old man and Page had a yarn, and got pretty friendly after + that. And Bill didn't seem to bother about any more ventriloquism; but the + white rooster spent a lot of time looking for that other rooster. Perhaps + he thought he'd have better luck with him. But Page was on the look-out + all the time to get a rooster that would lick ours. He did nothing else + for a month but ride round and enquire about roosters; and at last he + borrowed a game-bird in town, left five pounds deposit on him, and brought + him home. And Page and the old man agreed to have a match—about the + only thing they'd agreed about for five years. And they fixed it up for a + Sunday when the old lady and the girls and kids were going on a visit to + some relations, about fifteen miles away—to stop all night. The + guv'nor made me go with them on horseback; but I knew what was up, and so + my pony went lame about a mile along the road, and I had to come back and + turn him out in the top paddock, and hide the saddle and bridle in a + hollow log, and sneak home and climb up on the roof of the shed. It was a + awful hot day, and I had to keep climbing backward and forward over the + ridge-pole all the morning to keep out of sight of the old man, for he was + moving about a good deal. + </p> + <p> + “Well, after dinner, the fellows from roundabout began to ride in and hang + up their horses round the place till it looked as if there was going to be + a funeral. Some of the chaps saw me, of course, but I tipped them the + wink, and they gave me the office whenever the old man happened around. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Page came along with his game-rooster. Its name was Jim. It wasn't + much to look at, and it seemed a good deal smaller and weaker than Bill. + Some of the chaps were disgusted, and said it wasn't a game-rooster at + all; Bill'd settle it in one lick, and they wouldn't have any fun. + </p> + <p> + “Well, they brought the game one out and put him down near the wood-heap, + and rousted Bill out from under his cask. He got interested at once. He + looked at Jim, and got up on the wood-heap and crowed and looked at Jim + again. He reckoned THIS at last was the fowl that had been humbugging him + all along. Presently his trouble caught him, and then he'd crow and take a + squint at the game 'un, and crow again, and have another squint at gamey, + and try to crow and keep his eye on the game-rooster at the same time. But + Jim never committed himself, until at last he happened to gape just after + Bill's whole crow went wrong, and Bill spotted him. He reckoned he'd + caught him this time, and he got down off that wood-heap and went for the + foe. But Jim ran away—and Bill ran after him. + </p> + <p> + “Round and round the wood-heap they went, and round the shed, and round + the house and under it, and back again, and round the wood-heap and over + it and round the other way, and kept it up for close on an hour. Bill's + bill was just within an inch or so of the game-rooster's tail feathers + most of the time, but he couldn't get any nearer, do how he liked. And all + the time the fellers kept chyackin Page and singing out, 'What price yer + game 'un, Page! Go it, Bill! Go it, old cock!' and all that sort of thing. + Well, the game-rooster went as if it was a go-as-you-please, and he didn't + care if it lasted a year. He didn't seem to take any interest in the + business, but Bill got excited, and by-and-by he got mad. He held his head + lower and lower and his wings further and further out from his sides, and + prodded away harder and harder at the ground behind, but it wasn't any + use. Jim seemed to keep ahead without trying. They stuck to the wood-heap + towards the last. They went round first one way for a while, and then the + other for a change, and now and then they'd go over the top to break the + monotony; and the chaps got more interested in the race than they would + have been in the fight—and bet on it, too. But Bill was handicapped + with his weight. He was done up at last; he slowed down till he couldn't + waddle, and then, when he was thoroughly knocked up, that game-rooster + turned on him, and gave him the father of a hiding. + </p> + <p> + “And my father caught me when I'd got down in the excitement, and wasn't + thinking, and HE gave ME the step-father of a hiding. But he had a lively + time with the old lady afterwards, over the cock-fight. + </p> + <p> + “Bill was so disgusted with himself that he went under the cask and died.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Bush Cats + </h2> + <p> + “Domestic cats” we mean—the descendants of cats who came from the + northern world during the last hundred odd years. We do not know the name + of the vessel in which the first Thomas and his Maria came out to + Australia, but we suppose that it was one of the ships of the First Fleet. + Most likely Maria had kittens on the voyage—two lots, perhaps—the + majority of which were buried at sea; and no doubt the disembarkation + caused her much maternal anxiety. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + The feline race has not altered much in Australia, from a physical point + of view—not yet. The rabbit has developed into something like a + cross between a kangaroo and a possum, but the bush has not begun to + develop the common cat. She is just as sedate and motherly as the mummy + cats of Egypt were, but she takes longer strolls of nights, climbs + gum-trees instead of roofs, and hunts stranger vermin than ever came under + the observation of her northern ancestors. Her views have widened. She is + mostly thinner than the English farm cat—which is, they say, on + account of eating lizards. + </p> + <p> + English rats and English mice—we say “English” because everything + which isn't Australian in Australia, IS English (or British)—English + rats and English mice are either rare or non-existent in the bush; but the + hut cat has a wider range for game. She is always dragging in things which + are unknown in the halls of zoology; ugly, loathsome, crawling abortions + which have not been classified yet—and perhaps could not be. + </p> + <p> + The Australian zoologist ought to rake up some more dead languages, and + then go Out Back with a few bush cats. + </p> + <p> + The Australian bush cat has a nasty, unpleasant habit of dragging a long, + wriggling, horrid, black snake—she seems to prefer black snakes—into + a room where there are ladies, proudly laying it down in a conspicuous + place (usually in front of the exit), and then looking up for approbation. + She wonders, perhaps, why the visitors are in such a hurry to leave. + </p> + <p> + Pussy doesn't approve of live snakes round the place, especially if she + has kittens; and if she finds a snake in the vicinity of her progeny—well, + it is bad for that particular serpent. + </p> + <p> + This brings recollections of a neighbour's cat who went out in the scrub, + one midsummer's day, and found a brown snake. Her name—the cat's + name—was Mary Ann. She got hold of the snake all right, just within + an inch of its head; but it got the rest of its length wound round her + body and squeezed about eight lives out of her. She had the presence of + mind to keep her hold; but it struck her that she was in a fix, and that + if she wanted to save her ninth life, it wouldn't be a bad idea to go home + for help. So she started home, snake and all. + </p> + <p> + The family were at dinner when Mary Ann came in, and, although she stood + on an open part of the floor, no one noticed her for a while. She couldn't + ask for help, for her mouth was too full of snake. By-and-bye one of the + girls glanced round, and then went over the table, with a shriek, and out + of the back door. The room was cleared very quickly. The eldest boy got a + long-handled shovel, and in another second would have killed more cat than + snake; but his father interfered. The father was a shearer, and Mary Ann + was a favourite cat with him. He got a pair of shears from the shelf and + deftly shore off the snake's head, and one side of Mary Ann's whiskers. + She didn't think it safe to let go yet. She kept her teeth in the neck + until the selector snipped the rest of the snake off her. The bits were + carried out on a shovel to die at sundown. Mary Ann had a good drink of + milk, and then got her tongue out and licked herself back into the proper + shape for a cat; after which she went out to look for that snake's mate. + She found it, too, and dragged it home the same evening. + </p> + <p> + Cats will kill rabbits and drag them home. We knew a fossicker whose cat + used to bring him a bunny nearly every night. The fossicker had rabbits + for breakfast until he got sick of them, and then he used to swap them + with a butcher for meat. The cat was named Ingersoll, which indicates his + sex and gives an inkling to his master's religious and political opinions. + Ingersoll used to prospect round in the gloaming until he found some + rabbit holes which showed encouraging indications. He would shepherd one + hole for an hour or so every evening until he found it was a duffer, or + worked it out; then he would shift to another. One day he prospected a big + hollow log with a lot of holes in it, and more going down underneath. The + indications were very good, but Ingersoll had no luck. The game had too + many ways of getting out and in. He found that he could not work that + claim by himself, so he floated it into a company. He persuaded several + cats from a neighbouring selection to take shares, and they watched the + holes together, or in turns—they worked shifts. The dividends more + than realised even their wildest expectations, for each cat took home at + least one rabbit every night for a week. + </p> + <p> + A selector started a vegetable garden about the time when rabbits were + beginning to get troublesome up country. The hare had not shown itself + yet. The farmer kept quite a regiment of cats to protect his garden—and + they protected it. He would shut the cats up all day with nothing to eat, + and let them out about sundown; then they would mooch off to the turnip + patch like farm-labourers going to work. They would drag the rabbits home + to the back door, and sit there and watch them until the farmer opened the + door and served out the ration of milk. Then the cats would turn in. He + nearly always found a semi-circle of dead rabbits and watchful cats round + the door in the morning. They sold the product of their labour direct to + the farmer for milk. It didn't matter if one cat had been unlucky—had + not got a rabbit—each had an equal share in the general result. They + were true socialists, those cats. + </p> + <p> + One of those cats was a mighty big Tom, named Jack. He was death on + rabbits; he would work hard all night, laying for them and dragging them + home. Some weeks he would graft every night, and at other times every + other night, but he was generally pretty regular. When he reckoned he had + done an extra night's work, he would take the next night off and go three + miles to the nearest neighbour's to see his Maria and take her out for a + stroll. Well, one evening Jack went into the garden and chose a place + where there was good cover, and lay low. He was a bit earlier than usual, + so he thought he would have a doze till rabbit time. By-and-bye he heard a + noise, and slowly, cautiously opening one eye, he saw two big ears + sticking out of the leaves in front of him. He judged that it was an extra + big bunny, so he put some extra style into his manoeuvres. In about five + minutes he made his spring. He must have thought (if cats think) that it + was a whopping, old-man rabbit, for it was a pioneer hare—not an + ordinary English hare, but one of those great coarse, lanky things which + the bush is breeding. The selector was attracted by an unusual commotion + and a cloud of dust among his cabbages, and came along with his gun in + time to witness the fight. First Jack would drag the hare, and then the + hare would drag Jack; sometimes they would be down together, and then Jack + would use his hind claws with effect; finally he got his teeth in the + right place, and triumphed. Then he started to drag the corpse home, but + he had to give it best and ask his master to lend a hand. The selector + took up the hare, and Jack followed home, much to the family's surprise. + He did not go back to work that night; he took a spell. He had a drink of + milk, licked the dust off himself, washed it down with another drink, and + sat in front of the fire and thought for a goodish while. Then he got up, + walked over to the corner where the hare was lying, had a good look at it, + came back to the fire, sat down again, and thought hard. He was still + thinking when the family retired. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Meeting Old Mates + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + Tom Smith +</pre> + <p> + You are getting well on in the thirties, and haven't left off being a fool + yet. You have been away in another colony or country for a year or so, and + have now come back again. Most of your chums have gone away or got + married, or, worse still, signed the pledge—settled down and got + steady; and you feel lonely and desolate and left-behind enough for + anything. While drifting aimlessly round town with an eye out for some + chance acquaintance to have a knock round with, you run against an old + chum whom you never dreamt of meeting, or whom you thought to be in some + other part of the country—or perhaps you knock up against someone + who knows the old chum in question, and he says: + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you know Tom Smith's in Sydney?” + </p> + <p> + “Tom Smith! Why, I thought he was in Queensland! I haven't seen him for + more than three years. Where's the old joker hanging out at all? Why, + except you, there's no one in Australia I'd sooner see than Tom Smith. + Here I've been mooning round like an unemployed for three weeks, looking + for someone to have a knock round with, and Tom in Sydney all the time. I + wish I'd known before. Where'll I run against him—where does he + live?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he's living at home.” + </p> + <p> + “But where's his home? I was never there.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll give you his address.... There, I think that's it. I'm not sure + about the number, but you'll soon find out in that street—most of + 'em'll know Tom Smith.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks! I rather think they will. I'm glad I met you. I'll hunt Tom up + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + So you put a few shillings in your pocket, tell your landlady that you're + going to visit an old aunt of yours or a sick friend, and mayn't be home + that night; and then you start out to hunt up Tom Smith and have at least + one more good night, if you die for it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + This is the first time you have seen Tom at home; you knew of his home and + people in the old days, but only in a vague, indefinite sort of way. Tom + has changed! He is stouter and older-looking; he seems solemn and settled + down. You intended to give him a surprise and have a good old jolly laugh + with him, but somehow things get suddenly damped at the beginning. He + grins and grips your hand right enough, but there seems something wanting. + You can't help staring at him, and he seems to look at you in a strange, + disappointing way; it doesn't strike you that you also have changed, and + perhaps more in his eyes than he in yours. He introduces you to his mother + and sisters and brothers, and the rest of the family; or to his wife, as + the case may be; and you have to suppress your feelings and be polite and + talk common-place. You hate to be polite and talk common-place. You aren't + built that way—and Tom wasn't either, in the old days. The wife (or + the mother and sisters) receives you kindly, for Tom's sake, and makes + much of you; but they don't know you yet. You want to get Tom outside, and + have a yarn and a drink and a laugh with him—you are bursting to + tell him all about yourself, and get him to tell you all about himself, + and ask him if he remembers things; and you wonder if he is bursting the + same way, and hope he is. The old lady and sisters (or the wife) bore you + pretty soon, and you wonder if they bore Tom; you almost fancy, from his + looks, that they do. You wonder whether Tom is coming out to-night, + whether he wants to get out, and if he wants to and wants to get out by + himself, whether he'll be able to manage it; but you daren't broach the + subject, it wouldn't be polite. You've got to be polite. Then you get + worried by the thought that Tom is bursting to get out with you and only + wants an excuse; is waiting, in fact, and hoping for you to ask him in an + off-hand sort of way to come out for a stroll. But you're not quite sure; + and besides, if you were, you wouldn't have the courage. By-and-bye you + get tired of it all, thirsty, and want to get out in the open air. You get + tired of saying, “Do you really, Mrs. Smith?” or “Do you think so, Miss + Smith?” or “You were quite right, Mrs. Smith,” and “Well, I think so too, + Mrs. Smith,” or, to the brother, “That's just what I thought, Mr. Smith.” + You don't want to “talk pretty” to them, and listen to their wishy-washy + nonsense; you want to get out and have a roaring spree with Tom, as you + had in the old days; you want to make another night of it with your old + mate, Tom Smith; and pretty soon you get the blues badly, and feel nearly + smothered in there, and you've got to get out and have a beer anyway—Tom + or no Tom; and you begin to feel wild with Tom himself; and at last you + make a bold dash for it and chance Tom. You get up, look at your hat, and + say: “Ah, well, I must be going, Tom; I've got to meet someone down the + street at seven o'clock. Where'll I meet you in town next week?” + </p> + <p> + But Tom says: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dash it; you ain't going yet. Stay to tea, Joe, stay to tea. It'll be + on the table in a minute. Sit down—sit down, man! Here, gimme your + hat.” + </p> + <p> + And Tom's sister, or wife, or mother comes in with an apron on and her + hands all over flour, and says: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you're not going yet, Mr. Brown? Tea'll be ready in a minute. Do stay + for tea.” And if you make excuses, she cross-examines you about the time + you've got to keep that appointment down the street, and tells you that + their clock is twenty minutes fast, and that you have got plenty of time, + and so you have to give in. But you are mightily encouraged by a winksome + expression which you see, or fancy you see, on your side of Tom's face; + also by the fact of his having accidentally knocked his foot against your + shins. So you stay. + </p> + <p> + One of the females tells you to “Sit there, Mr. Brown,” and you take your + place at the table, and the polite business goes on. You've got to hold + your knife and fork properly, and mind your p's and q's, and when she + says, “Do you take milk and sugar, Mr. Brown?” you've got to say, “Yes, + please, Miss Smith—thanks—that's plenty.” And when they press + you, as they will, to have more, you've got to keep on saying, “No, + thanks, Mrs. Smith; no, thanks, Miss Smith; I really couldn't; I've done + very well, thank you; I had a very late dinner, and so on”—bother + such tommy-rot. And you don't seem to have any appetite, anyway. And you + think of the days out on the track when you and Tom sat on your swags + under a mulga at mid-day, and ate mutton and johnny-cake with + clasp-knives, and drank by turns out of the old, battered, leaky billy. + </p> + <p> + And after tea you have to sit still while the precious minutes are wasted, + and listen and sympathize, while all the time you are on the fidget to get + out with Tom, and go down to a private bar where you know some girls. + </p> + <p> + And perhaps by-and-bye the old lady gets confidential, and seizes an + opportunity to tell you what a good steady young fellow Tom is now that he + never touches drink, and belongs to a temperance society (or the + Y.M.C.A.), and never stays out of nights. + </p> + <p> + Consequently you feel worse than ever, and lonelier, and sorrier that you + wasted your time coming. You are encouraged again by a glimpse of Tom + putting on a clean collar and fixing himself up a bit; but when you are + ready to go, and ask him if he's coming a bit down the street with you, he + says he thinks he will in such a disinterested, don't-mind-if-I-do sort of + tone, that he makes you mad. + </p> + <p> + At last, after promising to “drop in again, Mr. Brown, whenever you're + passing,” and to “don't forget to call,” and thanking them for their + assurance that they'll “be always glad to see you,” and telling them that + you've spent a very pleasant evening and enjoyed yourself, and are awfully + sorry you couldn't stay—you get away with Tom. + </p> + <p> + You don't say much to each other till you get round the corner and down + the street a bit, and then for a while your conversation is mostly + common-place, such as, “Well, how have you been getting on all this time, + Tom?” “Oh, all right. How have you been getting on?” and so on. + </p> + <p> + But presently, and perhaps just as you have made up your mind to chance + the alleged temperance business and ask Tom in to have a drink, he throws + a glance up and down the street, nudges your shoulder, says “Come on,” and + disappears sideways into a pub. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “What's yours, Tom?” “What's yours, Joe?” “The same for me.” “Well, here's + luck, old man.” “Here's luck.” You take a drink, and look over your glass + at Tom. Then the old smile spreads over his face, and it makes you glad—you + could swear to Tom's grin in a hundred years. Then something tickles him—your + expression, perhaps, or a recollection of the past—and he sets down + his glass on the bar and laughs. Then you laugh. Oh, there's no smile like + the smile that old mates favour each other with over the tops of their + glasses when they meet again after years. It is eloquent, because of the + memories that give it birth. + </p> + <p> + “Here's another. Do you remember——? Do you remember——?” + Oh, it all comes back again like a flash. Tom hasn't changed a bit; just + the same good-hearted, jolly idiot he always was. Old times back again! + “It's just like old times,” says Tom, after three or four more drinks. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + And so you make a night of it and get uproariously jolly. You get as + “glorious” as Bobby Burns did in the part of Tam O'Shanter, and have a + better “time” than any of the times you had in the old days. And you see + Tom as nearly home in the morning as you dare, and he reckons he'll get it + hot from his people—which no doubt he will—and he explains + that they are very particular up at home—church people, you know—and, + of course, especially if he's married, it's understood between you that + you'd better not call for him up at home after this—at least, not + till things have cooled down a bit. It's always the way. The friend of the + husband always gets the blame in cases like this. But Tom fixes up a yarn + to tell them, and you aren't to “say anything different” in case you run + against any of them. And he fixes up an appointment with you for next + Saturday night, and he'll get there if he gets divorced for it. But he + MIGHT have to take the wife out shopping, or one of the girls somewhere; + and if you see her with him you've got to lay low, and be careful, and + wait—at another hour and place, perhaps, all of which is arranged—for + if she sees you she'll smell a rat at once, and he won't be able to get + off at all. + </p> + <p> + And so, as far as you and Tom are concerned, the “old times” have come + back once more. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + But, of course (and we almost forgot it), you might chance to fall in love + with one of Tom's sisters, in which case there would be another and a + totally different story to tell. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. + + Jack Ellis +</pre> + <p> + Things are going well with you. You have escaped from “the track”, so to + speak, and are in a snug, comfortable little billet in the city. Well, + while doing the block you run against an old mate of other days—VERY + other days—call him Jack Ellis. Things have gone hard with Jack. He + knows you at once, but makes no advance towards a greeting; he acts as + though he thinks you might cut him—which, of course, if you are a + true mate, you have not the slightest intention of doing. His coat is + yellow and frayed, his hat is battered and green, his trousers “gone” in + various places, his linen very cloudy, and his boots burst and innocent of + polish. You try not to notice these things—or rather, not to seem to + notice them—but you cannot help doing so, and you are afraid he'll + notice that you see these things, and put a wrong construction on it. How + men will misunderstand each other! You greet him with more than the + necessary enthusiasm. In your anxiety to set him at his ease and make him + believe that nothing—not even money—can make a difference in + your friendship, you over-act the business; and presently you are afraid + that he'll notice that too, and put a wrong construction on it. You wish + that your collar was not so clean, nor your clothes so new. Had you known + you would meet him, you would have put on some old clothes for the + occasion. + </p> + <p> + You are both embarrassed, but it is YOU who feel ashamed—you are + almost afraid to look at him lest he'll think you are looking at his + shabbiness. You ask him in to have a drink, but he doesn't respond so + heartily as you wish, as he did in the old days; he doesn't like drinking + with anybody when he isn't “fixed”, as he calls it—when he can't + shout. + </p> + <p> + It didn't matter in the old days who held the money so long as there was + plenty of “stuff” in the camp. You think of the days when Jack stuck to + you through thick and thin. You would like to give him money now, but he + is so proud; he always was; he makes you mad with his beastly pride. There + wasn't any pride of that sort on the track or in the camp in those days; + but times have changed—your lives have drifted too widely apart—you + have taken different tracks since then; and Jack, without intending to, + makes you feel that it is so. + </p> + <p> + You have a drink, but it isn't a success; it falls flat, as far as Jack is + concerned; he won't have another; he doesn't “feel on”, and presently he + escapes under plea of an engagement, and promises to see you again. + </p> + <p> + And you wish that the time was come when no one could have more or less to + spend than another. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + P.S.—I met an old mate of that description once, and so successfully + persuaded him out of his beastly pride that he borrowed two pounds off me + till Monday. I never got it back since, and I want it badly at the present + time. In future I'll leave old mates with their pride unimpaired. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Two Larrikins + </h2> + <p> + “Y'orter do something, Ernie. Yer know how I am. YOU don't seem to care. + Y'orter to do something.” + </p> + <p> + Stowsher slouched at a greater angle to the greasy door-post, and scowled + under his hat-brim. It was a little, low, frowsy room opening into Jones' + Alley. She sat at the table, sewing—a thin, sallow girl with weak, + colourless eyes. She looked as frowsy as her surroundings. + </p> + <p> + “Well, why don't you go to some of them women, and get fixed up?” + </p> + <p> + She flicked the end of the table-cloth over some tiny, unfinished articles + of clothing, and bent to her work. + </p> + <p> + “But you know very well I haven't got a shilling, Ernie,” she said, + quietly. “Where am I to get the money from?” + </p> + <p> + “Who asked yer to get it?” + </p> + <p> + She was silent, with the exasperating silence of a woman who has + determined to do a thing in spite of all reasons and arguments that may be + brought against it. + </p> + <p> + “Well, wot more do yer want?” demanded Stowsher, impatiently. + </p> + <p> + She bent lower. “Couldn't we keep it, Ernie?” + </p> + <p> + “Wot next?” asked Stowsher, sulkily—he had half suspected what was + coming. Then, with an impatient oath, “You must be gettin' ratty.” + </p> + <p> + She brushed the corner of the cloth further over the little clothes. + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn't cost anything, Ernie. I'd take a pride in him, and keep him + clean, and dress him like a little lord. He'll be different from all the + other youngsters. He wouldn't be like those dirty, sickly little brats out + there. He'd be just like you, Ernie; I know he would. I'll look after him + night and day, and bring him up well and strong. We'd train his little + muscles from the first, Ernie, and he'd be able to knock 'em all out when + he grew up. It wouldn't cost much, and I'd work hard and be careful if + you'd help me. And you'd be proud of him, too, Ernie—I know you + would.” + </p> + <p> + Stowsher scraped the doorstep with his foot; but whether he was “touched”, + or feared hysterics and was wisely silent, was not apparent. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember the first day I met you, Ernie?” she asked, presently. + </p> + <p> + Stowsher regarded her with an uneasy scowl: “Well—wot o' that?” + </p> + <p> + “You came into the bar-parlour at the 'Cricketers' Arms' and caught a push + of 'em chyacking your old man.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I altered that.” + </p> + <p> + “I know you did. You done for three of them, one after another, and two + was bigger than you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! and when the push come up we done for the rest,” said Stowsher, + softening at the recollection. + </p> + <p> + “And the day you come home and caught the landlord bullying your old + mother like a dog——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I got three months for that job. But it was worth it!” he reflected. + “Only,” he added, “the old woman might have had the knocker to keep away + from the lush while I was in quod.... But wot's all this got to do with + it?” + </p> + <p> + “HE might barrack and fight for you, some day, Ernie,” she said softly, + “when you're old and out of form and ain't got no push to back you.” + </p> + <p> + The thing was becoming decidedly embarrassing to Stowsher; not that he + felt any delicacy on the subject, but because he hated to be drawn into a + conversation that might be considered “soft”. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, stow that!” he said, comfortingly. “Git on yer hat, and I'll take yer + for a trot.” + </p> + <p> + She rose quickly, but restrained herself, recollecting that it was not + good policy to betray eagerness in response to an invitation from Ernie. + </p> + <p> + “But—you know—I don't like to go out like this. You can't—you + wouldn't like to take me out the way I am, Ernie!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? Wot rot!” + </p> + <p> + “The fellows would see me, and—and——” + </p> + <p> + “And... wot?” + </p> + <p> + “They might notice——” + </p> + <p> + “Well, wot o' that? I want 'em to. Are yer comin' or are yer ain't? Fling + round now. I can't hang on here all day.” + </p> + <p> + They walked towards Flagstaff Hill. + </p> + <p> + One or two, slouching round a pub. corner, saluted with “Wotcher, + Stowsher!” + </p> + <p> + “Not too stinkin',” replied Stowsher. “Soak yer heads.” + </p> + <p> + “Stowsher's goin' to stick,” said one privately. + </p> + <p> + “An' so he orter,” said another. “Wish I had the chanst.” + </p> + <p> + The two turned up a steep lane. + </p> + <p> + “Don't walk so fast up hill, Ernie; I can't, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Liz. I forgot that. Why didn't yer say so before?” + </p> + <p> + She was contentedly silent most of the way, warned by instinct, after the + manner of women when they have gained their point by words. + </p> + <p> + Once he glanced over his shoulder with a short laugh. “Gorblime!” he said, + “I nearly thought the little beggar was a-follerin' along behind!” + </p> + <p> + When he left her at the door he said: “Look here, Liz. 'Ere's half a quid. + Git what yer want. Let her go. I'm goin' to graft again in the mornin', + and I'll come round and see yer to-morrer night.” + </p> + <p> + Still she seemed troubled and uneasy. + </p> + <p> + “Ernie.” + </p> + <p> + “Well. Wot now?” + </p> + <p> + “S'posin' it's a girl, Ernie.” + </p> + <p> + Stowsher flung himself round impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, for God's sake, stow that! Yer always singin' out before yer hurt.... + There's somethin' else, ain't there—while the bloomin' shop's open?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Ernie. Ain't you going to kiss me?... I'm satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “Satisfied! Yer don't want the kid to be arst 'oo 'is father was, do yer? + Yer'd better come along with me some day this week and git spliced. Yer + don't want to go frettin' or any of that funny business while it's on.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Ernie! do you really mean it?”—and she threw her arms round his + neck, and broke down at last. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “So-long, Liz. No more funny business now—I've had enough of it. + Keep yer pecker up, old girl. To-morrer night, mind.” Then he added + suddenly: “Yer might have known I ain't that sort of a bloke”—and + left abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Liz was very happy. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mr. Smellingscheck + </h2> + <p> + I met him in a sixpenny restaurant—“All meals, 6d.—Good beds, + 1s.” That was before sixpenny restaurants rose to a third-class position, + and became possibly respectable places to live in, through the + establishment, beneath them, of fourpenny hash-houses (good beds, 6d.), + and, beneath THEM again, of THREE-penny “dining-rooms—CLEAN beds, + 4d.” + </p> + <p> + There were five beds in our apartment, the head of one against the foot of + the next, and so on round the room, with a space where the door and + washstand were. I chose the bed the head of which was near the foot of + his, because he looked like a man who took his bath regularly. I should + like, in the interests of sentiment, to describe the place as a miserable, + filthy, evil-smelling garret; but I can't—because it wasn't. The + room was large and airy; the floor was scrubbed and the windows cleaned at + least once a week, and the beds kept fresh and neat, which is more—a + good deal more—than can be said of many genteel private + boarding-houses. The lodgers were mostly respectable unemployed, and one + or two—fortunate men!—in work; it was the casual boozer, the + professional loafer, and the occasional spieler—the + one-shilling-bed-men—who made the place objectionable, not the + hard-working people who paid ten pounds a week for the house; and, but for + the one-night lodgers and the big gilt black-and-red bordered and “shaded” + “6d.” in the window—which made me glance guiltily up and down the + street, like a burglar about to do a job, before I went in—I was + pretty comfortable there. + </p> + <p> + They called him “Mr. Smellingscheck”, and treated him with a peculiar kind + of deference, the reason for which they themselves were doubtless unable + to explain or even understand. The haggard woman who made the beds called + him “Mr. Smell-'is-check”. Poor fellow! I didn't think, by the look of + him, that he'd smelt his cheque, or anyone else's, or that anyone else had + smelt his, for many a long day. He was a fat man, slow and placid. He + looked like a typical monopolist who had unaccountably got into a suit of + clothes belonging to a Domain unemployed, and hadn't noticed, or had + entirely forgotten, the circumstance in his business cares—if such a + word as care could be connected with such a calm, self-contained nature. + He wore a suit of cheap slops of some kind of shoddy “tweed”. The coat was + too small and the trousers too short, and they were drawn up to meet the + waistcoat—which they did with painful difficulty, now and then + showing, by way of protest, two pairs of brass buttons and the ends of the + brace-straps; and they seemed to blame the irresponsive waistcoat or the + wearer for it all. Yet he never gave way to assist them. A pair of burst + elastic-sides were in full evidence, and a rim of cloudy sock, with a hole + in it, showed at every step. + </p> + <p> + But he put on his clothes and wore them like—like a gentleman. He + had two white shirts, and they were both dirty. He'd lay them out on the + bed, turn them over, regard them thoughtfully, choose that which appeared + to his calm understanding to be the cleaner, and put it on, and wear it + until it was unmistakably dirtier than the other; then he'd wear the other + till it was dirtier than the first. He managed his three collars the same + way. His handkerchiefs were washed in the bathroom, and dried, without the + slightest disguise, in the bedroom. He never hurried in anything. The way + he cleaned his teeth, shaved, and made his toilet almost transformed the + place, in my imagination, into a gentleman's dressing-room. + </p> + <p> + He talked politics and such things in the abstract—always in the + abstract—calmly in the abstract. He was an old-fashioned + Conservative of the Sir Leicester Deadlock style. When he was moved by an + extra shower of aggressive democratic cant—which was seldom—he + defended Capital, but only as if it needed no defence, and as if its + opponents were merely thoughtless, ignorant children whom he condescended + to set right because of their inexperience and for their own good. He + stuck calmly to his own order—the order which had dropped him like a + foul thing when the bottom dropped out of his boom, whatever that was. He + never talked of his misfortunes. + </p> + <p> + He took his meals at the little greasy table in the dark corner + downstairs, just as if he were dining at the Exchange. He had a chop—rather + well-done—and a sheet of the 'Herald' for breakfast. He carried two + handkerchiefs; he used one for a handkerchief and the other for a + table-napkin, and sometimes folded it absently and laid it on the table. + He rose slowly, putting his chair back, took down his battered old green + hat, and regarded it thoughtfully—as though it had just occurred to + him in a calm, casual way that he'd drop into his hatter's, if he had + time, on his way down town, and get it blocked, or else send the messenger + round with it during business hours. He'd draw his stick out from behind + the next chair, plant it, and, if you hadn't quite finished your side of + the conversation, stand politely waiting until you were done. Then he'd + look for a suitable reply into his hat, put it on, give it a twitch to + settle it on his head—as gentlemen do a “chimney-pot”—step out + into the gangway, turn his face to the door, and walk slowly out on to the + middle of the pavement—looking more placidly well-to-do than ever. + The saying is that clothes make a man, but HE made his almost respectable + just by wearing them. Then he'd consult his watch—(he stuck to the + watch all through, and it seemed a good one—I often wondered why he + didn't pawn it); then he'd turn slowly, right turn, and look down the + street. Then slowly back, left-about turn, and take a cool survey in that + direction, as if calmly undecided whether to take a cab and drive to the + Exchange, or (as it was a very fine morning, and he had half an hour to + spare) walk there and drop in at his club on the way. He'd conclude to + walk. I never saw him go anywhere in particular, but he walked and stood + as if he could. + </p> + <p> + Coming quietly into the room one day, I surprised him sitting at the table + with his arms lying on it and his face resting on them. I heard something + like a sob. He rose hastily, and gathered up some papers which were on the + table; then he turned round, rubbing his forehead and eyes with his + forefinger and thumb, and told me that he suffered from—something, I + forget the name of it, but it was a well-to-do ailment. His manner seemed + a bit jolted and hurried for a minute or so, and then he was himself + again. He told me he was leaving for Melbourne next day. He left while I + was out, and left an envelope downstairs for me. There was nothing in it + except a pound note. + </p> + <p> + I saw him in Brisbane afterwards, well-dressed, getting out of a cab at + the entrance of one of the leading hotels. But his manner was no more + self-contained and well-to-do than it had been in the old sixpenny days—because + it couldn't be. We had a well-to-do whisky together, and he talked of + things in the abstract. He seemed just as if he'd met me in the Australia. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “A Rough Shed” + </h2> + <p> + A hot, breathless, blinding sunrise—the sun having appeared suddenly + above the ragged edge of the barren scrub like a great disc of molten + steel. No hint of a morning breeze before it, no sign on earth or sky to + show that it is morning—save the position of the sun. + </p> + <p> + A clearing in the scrub—bare as though the surface of the earth were + ploughed and harrowed, and dusty as the road. Two oblong huts—one + for the shearers and one for the rouseabouts—in about the centre of + the clearing (as if even the mongrel scrub had shrunk away from them) + built end-to-end, of weatherboards, and roofed with galvanised iron. + Little ventilation; no verandah; no attempt to create, artificially, a + breath of air through the buildings. Unpainted, sordid—hideous. + Outside, heaps of ashes still hot and smoking. Close at hand, “butcher's + shop”—a bush and bag breakwind in the dust, under a couple of sheets + of iron, with offal, grease and clotted blood blackening the surface of + the ground about it. Greasy, stinking sheepskins hanging everywhere with + blood-blotched sides out. Grease inches deep in great black patches about + the fireplace ends of the huts, where wash-up and “boiling” water is + thrown. + </p> + <p> + Inside, a rough table on supports driven into the black, greasy ground + floor, and formed of flooring boards, running on uneven lines the length + of the hut from within about 6ft. of the fire-place. Lengths of single + six-inch boards or slabs on each side, supported by the projecting ends of + short pieces of timber nailed across the legs of the table to serve as + seats. + </p> + <p> + On each side of the hut runs a rough framework, like the partitions in a + stable; each compartment battened off to about the size of a manger, and + containing four bunks, one above the other, on each side—their ends, + of course, to the table. Scarcely breathing space anywhere between. + Fireplace, the full width of the hut in one end, where all the cooking and + baking for forty or fifty men is done, and where flour, sugar, etc., are + kept in open bags. Fire, like a very furnace. Buckets of tea and coffee on + roasting beds of coals and ashes on the hearth. Pile of “brownie” on the + bare black boards at the end of the table. Unspeakable aroma of forty or + fifty men who have little inclination and less opportunity to wash their + skins, and who soak some of the grease out of their clothes—in + buckets of hot water—on Saturday afternoons or Sundays. And clinging + to all, and over all, the smell of the dried, stale yolk of wool—the + stink of rams! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “I am a rouseabout of the rouseabouts. I have fallen so far that it is + beneath me to try to climb to the proud position of 'ringer' of the shed. + I had that ambition once, when I was the softest of green hands; but then + I thought I could work out my salvation and go home. I've got used to hell + since then. I only get twenty-five shillings a week (less station store + charges) and tucker here. I have been seven years west of the Darling and + never shore a sheep. Why don't I learn to shear, and so make money? What + should I do with more money? Get out of this and go home? I would never go + home unless I had enough money to keep me for the rest of my life, and + I'll never make that Out Back. Otherwise, what should I do at home? And + how should I account for the seven years, if I were to go home? Could I + describe shed life to them and explain how I lived. They think shearing + only takes a few days of the year—at the beginning of summer. They'd + want to know how I lived the rest of the year. Could I explain that I + 'jabbed trotters' and was a 'tea-and-sugar burglar' between sheds. They'd + think I'd been a tramp and a beggar all the time. Could I explain ANYTHING + so that they'd understand? I'd have to be lying all the time and would + soon be tripped up and found out. For, whatever else I have been I was + never much of a liar. No, I'll never go home. + </p> + <p> + “I become momentarily conscious about daylight. The flies on the track got + me into that habit, I think; they start at day-break—when the + mosquitoes give over. + </p> + <p> + “The cook rings a bullock bell. + </p> + <p> + “The cook is fire-proof. He is as a fiend from the nethermost sheol and + needs to be. No man sees him sleep, for he makes bread—or worse, + brownie—at night, and he rings a bullock bell loudly at half-past + five in the morning to rouse us from our animal torpors. Others, the + sheep-ho's or the engine-drivers at the shed or wool-wash, call him, if he + does sleep. They manage it in shifts, somehow, and sleep somewhere, + sometime. We haven't time to know. The cook rings the bullock bell and + yells the time. It was the same time five minutes ago—or a year ago. + No time to decide which. I dash water over my head and face and slap + handfuls on my eyelids—gummed over aching eyes—still blighted + by the yolk o' wool—grey, greasy-feeling water from a cut-down + kerosene tin which I sneaked from the cook and hid under my bunk and had + the foresight to refill from the cask last night, under cover of warm, + still, suffocating darkness. Or was it the night before last? Anyhow, it + will be sneaked from me to-day, and from the crawler who will collar it + to-morrow, and 'touched' and 'lifted' and 'collared' and recovered by the + cook, and sneaked back again, and cause foul language, and fights, maybe, + till we 'cut-out'. + </p> + <p> + “No; we didn't have sweet dreams of home and mother, gentle poet—nor + yet of babbling brooks and sweethearts, and love's young dream. We are too + dirty and dog-tired when we tumble down, and have too little time to sleep + it off. We don't want to dream those dreams out here—they'd only be + nightmares for us, and we'd wake to remember. We MUSTN'T remember here. + </p> + <p> + “At the edge of the timber a great galvanised-iron shed, nearly all roof, + coming down to within 6ft. 6in. of the 'board' over the 'shoots'. Cloud of + red dust in the dead timber behind, going up—noon-day dust. Fence + covered with skins; carcases being burned; blue smoke going straight up as + in noonday. Great glossy (greasy-glossy) black crows 'flopping' around. + </p> + <p> + “The first syren has gone. We hurry in single files from opposite ends of + rouseabouts' and shearers' huts (as the paths happen to run to the shed) + gulping hot tea or coffee from a pint-pot in one hand and biting at a junk + of brownie in the other. + </p> + <p> + “Shed of forty hands. Shearers rush the pens and yank out sheep and throw + them like demons; grip them with their knees, take up machines, jerk the + strings; and with a rattling whirring roar the great machine-shed starts + for the day. + </p> + <p> + “'Go it, you——tigers!' yells a tar-boy. 'Wool away!' 'Tar!' + 'Sheep Ho!' We rush through with a whirring roar till breakfast time. + </p> + <p> + “We seize our tin plate from the pile, knife and fork from the candle-box, + and crowd round the camp-oven to jab out lean chops, dry as chips, boiled + in fat. Chops or curry-and-rice. There is some growling and cursing. We + slip into our places without removing our hats. There's no time to hunt + for mislaid hats when the whistle goes. Row of hat brims, level, drawn + over eyes, or thrust back—according to characters or temperaments. + Thrust back denotes a lucky absence of brains, I fancy. Row of forks going + up, or jabbing, or poised, loaded, waiting for last mouthful to be bolted. + </p> + <p> + “We pick up, sweep, tar, sew wounds, catch sheep that break from the pens, + jump down and pick up those that can't rise at the bottom of the shoots, + 'bring-my-combs-from-the-grinder-will-yer,' laugh at dirty jokes, and + swear—and, in short, are the 'will-yer' slaves, body and soul, of + seven, six, five, or four shearers, according to the distance from the + rolling tables. + </p> + <p> + “The shearer on the board at the shed is a demon. He gets so much a + hundred; we, 25s. a week. He is not supposed, by the rules of the shed, + the Union, and humanity, to take a sheep out of the pen AFTER the bell + goes (smoke-ho, meals, or knock-off), but his watch is hanging on the + post, and he times himself to get so many sheep out of the pen BEFORE the + bell goes, and ONE MORE—the 'bell-sheep'—as it is ringing. We + have to take the last fleece to the table and leave our board clean. We go + through the day of eight hours in runs of about an hour and 20 minutes + between smoke-ho's—from 6 to 6. If the shearers shore 200 instead of + 100, they'd get 2 Pounds a day instead of 1 Pound, and we'd have twice as + much work to do for our 25s. per week. But the shearers are racing each + other for tallies. And it's no use kicking. There is no God here and no + Unionism (though we all have tickets). But what am I growling about? I've + worked from 6 to 6 with no smoke-ho's for half the wages, and food we + wouldn't give the sheep-ho dog. It's the bush growl, born of heat, flies, + and dust. I'd growl now if I had a thousand a year. We MUST growl, swear, + and some of us drink to d.t.'s, or go mad sober. + </p> + <p> + “Pants and shirts stiff with grease as though a couple of pounds of soft + black putty were spread on with a painter's knife. + </p> + <p> + “No, gentle bard!—we don't sing at our work. Over the whirr and roar + and hum all day long, and with iteration that is childish and irritating + to the intelligent greenhand, float unthinkable adjectives and adverbs, + addressed to jumbucks, jackaroos, and mates indiscriminately. And worse + words for the boss over the board—behind his back. + </p> + <p> + “I came of a Good Christian Family—perhaps that's why I went to the + Devil. When I came out here I'd shrink from the man who used foul + language. In a short time I used it with the worst. I couldn't help it. + </p> + <p> + “That's the way of it. If I went back to a woman's country again I + wouldn't swear. I'd forget this as I would a nightmare. That's the way of + it. There's something of the larrikin about us. We don't exist + individually. Off the board, away from the shed (and each other) we are + quiet—even gentle. + </p> + <p> + “A great-horned ram, in poor condition, but shorn of a heavy fleece, picks + himself up at the foot of the 'shoot', and hesitates, as if ashamed to go + down to the other end where the ewes are. The most ridiculous object under + Heaven. + </p> + <p> + “A tar-boy of fifteen, of the bush, with a mouth so vile that a + street-boy, same age (up with a shearing uncle), kicks him behind—having + proved his superiority with his fists before the shed started. Of which + unspeakable little fiend the roughest shearer of a rough shed was heard to + say, in effect, that if he thought there was the slightest possibility of + his becoming the father of such a boy he'd——take drastic + measures to prevent the possibility of his becoming a proud parent at all. + </p> + <p> + “Twice a day the cooks and their familiars carry buckets of oatmeal-water + and tea to the shed, two each on a yoke. We cry, 'Where are you coming to, + my pretty maids?' + </p> + <p> + “In ten minutes the surfaces of the buckets are black with flies. We have + given over trying to keep them clear. We stir the living cream aside with + the bottoms of the pints, and guzzle gallons, and sweat it out again. + Occasionally a shearer pauses and throws the perspiration from his + forehead in a rain. + </p> + <p> + “Shearers live in such a greedy rush of excitement that often a strong man + will, at a prick of the shears, fall in a death-like faint on the board. + </p> + <p> + “We hate the Boss-of-the-Board as the shearers' 'slushy' hates the + shearers' cook. I don't know why. He's a very fair boss. + </p> + <p> + “He refused to put on a traveller yesterday, and the traveller knocked him + down. He walked into the shed this morning with his hat back and thumbs in + waistcoat—a tribute to man's weakness. He threatened to dismiss the + traveller's mate, a bigger man, for rough shearing—a tribute to + man's strength. The shearer said nothing. We hate the boss because he IS + boss, but we respect him because he is a strong man. He is as hard up as + any of us, I hear, and has a sick wife and a large, small family in + Melbourne. God judge us all! + </p> + <p> + “There is a gambling-school here, headed by the shearers' cook. After tea + they head-'em, and advance cheques are passed from hand to hand, and + thrown in the dust until they are black. When it's too dark to see with + nose to the ground, they go inside and gamble with cards. Sometimes they + start on Saturday afternoon, heading 'em till dark, play cards all night, + start again heading 'em Sunday afternoon, play cards all Sunday night, and + sleep themselves sane on Monday, or go to work ghastly—like dead + men. + </p> + <p> + “Cry of 'Fight'; we all rush out. But there isn't much fighting. Afraid of + murdering each other. I'm beginning to think that most bush crime is due + to irritation born of dust, heat, and flies. + </p> + <p> + “The smothering atmosphere shudders when the sun goes down. We call it the + sunset breeze. + </p> + <p> + “Saturday night or Sunday we're invited into the shearers' hut. There are + songs that are not hymns and recitations and speeches that are not + prayers. + </p> + <p> + “Last Sunday night: Slush lamps at long intervals on table. Men playing + cards, sewing on patches—(nearly all smoking)—some writing, + and the rest reading Deadwood Dick. At one end of the table a Christian + Endeavourer endeavouring; at the other a cockney Jew, from the hawker's + boat, trying to sell rotten clothes. In response to complaints, direct and + not chosen generally for Sunday, the shearers' rep. requests both apostles + to shut up or leave. + </p> + <p> + “He couldn't be expected to take the Christian and leave the Jew, any more + than he could take the Jew and leave the Christian. We are just amongst + ourselves in our hell. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “Fiddle at the end of rouseabouts' hut. Voice of Jackeroo, from upper bunk + with apologetic oaths: 'For God's sake chuck that up; it makes a man think + of blanky old things!' + </p> + <p> + “A lost soul laughs (mine) and dreadful night smothers us.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Payable Gold + </h2> + <p> + Among the crowds who left the Victorian side for New South Wales about the + time Gulgong broke out was an old Ballarat digger named Peter McKenzie. He + had married and retired from the mining some years previously and had made + a home for himself and family at the village of St. Kilda, near Melbourne; + but, as was often the case with old diggers, the gold fever never left + him, and when the fields of New South Wales began to blaze he mortgaged + his little property in order to raise funds for another campaign, leaving + sufficient behind him to keep his wife and family in comfort for a year or + so. + </p> + <p> + As he often remarked, his position was now very different from what it had + been in the old days when he first arrived from Scotland, in the height of + the excitement following on the great discovery. He was a young man then + with only himself to look out for, but now that he was getting old and had + a family to provide for he had staked too much on this venture to lose. + His position did certainly look like a forlorn hope, but he never seemed + to think so. + </p> + <p> + Peter must have been very lonely and low-spirited at times. A young or + unmarried man can form new ties, and even make new sweethearts if + necessary, but Peter's heart was with his wife and little ones at home, + and they were mortgaged, as it were, to Dame Fortune. Peter had to lift + this mortgage off. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless he was always cheerful, even at the worst of times, and his + straight grey beard and scrubby brown hair encircled a smile which + appeared to be a fixture. He had to make an effort in order to look grave, + such as some men do when they want to force a smile. + </p> + <p> + It was rumoured that Peter had made a vow never to return home until he + could take sufficient wealth to make his all-important family comfortable, + or, at least, to raise the mortgage from the property, for the sacrifice + of which to his mad gold fever he never forgave himself. But this was one + of the few things which Peter kept to himself. + </p> + <p> + The fact that he had a wife and children at St. Kilda was well known to + all the diggers. They had to know it, and if they did not know the age, + complexion, history and peculiarities of every child and of the “old + woman” it was not Peter's fault. + </p> + <p> + He would cross over to our place and talk to the mother for hours about + his wife and children. And nothing pleased him better than to discover + peculiarities in us children wherein we resembled his own. It pleased us + also for mercenary reasons. “It's just the same with my old woman,” or + “It's just the same with my youngsters,” Peter would exclaim boisterously, + for he looked upon any little similarity between the two families as a + remarkable coincidence. He liked us all, and was always very kind to us, + often standing between our backs and the rod that spoils the child—that + is, I mean, if it isn't used. I was very short-tempered, but this failing + was more than condoned by the fact that Peter's “eldest” was given that + way also. Mother's second son was very good-natured; so was Peter's third. + Her “third” had a great aversion for any duty that threatened to increase + his muscles; so had Peter's “second”. Our baby was very fat and heavy and + was given to sucking her own thumb vigorously, and, according to the + latest bulletins from home, it was just the same with Peter's “last”. + </p> + <p> + I think we knew more about Peter's family than we did about our own. + Although we had never seen them, we were as familiar with their features + as the photographer's art could make us, and always knew their domestic + history up to the date of the last mail. + </p> + <p> + We became interested in the McKenzie family. Instead of getting bored by + them as some people were, we were always as much pleased when Peter got a + letter from home as he was himself, and if a mail were missed, which + seldom happened—we almost shared his disappointment and anxiety. + Should one of the youngsters be ill, we would be quite uneasy, on Peter's + account, until the arrival of a later bulletin removed his anxiety, and + ours. + </p> + <p> + It must have been the glorious power of a big true heart that gained for + Peter the goodwill and sympathy of all who knew him. + </p> + <p> + Peter's smile had a peculiar fascination for us children. We would stand + by his pointing forge when he'd be sharpening picks in the early morning, + and watch his face for five minutes at a time, wondering sometimes whether + he was always SMILING INSIDE, or whether the smile went on externally + irrespective of any variation in Peter's condition of mind. + </p> + <p> + I think it was the latter case, for often when he had received bad news + from home we have heard his voice quaver with anxiety, while the old smile + played on his round, brown features just the same. + </p> + <p> + Little Nelse (one of those queer old-man children who seem to come into + the world by mistake, and who seldom stay long) used to say that Peter + “cried inside”. + </p> + <p> + Once, on Gulgong, when he attended the funeral of an old Ballarat mate, a + stranger who had been watching his face curiously remarked that McKenzie + seemed as pleased as though the dead digger had bequeathed him a fortune. + But the stranger had soon reason to alter his opinion, for when another + old mate began in a tremulous voice to repeat the words “Ashes to ashes, + an' dust to dust,” two big tears suddenly burst from Peter's eyes, and + hurried down to get entrapped in his beard. + </p> + <p> + Peter's goldmining ventures were not successful. He sank three duffers in + succession on Gulgong, and the fourth shaft, after paying expenses, left a + little over a hundred to each party, and Peter had to send the bulk of his + share home. He lived in a tent (or in a hut when he could get one) after + the manner of diggers, and he “did for himself”, even to washing his own + clothes. He never drank nor “played”, and he took little enjoyment of any + kind, yet there was not a digger on the field who would dream of calling + old Peter McKenzie “a mean man”. He lived, as we know from our own + observations, in a most frugal manner. He always tried to hide this, and + took care to have plenty of good things for us when he invited us to his + hut; but children's eyes are sharp. Some said that Peter half-starved + himself, but I don't think his family ever knew, unless he told them so + afterwards. + </p> + <p> + Ah, well! the years go over. Peter was now three years from home, and he + and Fortune were enemies still. Letters came by the mail, full of little + home troubles and prayers for Peter's return, and letters went back by the + mail, always hopeful, always cheerful. Peter never gave up. When + everything else failed he would work by the day (a sad thing for a + digger), and he was even known to do a job of fencing until such time as + he could get a few pounds and a small party together to sink another + shaft. + </p> + <p> + Talk about the heroic struggles of early explorers in a hostile country; + but for dogged determination and courage in the face of poverty, illness, + and distance, commend me to the old-time digger—the truest soldier + Hope ever had! + </p> + <p> + In the fourth year of his struggle Peter met with a terrible + disappointment. His party put down a shaft called the Forlorn Hope near + Happy Valley, and after a few weeks' fruitless driving his mates jibbed on + it. Peter had his own opinion about the ground—an old digger's + opinion, and he used every argument in his power to induce his mates to + put a few days' more work in the claim. In vain he pointed out that the + quality of the wash and the dip of the bottom exactly resembled that of + the “Brown Snake”, a rich Victorian claim. In vain he argued that in the + case of the abovementioned claim, not a colour could be got until the + payable gold was actually reached. Home Rule and The Canadian and that + cluster of fields were going ahead, and his party were eager to shift. + They remained obstinate, and at last, half-convinced against his opinion, + Peter left with them to sink the “Iawatha”, in Log Paddock, which turned + out a rank duffer—not even paying its own expenses. + </p> + <p> + A party of Italians entered the old claim and, after driving it a few feet + further, made their fortune. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + We all noticed the change in Peter McKenzie when he came to “Log Paddock”, + whither we had shifted before him. The old smile still flickered, but he + had learned to “look” grave for an hour at a time without much effort. He + was never quite the same after the affair of Forlorn Hope, and I often + think how he must have “cried” sometimes “inside”. + </p> + <p> + However, he still read us letters from home, and came and smoked in the + evening by our kitchen-fire. He showed us some new portraits of his family + which he had received by a late mail, but something gave me the impression + that the portraits made him uneasy. He had them in his possession for + nearly a week before showing them to us, and to the best of our knowledge + he never showed them to anybody else. Perhaps they reminded him of the + flight of time—perhaps he would have preferred his children to + remain just as he left them until he returned. + </p> + <p> + But stay! there was one portrait that seemed to give Peter infinite + pleasure. It was the picture of a chubby infant of about three years or + more. It was a fine-looking child taken in a sitting position on a + cushion, and arrayed in a very short shirt. On its fat, soft, white face, + which was only a few inches above the ten very podgy toes, was a smile + something like Peter's. Peter was never tired of looking at and showing + the picture of his child—the child he had never seen. Perhaps he + cherished a wild dream of making his fortune and returning home before + THAT child grew up. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + McKenzie and party were sinking a shaft at the upper end of Log Paddock, + generally called “The other end”. We were at the lower end. + </p> + <p> + One day Peter came down from “the other end” and told us that his party + expected to “bottom” during the following week, and if they got no + encouragement from the wash they intended to go prospecting at the “Happy + Thought”, near Specimen Flat. + </p> + <p> + The shaft in Log Paddock was christened “Nil Desperandum”. Towards the end + of the week we heard that the wash in the “Nil” was showing good colours. + </p> + <p> + Later came the news that “McKenzie and party” had bottomed on payable + gold, and the red flag floated over the shaft. Long before the first load + of dirt reached the puddling machine on the creek, the news was all round + the diggings. The “Nil Desperandum” was a “Golden Hole”! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + We will not forget the day when Peter went home. He hurried down in the + morning to have an hour or so with us before Cobb and Co. went by. He told + us all about his little cottage by the bay at St. Kilda. He had never + spoken of it before, probably because of the mortgage. He told us how it + faced the bay—how many rooms it had, how much flower garden, and how + on a clear day he could see from the window all the ships that came up to + the Yarra, and how with a good telescope he could even distinguish the + faces of the passengers on the big ocean liners. + </p> + <p> + And then, when the mother's back was turned, he hustled us children round + the corner, and surreptitiously slipped a sovereign into each of our dirty + hands, making great pantomimic show for silence, for the mother was very + independent. + </p> + <p> + And when we saw the last of Peter's face setting like a good-humoured sun + on the top of Cobb and Co.'s, a great feeling of discontent and loneliness + came over all our hearts. Little Nelse, who had been Peter's favourite, + went round behind the pig-stye, where none might disturb him, and sat down + on the projecting end of a trough to “have a cry”, in his usual methodical + manner. But old “Alligator Desolation”, the dog, had suspicions of what + was up, and, hearing the sobs, went round to offer whatever consolation + appertained to a damp and dirty nose and a pair of ludicrously doleful + yellow eyes. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + An Oversight of Steelman's + </h2> + <p> + Steelman and Smith—professional wanderers—were making back for + Wellington, down through the wide and rather dreary-looking Hutt Valley. + They were broke. They carried their few remaining belongings in two + skimpy, amateurish-looking swags. Steelman had fourpence left. They were + very tired and very thirsty—at least Steelman was, and he answered + for both. It was Smith's policy to feel and think just exactly as Steelman + did. Said Steelman: + </p> + <p> + “The landlord of the next pub. is not a bad sort. I won't go in—he + might remember me. You'd best go in. You've been tramping round in the + Wairarapa district for the last six months, looking for work. You're going + back to Wellington now, to try and get on the new corporation works just + being started there—the sewage works. You think you've got a show. + You've got some mates in Wellington, and they're looking out for a chance + for you. You did get a job last week on a sawmill at Silverstream, and the + boss sacked you after three days and wouldn't pay you a penny. That's just + his way. I know him—at least a mate of mine does. I've heard of him + often enough. His name's Cowman. Don't forget the name, whatever you do. + The landlord here hates him like poison; he'll sympathize with you. Tell + him you've got a mate with you; he's gone ahead—took a short cut + across the paddocks. Tell him you've got only fourpence left, and see if + he'll give you a drop in a bottle. Says you: 'Well, boss, the fact is + we've only got fourpence, but you might let us have a drop in a bottle'; + and very likely he'll stand you a couple of pints in a gin-bottle. You can + fling the coppers on the counter, but the chances are he won't take them. + He's not a bad sort. Beer's fourpence a pint out here, same's in + Wellington. See that gin-bottle lying there by the stump; get it and we'll + take it down to the river with us and rinse it out.” + </p> + <p> + They reached the river bank. + </p> + <p> + “You'd better take my swag—it looks more decent,” said Steelman. + “No, I'll tell you what we'll do: we'll undo both swags and make them into + one—one decent swag, and I'll cut round through the lanes and wait + for you on the road ahead of the pub.” + </p> + <p> + He rolled up the swag with much care and deliberation and considerable + judgment. He fastened Smith's belt round one end of it, and the + handkerchiefs round the other, and made a towel serve as a shoulder-strap. + </p> + <p> + “I wish we had a canvas bag to put it in,” he said, “or a cover of some + sort. But never mind. The landlord's an old Australian bushman, now I come + to think of it; the swag looks Australian enough, and it might appeal to + his feelings, you know—bring up old recollections. But you'd best + not say you come from Australia, because he's been there, and he'd soon + trip you up. He might have been where you've been, you know, so don't try + to do too much. You always do mug-up the business when you try to do more + than I tell you. You might tell him your mate came from Australia—but + no, he might want you to bring me in. Better stick to Maoriland. I don't + believe in too much ornamentation. Plain lies are the best.” + </p> + <p> + “What's the landlord's name?” asked Smith. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind that. You don't want to know that. You are not supposed to + know him at all. It might look suspicious if you called him by his name, + and lead to awkward questions; then you'd be sure to put your foot into + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I could say I read it over the door.” + </p> + <p> + “Bosh. Travellers don't read the names over the doors, when they go into + pubs. You're an entire stranger to him. Call him 'Boss'. Say 'Good-day, + Boss,' when you go in, and swing down your swag as if you're used to it. + Ease it down like this. Then straighten yourself up, stick your hat back, + and wipe your forehead, and try to look as hearty and independent and + cheerful as you possibly can. Curse the Government, and say the country's + done. It don't matter what Government it is, for he's always against it. I + never knew a real Australian that wasn't. Say that you're thinking about + trying to get over to Australia, and then listen to him talking about it—and + try to look interested, too! Get that damned stone-deaf expression off + your face!... He'll run Australia down most likely (I never knew an + Other-sider that had settled down over here who didn't). But don't you + make any mistake and agree with him, because, although successful + Australians over here like to run their own country down, there's very few + of them that care to hear anybody else do it.... Don't come away as soon + as you get your beer. Stay and listen to him for a while, as if you're + interested in his yarning, and give him time to put you on to a job, or + offer you one. Give him a chance to ask how you and your mate are off for + tobacco or tucker. Like as not he'll sling you half a crown when you come + away—that is, if you work it all right. Now try to think of + something to say to him, and make yourself a bit interesting—if you + possibly can. Tell him about the fight we saw back at the pub. the other + day. He might know some of the chaps. This is a sleepy hole, and there + ain't much news knocking round.... I wish I could go in myself, but he's + sure to remember ME. I'm afraid he got left the last time I stayed there + (so did one or two others); and, besides, I came away without saying + good-bye to him, and he might feel a bit sore about it. That's the worst + of travelling on the old road. Come on now, wake up!” + </p> + <p> + “Bet I'll get a quart,” said Smith, brightening up, “and some tucker for + it to wash down.” + </p> + <p> + “If you don't,” said Steelman, “I'll stoush you. Never mind the bottle; + fling it away. It doesn't look well for a traveller to go into a pub. with + an empty bottle in his hand. A real swagman never does. It looks much + better to come out with a couple of full ones. That's what you've got to + do. Now, come along.” + </p> + <p> + Steelman turned off into a lane, cut across the paddocks to the road + again, and waited for Smith. He hadn't long to wait. + </p> + <p> + Smith went on towards the public-house, rehearsing his part as he walked—repeating + his “lines” to himself, so as to be sure of remembering all that Steelman + had told him to say to the landlord, and adding, with what he considered + appropriate gestures, some fancy touches of his own, which he determined + to throw in in spite of Steelman's advice and warning. “I'll tell him + (this)—I'll tell him (that). Well, look here, boss, I'll say you're + pretty right and I quite agree with you as far as that's concerned, but,” + &c. And so, murmuring and mumbling to himself, Smith reached the + hotel. The day was late, and the bar was small, and low, and dark. Smith + walked in with all the assurance he could muster, eased down his swag in a + corner in what he no doubt considered the true professional style, and, + swinging round to the bar, said in a loud voice which he intended to be + cheerful, independent, and hearty: + </p> + <p> + “Good-day, boss!” + </p> + <p> + But it wasn't a “boss”. It was about the hardest-faced old woman that + Smith had ever seen. The pub. had changed hands. + </p> + <p> + “I—I beg your pardon, missus,” stammered poor Smith. + </p> + <p> + It was a knock-down blow for Smith. He couldn't come to time. He and + Steelman had had a landlord in their minds all the time, and laid their + plans accordingly; the possibility of having a she—and one like this—to + deal with never entered into their calculations. Smith had no time to + reorganise, even if he had had the brains to do so, without the assistance + of his mate's knowledge of human nature. + </p> + <p> + “I—I beg your pardon, missus,” he stammered. + </p> + <p> + Painful pause. She sized him up. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, missus—I—the fact is—will you give me a bottle of + beer for fourpence?” + </p> + <p> + “Wha—what?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean——. The fact is, we've only got fourpence left, and—I've + got a mate outside, and you might let us have a quart or so, in a bottle, + for that. I mean—anyway, you might let us have a pint. I'm very + sorry to bother you, missus.” + </p> + <p> + But she couldn't do it. No. Certainly not. Decidedly not! All her drinks + were sixpence. She had her license to pay, and the rent, and a family to + keep. It wouldn't pay out there—it wasn't worth her while. It + wouldn't pay the cost of carting the liquor out, &c., &c. + </p> + <p> + “Well, missus,” poor Smith blurted out at last, in sheer desperation, + “give me what you can in a bottle for this. I've—I've got a mate + outside.” And he put the four coppers on the bar. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got a bottle?” + </p> + <p> + “No—but——” + </p> + <p> + “If I give you one, will you bring it back? You can't expect me to give + you a bottle as well as a drink.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, mum; I'll bring it back directly.” + </p> + <p> + She reached out a bottle from under the bar, and very deliberately + measured out a little over a pint and poured it into the bottle, which she + handed to Smith without a cork. + </p> + <p> + Smith went his way without rejoicing. It struck him forcibly that he + should have saved the money until they reached Petone, or the city, where + Steelman would be sure to get a decent drink. But how was he to know? He + had chanced it, and lost; Steelman might have done the same. What troubled + Smith most was the thought of what Steelman would say; he already heard + him, in imagination, saying: “You're a mug, Smith—Smith, you ARE a + mug.” + </p> + <p> + But Steelman didn't say much. He was prepared for the worst by seeing + Smith come along so soon. He listened to his story with an air of gentle + sadness, even as a stern father might listen to the voluntary confession + of a wayward child; then he held the bottle up to the fading light of + departing day, looked through it (the bottle), and said: + </p> + <p> + “Well—it ain't worth while dividing it.” + </p> + <p> + Smith's heart shot right down through a hole in the sole of his left boot + into the hard road. + </p> + <p> + “Here, Smith,” said Steelman, handing him the bottle, “drink it, old man; + you want it. It wasn't altogether your fault; it was an oversight of mine. + I didn't bargain for a woman of that kind, and, of course, YOU couldn't be + expected to think of it. Drink it! Drink it down, Smith. I'll manage to + work the oracle before this night is out.” + </p> + <p> + Smith was forced to believe his ears, and, recovering from his surprise, + drank. + </p> + <p> + “I promised to take back the bottle,” he said, with the ghost of a smile. + </p> + <p> + Steelman took the bottle by the neck and broke it on the fence. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, Smith; I'll carry the swag for a while.” + </p> + <p> + And they tramped on in the gathering starlight. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + How Steelman told his Story + </h2> + <p> + It was Steelman's humour, in some of his moods, to take Smith into his + confidence, as some old bushmen do their dogs. + </p> + <p> + “You're nearly as good as an intelligent sheep-dog to talk to, Smith—when + a man gets tired of thinking to himself and wants a relief. You're a bit + of a mug and a good deal of an idiot, and the chances are that you don't + know what I'm driving at half the time—that's the main reason why I + don't mind talking to you. You ought to consider yourself honoured; it + ain't every man I take into my confidence, even that far.” + </p> + <p> + Smith rubbed his head. + </p> + <p> + “I'd sooner talk to you—or a stump—any day than to one of + those silent, suspicious, self-contained, worldly-wise chaps that listen + to everything you say—sense and rubbish alike—as if you were + trying to get them to take shares in a mine. I drop the man who listens to + me all the time and doesn't seem to get bored. He isn't safe. He isn't to + be trusted. He mostly wants to grind his axe against yours, and there's + too little profit for me where there are two axes to grind, and no stone—though + I'd manage it once, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “How'd you do it?” asked Smith. + </p> + <p> + “There are several ways. Either you join forces, for instance, and find a + grindstone—or make one of the other man's axe. But the last way is + too slow, and, as I said, takes too much brain-work—besides, it + doesn't pay. It might satisfy your vanity or pride, but I've got none. I + had once, when I was younger, but it—well, it nearly killed me, so I + dropped it. + </p> + <p> + “You can mostly trust the man who wants to talk more than you do; he'll + make a safe mate—or a good grindstone.” + </p> + <p> + Smith scratched the nape of his neck and sat blinking at the fire, with + the puzzled expression of a woman pondering over a life-question or the + trimming of a hat. Steelman took his chin in his hand and watched Smith + thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “I—I say, Steely,” exclaimed Smith, suddenly, sitting up and + scratching his head and blinking harder than ever—“wha—what am + I?” + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Am I the axe or the grindstone?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! your brain seems in extra good working order to-night, Smith. Well, + you turn the grindstone and I grind.” Smith settled. “If you could grind + better than I, I'd turn the stone and let YOU grind, I'd never go against + the interests of the firm—that's fair enough, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es,” admitted Smith; “I suppose so.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I. Now, Smith, we've got along all right together for years, off + and on, but you never know what might happen. I might stop breathing, for + instance—and so might you.” + </p> + <p> + Smith began to look alarmed. + </p> + <p> + “Poetical justice might overtake one or both of us—such things have + happened before, though not often. Or, say, misfortune or death might + mistake us for honest, hard-working mugs with big families to keep, and + cut us off in the bloom of all our wisdom. You might get into trouble, + and, in that case, I'd be bound to leave you there, on principle; or I + might get into trouble, and you wouldn't have the brains to get me out—though + I know you'd be mug enough to try. I might make a rise and cut you, or you + might be misled into showing some spirit, and clear out after I'd stoushed + you for it. You might get tired of me calling you a mug, and bossing you + and making a tool or convenience of you, you know. You might go in for + honest graft (you were always a bit weak-minded) and then I'd have to wash + my hands of you (unless you agreed to keep me) for an irreclaimable mug. + Or it might suit me to become a respected and worthy fellow townsman, and + then, if you came within ten miles of me or hinted that you ever knew me, + I'd have you up for vagrancy, or soliciting alms, or attempting to levy + blackmail. I'd have to fix you—so I give you fair warning. Or we + might get into some desperate fix (and it needn't be very desperate, + either) when I'd be obliged to sacrifice you for my own personal safety, + comfort, and convenience. Hundreds of things might happen. + </p> + <p> + “Well, as I said, we've been at large together for some years, and I've + found you sober, trustworthy, and honest; so, in case we do part—as + we will sooner or later—and you survive, I'll give you some advice + from my own experience. + </p> + <p> + “In the first place: If you ever happen to get born again—and it + wouldn't do you much harm—get born with the strength of a bullock + and the hide of one as well, and a swelled head, and no brains—at + least no more brains than you've got now. I was born with a skin like + tissue-paper, and brains; also a heart. + </p> + <p> + “Get born without relatives, if you can: if you can't help it, clear out + on your own just as soon after you're born as you possibly can. I hung on. + </p> + <p> + “If you have relations, and feel inclined to help them any time when + you're flush (and there's no telling what a weak-minded man like you might + take it into his head to do)—don't do it. They'll get a down on you + if you do. It only causes family troubles and bitterness. There's no + dislike like that of a dependant. You'll get neither gratitude nor + civility in the end, and be lucky if you escape with a character. (You've + got NO character, Smith; I'm only just supposing you have.) There's no + hatred too bitter for, and nothing too bad to be said of, the mug who + turns. The worst yarns about a man are generally started by his own tribe, + and the world believes them at once on that very account. Well, the first + thing to do in life is to escape from your friends. + </p> + <p> + “If you ever go to work—and miracles have happened before—no + matter what your wages are, or how you are treated, you can take it for + granted that you're sweated; act on that to the best of your ability, or + you'll never rise in the world. If you go to see a show on the nod you'll + be found a comfortable seat in a good place; but if you pay the chances + are the ticket clerk will tell you a lie, and you'll have to hustle for + standing room. The man that doesn't ante gets the best of this world; + anything he'll stand is good enough for the man that pays. If you try to + be too sharp you'll get into gaol sooner or later; if you try to be too + honest the chances are that the bailiff will get into your house—if + you have one—and make a holy show of you before the neighbours. The + honest softy is more often mistaken for a swindler, and accused of being + one, than the out-and-out scamp; and the man that tells the truth too much + is set down as an irreclaimable liar. But most of the time crow low and + roost high, for it's a funny world, and you never know what might happen. + </p> + <p> + “And if you get married (and there's no accounting for a woman's taste) be + as bad as you like, and then moderately good, and your wife will love you. + If you're bad all the time she can't stand it for ever, and if you're good + all the time she'll naturally treat you with contempt. Never explain what + you're going to do, and don't explain afterwards, if you can help it. If + you find yourself between two stools, strike hard for your own self, Smith—strike + hard, and you'll be respected more than if you fought for all the world. + Generosity isn't understood nowadays, and what the people don't understand + is either 'mad' or 'cronk'. Failure has no case, and you can't build one + for it.... I started out in life very young—and very soft.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “I thought you were going to tell me your story, Steely,” remarked Smith. + </p> + <p> + Steelman smiled sadly. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <div class="mynote"> + <h2> + About the author: + </h2> + <p> + Henry Lawson was born near Grenfell, New South Wales, Australia on 17 + June 1867. Although he has since become Australia's most acclaimed + writer, in his own lifetime his writing was often “on the side”—his + “real” work being whatever he could find. His writing was frequently + 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 at + Sydney, 2 September 1922. He is most famous for his short stories. + </p> + <p> + “On the Track” and “Over the Sliprails” were both published at Sydney in + 1900, the prefaces being dated March and June respectively—and so, + though printed separately, a combined edition was printed the same year + (the two separate, complete works were simply put together in one + binding); hence they are sometimes referred to as “On the Track and Over + the Sliprails”. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + An incomplete Glossary of Australian terms and concepts which may prove + helpful to understanding this book: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Anniversary Day: Alluded to 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. + + Billy: A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil water for + tea. + + Cabbage-tree/Cabbage-tree hat: A wide-brimmed hat made with the + leaves of the cabbage tree palm (Livistona australis). It was a + common hat in early colonial days, and later became associated with + patriotism. + + Gin: An aboriginal woman; use of the term is analogous to “squaw” + in N. America. May be considered derogatory in modern usage. + + Graft: Work; hard work. + + Humpy: (Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in the bush, + especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. A gunyah, + wurley, or mia-mia. + + Jackeroo/Jackaroo: At the time Lawson wrote, a Jackeroo 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. + + Jumbuck: A sheep. + + Larrikin: A hoodlum. + + Lollies: Candy, sweets. + + 'Possum/Possum: In Australia, a class of marsupials that were + originally mistaken for the American animal of the same name. They + are not especially related to the possums of North and South + America, other than 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. + + Push: A group of people sharing something in common; Lawson uses the + word in an older and more particular sense, as a gang of violent + city hoodlums. + + Ratty: Shabby, dilapidated; somewhat eccentric, perhaps even + slightly mad. + + Selector: A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled land + by lease or license from the government. + + Shout: To buy a round of drinks. + + Sliprails/slip-rails: movable rails, forming a section of fence, + which can be taken down in lieu of a gate. + + Sly grog shop or shanty: An unlicensed bar or liquor-store, + especially one selling cheap or poor-quality liquor. + + Squatter: A person who first settled on land without government + permission, and later continued by lease or license, generally to + raise stock; a wealthy rural landowner. + + Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + + Stoush: Violence; to do violence to. + + 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. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + (Alan Light, Monroe, North Carolina, March 1998.) + </p> + <br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1231 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b4cd801 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #1231 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1231) diff --git a/old/1231-0.txt b/old/1231-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..be61501 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1231-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5112 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of On the Track, 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: On the Track + +Author: Henry Lawson + +Posting Date: August 26, 2008 [EBook #1231] +Release Date: March, 1998 +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON THE TRACK *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light + + + + + +ON THE TRACK + +by Henry Lawson + + +Author of “While the Billy Boils”, and “When the World was Wide” + + +[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are CAPITALISED. Some obvious +errors have been corrected after being confirmed.] + + + + +Preface + + Of the stories in this volume many have already appeared + in (various periodicals), while several now appear in print + for the first time. + + H. L. + Sydney, March 17th, 1900. + + + + + +Contents + + The Songs They used to Sing + A Vision of Sandy Blight + Andy Page's Rival + The Iron-Bark Chip + “Middleton's Peter” + The Mystery of Dave Regan + Mitchell on Matrimony + Mitchell on Women + No Place for a Woman + Mitchell's Jobs + Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster + Bush Cats + Meeting Old Mates + Two Larrikins + Mr. Smellingscheck + “A Rough Shed” + Payable Gold + An Oversight of Steelman's + How Steelman told his Story + + + + + +ON THE TRACK + + + + +The Songs They used to Sing + + + +On the diggings up to twenty odd years ago--and as far back as I can +remember--on Lambing Flat, the Pipe Clays, Gulgong, Home Rule, and so +through the roaring list; in bark huts, tents, public-houses, sly grog +shanties, and--well, the most glorious voice of all belonged to a bad +girl. We were only children and didn't know why she was bad, but we +weren't allowed to play near or go near the hut she lived in, and we +were trained to believe firmly that something awful would happen to us +if we stayed to answer a word, and didn't run away as fast as our legs +could carry us, if she attempted to speak to us. We had before us the +dread example of one urchin, who got an awful hiding and went on bread +and water for twenty-four hours for allowing her to kiss him and give +him lollies. She didn't look bad--she looked to us like a grand and +beautiful lady-girl--but we got instilled into us the idea that she was +an awful bad woman, something more terrible even than a drunken man, and +one whose presence was to be feared and fled from. There were two other +girls in the hut with her, also a pretty little girl, who called her +“Auntie”, and with whom we were not allowed to play--for they were all +bad; which puzzled us as much as child-minds can be puzzled. We couldn't +make out how everybody in one house could be bad. We used to wonder why +these bad people weren't hunted away or put in gaol if they were so +bad. And another thing puzzled us. Slipping out after dark, when the bad +girls happened to be singing in their house, we'd sometimes run against +men hanging round the hut by ones and twos and threes, listening. They +seemed mysterious. They were mostly good men, and we concluded they were +listening and watching the bad women's house to see that they didn't +kill anyone, or steal and run away with any bad little boys--ourselves, +for instance--who ran out after dark; which, as we were informed, those +bad people were always on the lookout for a chance to do. + +We were told in after years that old Peter McKenzie (a respectable, +married, hard-working digger) would sometimes steal up opposite the bad +door in the dark, and throw in money done up in a piece of paper, and +listen round until the bad girl had sung the “Bonnie Hills of Scotland” + two or three times. Then he'd go and get drunk, and stay drunk two or +three days at a time. And his wife caught him throwing the money in one +night, and there was a terrible row, and she left him; and people always +said it was all a mistake. But we couldn't see the mistake then. + +But I can hear that girl's voice through the night, twenty years ago: + + Oh! the bloomin' heath, and the pale blue bell, + In my bonnet then I wore; + And memory knows no brighter theme + Than those happy days of yore. + Scotland! Land of chief and song! + Oh, what charms to thee belong! + +And I am old enough to understand why poor Peter McKenzie--who was +married to a Saxon, and a Tartar--went and got drunk when the bad girl +sang “The Bonnie Hills of Scotland.” + + His anxious eye might look in vain + For some loved form it knew! + + . . . . . + +And yet another thing puzzled us greatly at the time. Next door to the +bad girl's house there lived a very respectable family--a family of good +girls with whom we were allowed to play, and from whom we got lollies +(those hard old red-and-white “fish lollies” that grocers sent home with +parcels of groceries and receipted bills). Now one washing day, they +being as glad to get rid of us at home as we were to get out, we went +over to the good house and found no one at home except the grown-up +daughter, who used to sing for us, and read “Robinson Crusoe” of nights, +“out loud”, and give us more lollies than any of the rest--and with +whom we were passionately in love, notwithstanding the fact that she was +engaged to a “grown-up man”--(we reckoned he'd be dead and out of the +way by the time we were old enough to marry her). She was washing. +She had carried the stool and tub over against the stick fence which +separated her house from the bad house; and, to our astonishment and +dismay, the bad girl had brought HER tub over against her side of the +fence. They stood and worked with their shoulders to the fence between +them, and heads bent down close to it. The bad girl would sing a few +words, and the good girl after her, over and over again. They sang very +low, we thought. Presently the good grown-up girl turned her head and +caught sight of us. She jumped, and her face went flaming red; she laid +hold of the stool and carried it, tub and all, away from that fence in +a hurry. And the bad grown-up girl took her tub back to her house. The +good grown-up girl made us promise never to tell what we saw--that she'd +been talking to a bad girl--else she would never, never marry us. + +She told me, in after years, when she'd grown up to be a grandmother, +that the bad girl was surreptitiously teaching her to sing “Madeline” + that day. + +I remember a dreadful story of a digger who went and shot himself +one night after hearing that bad girl sing. We thought then what a +frightfully bad woman she must be. The incident terrified us; and +thereafter we kept carefully and fearfully out of reach of her voice, +lest we should go and do what the digger did. + + . . . . . + +I have a dreamy recollection of a circus on Gulgong in the roaring days, +more than twenty years ago, and a woman (to my child-fancy a being from +another world) standing in the middle of the ring, singing: + + Out in the cold world--out in the street-- + Asking a penny from each one I meet; + Cheerless I wander about all the day, + Wearing my young life in sorrow away! + +That last line haunted me for many years. I remember being frightened by +women sobbing (and one or two great grown-up diggers also) that night in +that circus. + +“Father, Dear Father, Come Home with Me Now”, was a sacred song then, +not a peg for vulgar parodies and more vulgar “business” for fourth-rate +clowns and corner-men. Then there was “The Prairie Flower”. “Out on the +Prairie, in an Early Day”--I can hear the digger's wife yet: she was the +prettiest girl on the field. They married on the sly and crept into +camp after dark; but the diggers got wind of it and rolled up with +gold-dishes, shovels, &c., &c., and gave them a real good tinkettling in +the old-fashioned style, and a nugget or two to start housekeeping on. +She had a very sweet voice. + + Fair as a lily, joyous and free, + Light of the prairie home was she. + +She's a “granny” now, no doubt--or dead. + +And I remember a poor, brutally ill-used little wife, wearing a black +eye mostly, and singing “Love Amongst the Roses” at her work. And they +sang the “Blue Tail Fly”, and all the first and best coon songs--in the +days when old John Brown sank a duffer on the hill. + + . . . . . + +The great bark kitchen of Granny Mathews' “Redclay Inn”. A fresh +back-log thrown behind the fire, which lights the room fitfully. Company +settled down to pipes, subdued yarning, and reverie. + +Flash Jack--red sash, cabbage-tree hat on back of head with nothing +in it, glossy black curls bunched up in front of brim. Flash Jack +volunteers, without invitation, preparation, or warning, and through his +nose: + + Hoh!-- + There was a wild kerlonial youth, + John Dowlin was his name! + He bountied on his parients, + Who lived in Castlemaine! + +and so on to-- + + He took a pistol from his breast + And waved that lit--tle toy-- + +“Little toy” with an enthusiastic flourish and great unction on Flash +Jack's part-- + + “I'll fight, but I won't surrender!” said + The wild Kerlonial Boy. + +Even this fails to rouse the company's enthusiasm. “Give us a song, Abe! +Give us the 'Lowlands'!” Abe Mathews, bearded and grizzled, is lying +on the broad of his back on a bench, with his hands clasped under his +head--his favourite position for smoking, reverie, yarning, or singing. +He had a strong, deep voice, which used to thrill me through and +through, from hair to toenails, as a child. + +They bother Abe till he takes his pipe out of his mouth and puts it +behind his head on the end of the stool: + + The ship was built in Glasgow; + 'Twas the “Golden Vanitee”-- +Lines have dropped out of my memory during the thirty years gone +between-- + + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low! + +The public-house people and more diggers drop into the kitchen, as all +do within hearing, when Abe sings. + +“Now then, boys: + + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low! + +“Now, all together! + + The Low Lands! The Low Lands! + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!” + +Toe and heel and flat of foot begin to stamp the clay floor, and horny +hands to slap patched knees in accompaniment. + + “Oh! save me, lads!” he cried, + “I'm drifting with the current, + And I'm drifting with the tide! + And I'm sinking in the Low Lands, Low! + + The Low Lands! The Low Lands!”-- + +The old bark kitchen is a-going now. Heels drumming on gin-cases under +stools; hands, knuckles, pipe-bowls, and pannikins keeping time on the +table. + + And we sewed him in his hammock, + And we slipped him o'er the side, + And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low! + The Low Lands! The Low Lands! + And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low! + +Old Boozer Smith--a dirty gin-sodden bundle of rags on the floor in the +corner with its head on a candle box, and covered by a horse rug--old +Boozer Smith is supposed to have been dead to the universe for hours +past, but the chorus must have disturbed his torpor; for, with a +suddenness and unexpectedness that makes the next man jump, there comes +a bellow from under the horse rug: + + Wot though!--I wear!--a rag!--ged coat! + I'll wear it like a man! + +and ceases as suddenly as it commenced. He struggles to bring his ruined +head and bloated face above the surface, glares round; then, no one +questioning his manhood, he sinks back and dies to creation; and +subsequent proceedings are only interrupted by a snore, as far as he is +concerned. + +Little Jimmy Nowlett, the bullock-driver, is inspired. “Go on, Jimmy! +Give us a song!” + + In the days when we were hard up + For want of wood and wire-- +Jimmy always blunders; it should have been “food and fire”-- + + We used to tie our boots up + With lit--tle bits--er wire; + +and-- + + I'm sitting in my lit--tle room, + It measures six by six; + The work-house wall is opposite, + I've counted all the bricks! + +“Give us a chorus, Jimmy!” + +Jimmy does, giving his head a short, jerky nod for nearly every word, +and describing a circle round his crown--as if he were stirring a pint +of hot tea--with his forefinger, at the end of every line: + + Hall!--Round!--Me--Hat! + I wore a weepin' willer! + +Jimmy is a Cockney. + +“Now then, boys!” + + Hall--round--me hat! + +How many old diggers remember it? + +And: + + A butcher, and a baker, and a quiet-looking quaker, + All a-courting pretty Jessie at the Railway Bar. + +I used to wonder as a child what the “railway bar” meant. + +And: + + I would, I would, I would in vain + That I were single once again! + But ah, alas, that will not be + Till apples grow on the willow tree. + +A drunken gambler's young wife used to sing that song--to herself. + +A stir at the kitchen door, and a cry of “Pinter,” and old Poynton, +Ballarat digger, appears and is shoved in; he has several drinks aboard, +and they proceed to “git Pinter on the singin' lay,” and at last talk +him round. He has a good voice, but no “theory”, and blunders worse than +Jimmy Nowlett with the words. He starts with a howl-- + + Hoh! + Way down in Covent Gar-ar-r-dings + A-strolling I did go, + To see the sweetest flow-ow-wers + That e'er in gardings grow. + +He saw the rose and lily--the red and white and blue--and he saw the +sweetest flow-ow-ers that e'er in gardings grew; for he saw two lovely +maidens (Pinter calls 'em “virgings”) underneath (he must have meant on +top of) “a garding chair”, sings Pinter. + + And one was lovely Jessie, + With the jet black eyes and hair, + +roars Pinter, + + And the other was a vir-ir-ging, + I solemn-lye declare! + +“Maiden, Pinter!” interjects Mr. Nowlett. + +“Well, it's all the same,” retorts Pinter. “A maiden IS a virging, +Jimmy. If you're singing, Jimmy, and not me, I'll leave off!” Chorus of +“Order! Shut up, Jimmy!” + + I quicklye step-ped up to her, + And unto her did sa-a-y: + Do you belong to any young man, + Hoh, tell me that, I pra-a-y? + +Her answer, according to Pinter, was surprisingly prompt and +unconventional; also full and concise: + + No; I belong to no young man-- + I solemnlye declare! + I mean to live a virging + And still my laurels wear! + +Jimmy Nowlett attempts to move an amendment in favour of “maiden”, +but is promptly suppressed. It seems that Pinter's suit has a happy +termination, for he is supposed to sing in the character of a “Sailor +Bold”, and as he turns to pursue his stroll in “Covent Gar-ar-dings”: + + “Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!” she cried, + “I love a Sailor Bold!” + +“Hong-kore, Pinter! Give us the 'Golden Glove', Pinter!” + +Thus warmed up, Pinter starts with an explanatory “spoken” to the effect +that the song he is about to sing illustrates some of the little ways of +woman, and how, no matter what you say or do, she is bound to have her +own way in the end; also how, in one instance, she set about getting it. + +Hoh! + + Now, it's of a young squoire near Timworth did dwell, + Who courted a nobleman's daughter so well-- + +The song has little or nothing to do with the “squire”, except so far as +“all friends and relations had given consent,” and-- + + The troo-soo was ordered--appointed the day, + And a farmer were appointed for to give her away-- + +which last seemed a most unusual proceeding, considering the wedding was +a toney affair; but perhaps there were personal interests--the nobleman +might have been hard up, and the farmer backing him. But there was an +extraordinary scene in the church, and things got mixed. + + For as soon as this maiding this farmer espied: + “Hoh, my heart! Hoh, my heart! + Hoh, my heart!” then she cried. + +Hysterics? Anyway, instead of being wed-- + + This maiden took sick and she went to her bed. + +(N.B.--Pinter sticks to 'virging'.) + +Whereupon friends and relations and guests left the house in a body (a +strange but perhaps a wise proceeding, after all--maybe they smelt a +rat) and left her to recover alone, which she did promptly. And then: + + Shirt, breeches, and waistcoat this maiding put on, + And a-hunting she went with her dog and her gun; + She hunted all round where this farmier did dwell, + Because in her own heart she love-ed him well. + +The cat's out of the bag now: + + And often she fired, but no game she killed-- + +which was not surprising-- + + Till at last the young farmier came into the field-- + +No wonder. She put it to him straight: + + “Oh, why are you not at the wedding?” she cried, + “For to wait on the squoire, and to give him his bride.” + +He was as prompt and as delightfully unconventional in his reply as the +young lady in Covent Gardings: + + “Oh, no! and oh, no! For the truth I must sa-a-y, + I love her too well for to give her a-w-a-a-y!” + +which was satisfactory to the disguised “virging”. + + “.... and I'd take sword in hand, + And by honour I'd win her if she would command.” + +Which was still more satisfactory. + + Now this virging, being-- +(Jimmy Nowlett: “Maiden, Pinter--” Jim is thrown on a stool and sat on +by several diggers.) + + Now this maiding, being please-ed to see him so bold, + She gave him her glove that was flowered with gold, + +and explained that she found it in his field while hunting around with +her dog and her gun. It is understood that he promised to look up +the owner. Then she went home and put an advertisement in the local +'Herald'; and that ad. must have caused considerable sensation. She +stated that she had lost her golden glove, and + + The young man that finds it and brings it to me, + Hoh! that very young man my husband shall be! + +She had a saving clause in case the young farmer mislaid the glove +before he saw the ad., and an OLD bloke got holt of it and fetched it +along. But everything went all right. The young farmer turned up with +the glove. He was a very respectable young farmer, and expressed his +gratitude to her for having “honour-ed him with her love.” They were +married, and the song ends with a picture of the young farmeress milking +the cow, and the young farmer going whistling to plough. The fact that +they lived and grafted on the selection proves that I hit the right nail +on the head when I guessed, in the first place, that the old nobleman +was “stony”. + +In after years, + + ... she told him of the fun, + How she hunted him up with her dog and her gun. + +But whether he was pleased or otherwise to hear it, after years of +matrimonial experiences, the old song doesn't say, for it ends there. + +Flash Jack is more successful with “Saint Patrick's Day”. + + I come to the river, I jumped it quite clever! + Me wife tumbled in, and I lost her for ever, + St. Patrick's own day in the mornin'! + +This is greatly appreciated by Jimmy Nowlett, who is suspected, +especially by his wife, of being more cheerful when on the roads than +when at home. + + . . . . . + +“Sam Holt” was a great favourite with Jimmy Nowlett in after years. + + Oh, do you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt? + Black Alice so dirty and dark-- + Who'd a nose on her face--I forget how it goes-- + And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark. + +Sam Holt must have been very hard up for tucker as well as beauty then, +for + + Do you remember the 'possums and grubs + She baked for you down by the creek? + +Sam Holt was, apparently, a hardened flash Jack. + + You were not quite the cleanly potato, Sam Holt. + +Reference is made to his “manner of holding a flush”, and he is asked +to remember several things which he, no doubt, would rather forget, +including + + ... the hiding you got from the boys. + +The song is decidedly personal. + +But Sam Holt makes a pile and goes home, leaving many a better and worse +man to pad the hoof Out Back. And--Jim Nowlett sang this with so much +feeling as to make it appear a personal affair between him and the +absent Holt-- + + And, don't you remember the fiver, Sam Holt, + You borrowed so careless and free? + I reckon I'll whistle a good many tunes + +(with increasing feeling) + + Ere you think of that fiver and me. + +For the chances will be that Sam Holt's old mate + + Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden Road + To the end of the chapter of fate. + + . . . . . + +An echo from “The Old Bark Hut”, sung in the opposition camp across the +gully: + + You may leave the door ajar, but if you keep it shut, + There's no need of suffocation in the Ould Barrk Hut. + + . . . . . + + The tucker's in the gin-case, but you'd better keep it shut-- + For the flies will canther round it in the Ould Bark Hut. + +However: + + What's out of sight is out of mind, in the Ould Bark Hut. + + . . . . . + + We washed our greasy moleskins + On the banks of the Condamine.-- + +Somebody tackling the “Old Bullock Dray”; it must be over fifty verses +now. I saw a bushman at a country dance start to sing that song; he'd +get up to ten or fifteen verses, break down, and start afresh. At last +he sat down on his heel to it, in the centre of the clear floor, resting +his wrist on his knee, and keeping time with an index finger. It was +very funny, but the thing was taken seriously all through. + +Irreverent echo from the old Lambing Flat trouble, from camp across the +gully: + + Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! + No more Chinamen will enter Noo South Wales! + +and + + Yankee Doodle came to town + On a little pony-- + Stick a feather in his cap, + And call him Maccaroni! + +All the camps seem to be singing to-night: + + Ring the bell, watchman! + Ring! Ring! Ring! + Ring, for the good news + Is now on the wing! + +Good lines, the introduction: + + High on the belfry the old sexton stands, + Grasping the rope with his thin bony hands!... + Bon-fires are blazing throughout the land... + Glorious and blessed tidings! Ring! Ring the bell! + + . . . . . + +Granny Mathews fails to coax her niece into the kitchen, but persuades +her to sing inside. She is the girl who learnt 'sub rosa' from the bad +girl who sang “Madeline”. Such as have them on instinctively take their +hats off. Diggers, &c., strolling past, halt at the first notes of the +girl's voice, and stand like statues in the moonlight: + + Shall we gather at the river, + Where bright angel feet have trod? + The beautiful--the beautiful river + That flows by the throne of God!-- + +Diggers wanted to send that girl “Home”, but Granny Mathews had the +old-fashioned horror of any of her children becoming “public”-- + + Gather with the saints at the river, + That flows by the throne of God! + + . . . . . + +But it grows late, or rather, early. The “Eyetalians” go by in the +frosty moonlight, from their last shift in the claim (for it is Saturday +night), singing a litany. + +“Get up on one end, Abe!--stand up all!” Hands are clasped across the +kitchen table. Redclay, one of the last of the alluvial fields, has +petered out, and the Roaring Days are dying.... The grand old song that +is known all over the world; yet how many in ten thousand know more than +one verse and the chorus? Let Peter McKenzie lead: + + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And never brought to min'? + +And hearts echo from far back in the past and across wide, wide seas: + + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And days o' lang syne? + +Now boys! all together! + + For auld lang syne, my dear, + For auld lang syne, + We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + + We twa hae run about the braes, + And pu'd the gowans fine; + But we've wandered mony a weary foot, + Sin' auld lang syne. + +The world was wide then. + + We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, + Frae mornin' sun till dine: + +the log fire seems to grow watery, for in wide, lonely Australia-- + But seas between us braid hae roar'd, + Sin' auld lang syne. + +The kitchen grows dimmer, and the forms of the digger-singers seemed +suddenly vague and unsubstantial, fading back rapidly through a misty +veil. But the words ring strong and defiant through hard years: + + And here's a hand, my trusty frien', + And gie's a grup o' thine; + And we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + + . . . . . + +And the nettles have been growing for over twenty years on the spot +where Granny Mathews' big bark kitchen stood. + + + + +A Vision of Sandy Blight + + +I'd been humping my back, and crouching and groaning for an hour or so +in the darkest corner of the travellers' hut, tortured by the demon +of sandy blight. It was too hot to travel, and there was no one there +except ourselves and Mitchell's cattle pup. We were waiting till after +sundown, for I couldn't have travelled in the daylight, anyway. Mitchell +had tied a wet towel round my eyes, and led me for the last mile or two +by another towel--one end fastened to his belt behind, and the other in +my hand as I walked in his tracks. And oh! but this was a relief! It was +out of the dust and glare, and the flies didn't come into the dark hut, +and I could hump and stick my knees in my eyes and groan in comfort. I +didn't want a thousand a year, or anything; I only wanted relief for my +eyes--that was all I prayed for in this world. When the sun got down a +bit, Mitchell started poking round, and presently he found amongst the +rubbish a dirty-looking medicine bottle, corked tight; when he rubbed +the dirt off a piece of notepaper that was pasted on, he saw “eye-water” + written on it. He drew the cork with his teeth, smelt the water, stuck +his little finger in, turned the bottle upside down, tasted the top of +his finger, and reckoned the stuff was all right. + +“Here! Wake up, Joe!” he shouted. “Here's a bottle of tears.” + +“A bottler wot?” I groaned. + +“Eye-water,” said Mitchell. + +“Are you sure it's all right?” I didn't want to be poisoned or have my +eyes burnt out by mistake; perhaps some burning acid had got into +that bottle, or the label had been put on, or left on, in mistake or +carelessness. + +“I dunno,” said Mitchell, “but there's no harm in tryin'.” + +I chanced it. I lay down on my back in a bunk, and Mitchell dragged my +lids up and spilt half a bottle of eye-water over my eye-balls. + +The relief was almost instantaneous. I never experienced such a quick +cure in my life. I carried the bottle in my swag for a long time +afterwards, with an idea of getting it analysed, but left it behind at +last in a camp. + +Mitchell scratched his head thoughtfully, and watched me for a while. + +“I think I'll wait a bit longer,” he said at last, “and if it doesn't +blind you I'll put some in my eyes. I'm getting a touch of blight myself +now. That's the fault of travelling with a mate who's always catching +something that's no good to him.” + +As it grew dark outside we talked of sandy-blight and fly-bite, and +sand-flies up north, and ordinary flies, and branched off to Barcoo rot, +and struck the track again at bees and bee stings. When we got to bees, +Mitchell sat smoking for a while and looking dreamily backwards +along tracks and branch tracks, and round corners and circles he had +travelled, right back to the short, narrow, innocent bit of track that +ends in a vague, misty point--like the end of a long, straight, cleared +road in the moonlight--as far back as we can remember. + + . . . . . + +“I had about fourteen hives,” said Mitchell--“we used to call them +'swarms', no matter whether they were flying or in the box--when I left +home first time. I kept them behind the shed, in the shade, on tables +of galvanised iron cases turned down on stakes; but I had to make legs +later on, and stand them in pans of water, on account of the ants. When +the bees swarmed--and some hives sent out the Lord knows how many swarms +in a year, it seemed to me--we'd tin-kettle 'em, and throw water on 'em, +to make 'em believe the biggest thunderstorm was coming to drown the +oldest inhabitant; and, if they didn't get the start of us and rise, +they'd settle on a branch--generally on one of the scraggy fruit trees. +It was rough on the bees--come to think of it; their instinct told +them it was going to be fine, and the noise and water told them it was +raining. They must have thought that nature was mad, drunk, or gone +ratty, or the end of the world had come. We'd rig up a table, with a box +upside down, under the branch, cover our face with a piece of mosquito +net, have rags burning round, and then give the branch a sudden jerk, +turn the box down, and run. If we got most of the bees in, the rest +that were hanging to the bough or flying round would follow, and then +we reckoned we'd shook the queen in. If the bees in the box came out and +joined the others, we'd reckon we hadn't shook the queen in, and go for +them again. When a hive was full of honey we'd turn the box upside down, +turn the empty box mouth down on top of it, and drum and hammer on the +lower box with a stick till all the bees went up into the top box. I +suppose it made their heads ache, and they went up on that account. + +“I suppose things are done differently on proper bee-farms. I've heard +that a bee-farmer will part a hanging swarm with his fingers, take out +the queen bee and arrange matters with her; but our ways suited us, +and there was a lot of expectation and running and excitement in +it, especially when a swarm took us by surprise. The yell of 'Bees +swarmin'!' was as good to us as the yell of 'Fight!' is now, or 'Bolt!' +in town, or 'Fire' or 'Man overboard!' at sea. + +“There was tons of honey. The bees used to go to the vineyards at +wine-making and get honey from the heaps of crushed grape-skins thrown +out in the sun, and get so drunk sometimes that they wobbled in their +bee-lines home. They'd fill all the boxes, and then build in between and +under the bark, and board, and tin covers. They never seemed to get the +idea out of their heads that this wasn't an evergreen country, and it +wasn't going to snow all winter. My younger brother Joe used to put +pieces of meat on the tables near the boxes, and in front of the holes +where the bees went in and out, for the dogs to grab at. But one old +dog, 'Black Bill', was a match for him; if it was worth Bill's while, +he'd camp there, and keep Joe and the other dogs from touching the +meat--once it was put down--till the bees turned in for the night. And +Joe would get the other kids round there, and when they weren't looking +or thinking, he'd brush the bees with a stick and run. I'd lam him when +I caught him at it. He was an awful young devil, was Joe, and he grew up +steady, and respectable, and respected--and I went to the bad. I never +trust a good boy now.... Ah, well! + +“I remember the first swarm we got. We'd been talking of getting a few +swarms for a long time. That was what was the matter with us English +and Irish and English-Irish Australian farmers: we used to talk so much +about doing things while the Germans and Scotch did them. And we even +talked in a lazy, easy-going sort of way. + +“Well, one blazing hot day I saw father coming along the road, home +to dinner (we had it in the middle of the day), with his axe over his +shoulder. I noticed the axe particularly because father was bringing it +home to grind, and Joe and I had to turn the stone; but, when I noticed +Joe dragging along home in the dust about fifty yards behind father, I +felt easier in my mind. Suddenly father dropped the axe and started +to run back along the road towards Joe, who, as soon as he saw father +coming, shied for the fence and got through. He thought he was going to +catch it for something he'd done--or hadn't done. Joe used to do so many +things and leave so many things not done that he could never be sure +of father. Besides, father had a way of starting to hammer us +unexpectedly--when the idea struck him. But father pulled himself up in +about thirty yards and started to grab up handfuls of dust and sand and +throw them into the air. My idea, in the first flash, was to get hold of +the axe, for I thought it was sun-stroke, and father might take it into +his head to start chopping up the family before I could persuade him +to put it (his head, I mean) in a bucket of water. But Joe came running +like mad, yelling: + +“'Swarmer--bees! Swawmmer--bee--ee--es! +Bring--a--tin--dish--and--a--dippera--wa-a-ter!' + +“I ran with a bucket of water and an old frying-pan, and pretty soon +the rest of the family were on the spot, throwing dust and water, +and banging everything, tin or iron, they could get hold of. The only +bullock bell in the district (if it was in the district) was on the old +poley cow, and she'd been lost for a fortnight. Mother brought up the +rear--but soon worked to the front--with a baking-dish and a big spoon. +The old lady--she wasn't old then--had a deep-rooted prejudice that she +could do everything better than anybody else, and that the selection +and all on it would go to the dogs if she wasn't there to look after it. +There was no jolting that idea out of her. She not only believed that +she could do anything better than anybody, and hers was the only right +or possible way, and that we'd do everything upside down if she wasn't +there to do it or show us how--but she'd try to do things herself or +insist on making us do them her way, and that led to messes and rows. +She was excited now, and took command at once. She wasn't tongue-tied, +and had no impediment in her speech. + +“'Don't throw up dust!--Stop throwing up dust!--Do you want to smother +'em?--Don't throw up so much water!--Only throw up a pannikin at a +time!--D'yer want to drown 'em? Bang! Keep on banging, Joe!--Look at +that child! Run, someone!--run! you, Jack!--D'yer want the child to be +stung to death?--Take her inside!... Dy' hear me?... Stop throwing up +dust, Tom! (To father.) You're scaring 'em away! Can't you see they want +to settle?' [Father was getting mad and yelping: 'For Godsake shettup +and go inside.'] 'Throw up water, Jack! Throw up--Tom! Take that bucket +from him and don't make such a fool of yourself before the children! +Throw up water! Throw--keep on banging, children! Keep on banging!' +[Mother put her faith in banging.] 'There!--they're off! You've lost +'em! I knew you would! I told yer--keep on bang--!' + +“A bee struck her in the eye, and she grabbed at it! + +“Mother went home--and inside. + +“Father was good at bees--could manage them like sheep when he got to +know their ideas. When the swarm settled, he sent us for the old washing +stool, boxes, bags, and so on; and the whole time he was fixing the bees +I noticed that whenever his back was turned to us his shoulders would +jerk up as if he was cold, and he seemed to shudder from inside, and now +and then I'd hear a grunting sort of whimper like a boy that was +just starting to blubber. But father wasn't weeping, and bees weren't +stinging him; it was the bee that stung mother that was tickling father. +When he went into the house, mother's other eye had bunged for sympathy. +Father was always gentle and kind in sickness, and he bathed mother's +eyes and rubbed mud on, but every now and then he'd catch inside, and +jerk and shudder, and grunt and cough. Mother got wild, but presently +the humour of it struck her, and she had to laugh, and a rum laugh it +was, with both eyes bunged up. Then she got hysterical, and started to +cry, and father put his arm round her shoulder and ordered us out of the +house. + +“They were very fond of each other, the old people were, under it +all--right up to the end.... Ah, well!” + +Mitchell pulled the swags out of a bunk, and started to fasten the +nose-bags on. + + + + +Andy Page's Rival + + + + Tall and freckled and sandy, + Face of a country lout; + That was the picture of Andy-- + Middleton's rouseabout. + On Middleton's wide dominions + Plied the stock-whip and shears; + Hadn't any opinions------ + +And he hadn't any “ideers”--at least, he said so himself--except +as regarded anything that looked to him like what he called “funny +business”, under which heading he catalogued tyranny, treachery, +interference with the liberty of the subject by the subject, “blanky” + lies, or swindles--all things, in short, that seemed to his slow +understanding dishonest, mean or paltry; most especially, and above all, +treachery to a mate. THAT he could never forget. Andy was uncomfortably +“straight”. His mind worked slowly and his decisions were, as a rule, +right and just; and when he once came to a conclusion concerning any +man or matter, or decided upon a course of action, nothing short of an +earthquake or a Nevertire cyclone could move him back an inch--unless a +conviction were severely shaken, and then he would require as much time +to “back” to his starting point as he did to come to the decision. + +Andy had come to a conclusion with regard to a selector's +daughter--name, Lizzie Porter--who lived (and slaved) on her father's +selection, near the township corner of the run on which Andy was a +general “hand”. He had been in the habit for several years of calling +casually at the selector's house, as he rode to and fro between the +station and the town, to get a drink of water and exchange the time of +day with old Porter and his “missus”. The conversation concerned the +drought, and the likelihood or otherwise of their ever going to get +a little rain; or about Porter's cattle, with an occasional enquiry +concerning, or reference to, a stray cow belonging to the selection, +but preferring the run; a little, plump, saucy, white cow, by-the-way, +practically pure white, but referred to by Andy--who had eyes like a +blackfellow--as “old Speckledy”. No one else could detect a spot or +speckle on her at a casual glance. Then after a long bovine silence, +which would have been painfully embarrassing in any other society, and +a tilting of his cabbage-tree hat forward, which came of tickling and +scratching the sun-blotched nape of his neck with his little finger, +Andy would slowly say: “Ah, well. I must be gettin'. So-long, Mr. +Porter. So-long, Mrs. Porter.” And, if SHE were in evidence--as she +generally was on such occasions--“So-long, Lizzie.” And they'd shout: +“So-long, Andy,” as he galloped off from the jump. Strange that those +shy, quiet, gentle-voiced bushmen seem the hardest and most reckless +riders. + +But of late his horse had been seen hanging up outside Porter's for an +hour or so after sunset. He smoked, talked over the results of the last +drought (if it happened to rain), and the possibilities of the next one, +and played cards with old Porter; who took to winking, automatically, at +his “old woman”, and nudging, and jerking his thumb in the direction of +Lizzie when her back was turned, and Andy was scratching the nape of his +neck and staring at the cards. + +Lizzie told a lady friend of mine, years afterwards, how Andy popped +the question; told it in her quiet way--you know Lizzie's quiet way +(something of the old, privileged house-cat about her); never a sign in +expression or tone to show whether she herself saw or appreciated the +humour of anything she was telling, no matter how comical it might be. +She had witnessed two tragedies, and had found a dead man in the bush, +and related the incidents as though they were common-place. + +It happened one day--after Andy had been coming two or three times a +week for about a year--that she found herself sitting with him on a log +of the woodheap, in the cool of the evening, enjoying the sunset breeze. +Andy's arm had got round her--just as it might have gone round a post he +happened to be leaning against. They hadn't been talking about anything +in particular. Andy said he wouldn't be surprised if they had a +thunderstorm before mornin'--it had been so smotherin' hot all day. + +Lizzie said, “Very likely.” + +Andy smoked a good while, then he said: “Ah, well! It's a weary world.” + +Lizzie didn't say anything. + +By-and-bye Andy said: “Ah, well; it's a lonely world, Lizzie.” + +“Do you feel lonely, Andy?” asked Lizzie, after a while. + +“Yes, Lizzie; I do.” + +Lizzie let herself settle, a little, against him, without either seeming +to notice it, and after another while she said, softly: “So do I, Andy.” + +Andy knocked the ashes from his pipe very slowly and deliberately, and +put it away; then he seemed to brighten suddenly, and said briskly: +“Well, Lizzie! Are you satisfied!” + +“Yes, Andy; I'm satisfied.” + +“Quite sure, now?” + +“Yes; I'm quite sure, Andy. I'm perfectly satisfied.” + +“Well, then, Lizzie--it's settled!” + + . . . . . + +But to-day--a couple of months after the proposal described above--Andy +had trouble on his mind, and the trouble was connected with Lizzie +Porter. He was putting up a two-rail fence along the old log-paddock on +the frontage, and working like a man in trouble, trying to work it off +his mind; and evidently not succeeding--for the last two panels were out +of line. He was ramming a post--Andy rammed honestly, from the bottom of +the hole, not the last few shovelfuls below the surface, as some do. He +was ramming the last layer of clay when a cloud of white dust came along +the road, paused, and drifted or poured off into the scrub, leaving long +Dave Bentley, the horse-breaker, on his last victim. + +“'Ello, Andy! Graftin'?” + +“I want to speak to you, Dave,” said Andy, in a strange voice. + +“All--all right!” said Dave, rather puzzled. He got down, wondering what +was up, and hung his horse to the last post but one. + +Dave was Andy's opposite in one respect: he jumped to conclusions, as +women do; but, unlike women, he was mostly wrong. He was an old chum and +mate of Andy's who had always liked, admired, and trusted him. But +now, to his helpless surprise, Andy went on scraping the earth from the +surface with his long-handled shovel, and heaping it conscientiously +round the butt of the post, his face like a block of wood, and his lips +set grimly. Dave broke out first (with bush oaths): + +“What's the matter with you? Spit it out! What have I been doin' to you? +What's yer got yer rag out about, anyway?” + +Andy faced him suddenly, with hatred for “funny business” flashing in +his eyes. + +“What did you say to my sister Mary about Lizzie Porter?” + +Dave started; then he whistled long and low. “Spit it all out, Andy!” he +advised. + +“You said she was travellin' with a feller!” + +“Well, what's the harm in that? Everybody knows that--” + +“If any crawler says a word about Lizzie Porter--look here, me and you's +got to fight, Dave Bentley!” Then, with still greater vehemence, as +though he had a share in the garment: “Take off that coat!” + +“Not if I know it!” said Dave, with the sudden quietness that comes to +brave but headstrong and impulsive men at a critical moment: “Me and you +ain't goin' to fight, Andy; and” (with sudden energy) “if you try it on +I'll knock you into jim-rags!” + +Then, stepping close to Andy and taking him by the arm: “Andy, this +thing will have to be fixed up. Come here; I want to talk to you.” And +he led him some paces aside, inside the boundary line, which seemed a +ludicrously unnecessary precaution, seeing that there was no one within +sight or hearing save Dave's horse. + +“Now, look here, Andy; let's have it over. What's the matter with you +and Lizzie Porter?” + +“I'M travellin' with her, that's all; and we're going to get married in +two years!” + +Dave gave vent to another long, low whistle. He seemed to think and make +up his mind. + +“Now, look here, Andy: we're old mates, ain't we?” + +“Yes; I know that.” + +“And do you think I'd tell you a blanky lie, or crawl behind your back? +Do you? Spit it out!” + +“N--no, I don't!” + +“I've always stuck up for you, Andy, and--why, I've fought for you +behind your back!” + +“I know that, Dave.” + +“There's my hand on it!” + +Andy took his friend's hand mechanically, but gripped it hard. + +“Now, Andy, I'll tell you straight: It's Gorstruth about Lizzie Porter!” + +They stood as they were for a full minute, hands clasped; Andy with his +jaw dropped and staring in a dazed sort of way at Dave. He raised his +disengaged hand helplessly to his thatch, gulped suspiciously, and asked +in a broken voice: + +“How--how do you know it, Dave?” + +“Know it? Andy, I SEEN 'EM MESELF!” + +“You did, Dave?” in a tone that suggested sorrow more than anger at +Dave's part in the seeing of them. + +“Gorstruth, Andy!” + + . . . . . + +“Tell me, Dave, who was the feller? That's all I want to know.” + +“I can't tell you that. I only seen them when I was canterin' past in +the dusk.” + +“Then how'd you know it was a man at all?” + +“It wore trousers, anyway, and was as big as you; so it couldn't have +been a girl. I'm pretty safe to swear it was Mick Kelly. I saw his horse +hangin' up at Porter's once or twice. But I'll tell you what I'll do: +I'll find out for you, Andy. And, what's more, I'll job him for you if I +catch him!” + +Andy said nothing; his hands clenched and his chest heaved. Dave laid a +friendly hand on his shoulder. + +“It's red hot, Andy, I know. Anybody else but you and I wouldn't have +cared. But don't be a fool; there's any Gorsquantity of girls knockin' +round. You just give it to her straight and chuck her, and have done +with it. You must be bad off to bother about her. Gorstruth! she ain't +much to look at anyway! I've got to ride like blazes to catch the coach. +Don't knock off till I come back; I won't be above an hour. I'm goin' to +give you some points in case you've got to fight Mick; and I'll have to +be there to back you!” And, thus taking the right moment instinctively, +he jumped on his horse and galloped on towards the town. + +His dust-cloud had scarcely disappeared round a corner of the paddocks +when Andy was aware of another one coming towards him. He had a +dazed idea that it was Dave coming back, but went on digging another +post-hole, mechanically, until a spring-cart rattled up, and stopped +opposite him. Then he lifted his head. It was Lizzie herself, driving +home from town. She turned towards him with her usual faint smile. Her +small features were “washed out” and rather haggard. + +“'Ello, Andy!” + +But, at the sight of her, all his hatred of “funny +business”--intensified, perhaps, by a sense of personal injury--came to +a head, and he exploded: + +“Look here, Lizzie Porter! I know all about you. You needn't think +you're goin' to cotton on with me any more after this! I wouldn't be +seen in a paddock with yer! I'm satisfied about you! Get on out of +this!” + +The girl stared at him for a moment thunderstruck; then she lammed into +the old horse with a stick she carried in place of a whip. + +She cried, and wondered what she'd done, and trembled so that she could +scarcely unharness the horse, and wondered if Andy had got a touch of +the sun, and went in and sat down and cried again; and pride came to her +aid and she hated Andy; thought of her big brother, away droving, and +made a cup of tea. She shed tears over the tea, and went through it all +again. + +Meanwhile Andy was suffering a reaction. He started to fill the hole +before he put the post in; then to ram the post before the rails were +in position. Dubbing off the ends of the rails, he was in danger of +amputating a toe or a foot with every stroke of the adze. And, at last, +trying to squint along the little lumps of clay which he had placed in +the centre of the top of each post for several panels back--to assist +him to take a line--he found that they swam and doubled, and ran off in +watery angles, for his eyes were too moist to see straight and single. + +Then he threw down the tools hopelessly, and was standing helplessly +undecided whether to go home or go down to the creek and drown himself, +when Dave turned up again. + +“Seen her?” asked Dave. + +“Yes,” said Andy. + +“Did you chuck her?” + +“Look here, Dave; are you sure the feller was Mick Kelly?” + +“I never said I was. How was I to know? It was dark. You don't expect +I'd 'fox' a feller I see doing a bit of a bear-up to a girl, do you? It +might have been you, for all I knowed. I suppose she's been talking you +round?” + +“No, she ain't,” said Andy. “But, look here, Dave; I was properly gone +on that girl, I was, and--and I want to be sure I'm right.” + +The business was getting altogether too psychological for Dave Bentley. +“You might as well,” he rapped out, “call me a liar at once!” + +“'Taint that at all, Dave. I want to get at who the feller is; that's +what I want to get at now. Where did you see them, and when?” + +“I seen them Anniversary night, along the road, near Ross' farm; and +I seen 'em Sunday night afore that--in the trees near the old +culvert--near Porter's sliprails; and I seen 'em one night outside +Porter's, on a log near the woodheap. They was thick that time, and +bearin' up proper, and no mistake. So I can swear to her. Now, are you +satisfied about her?” + +But Andy was wildly pitchforking his thatch under his hat with all ten +fingers and staring at Dave, who began to regard him uneasily; then +there came to Andy's eyes an awful glare, which caused Dave to step back +hastily. + +“Good God, Andy! Are yer goin' ratty?” + +“No!” cried Andy, wildly. + +“Then what the blazes is the matter with you? You'll have rats if you +don't look out!” + +“JIMMINY FROTH!--It was ME all the time!” + +“What?” + +“It was me that was with her all them nights. It was me that you seen. +WHY, I POPPED ON THE WOODHEAP!” + +Dave was taken too suddenly to whistle this time. + +“And you went for her just now?” + +“Yes!” yelled Andy. + +“Well--you've done it!” + +“Yes,” said Andy, hopelessly; “I've done it!” + +Dave whistled now--a very long, low whistle. “Well, you're a bloomin' +goat, Andy, after this. But this thing'll have to be fixed up!” and he +cantered away. Poor Andy was too badly knocked to notice the abruptness +of Dave's departure, or to see that he turned through the sliprails on +to the track that led to Porter's. + + . . . . . + +Half an hour later Andy appeared at Porter's back door, with an +expression on his face as though the funeral was to start in ten +minutes. In a tone befitting such an occasion, he wanted to see Lizzie. + +Dave had been there with the laudable determination of fixing the +business up, and had, of course, succeeded in making it much worse than +it was before. But Andy made it all right. + + + + +The Iron-Bark Chip + + + +Dave Regan and party--bush-fencers, tank-sinkers, rough carpenters, +&c.--were finishing the third and last culvert of their contract on +the last section of the new railway line, and had already sent in their +vouchers for the completed contract, so that there might be no excuse +for extra delay in connection with the cheque. + +Now it had been expressly stipulated in the plans and specifications +that the timber for certain beams and girders was to be iron-bark and +no other, and Government inspectors were authorised to order the removal +from the ground of any timber or material they might deem inferior, +or not in accordance with the stipulations. The railway contractor's +foreman and inspector of sub-contractors was a practical man and a +bushman, but he had been a timber-getter himself; his sympathies were +bushy, and he was on winking terms with Dave Regan. Besides, extended +time was expiring, and the contractors were in a hurry to complete the +line. But the Government inspector was a reserved man who poked round +on his independent own and appeared in lonely spots at unexpected +times--with apparently no definite object in life--like a grey kangaroo +bothered by a new wire fence, but unsuspicious of the presence of +humans. He wore a grey suit, rode, or mostly led, an ashen-grey horse; +the grass was long and grey, so he was seldom spotted until he was +well within the horizon and bearing leisurely down on a party of +sub-contractors, leading his horse. + +Now iron-bark was scarce and distant on those ridges, and another +timber, similar in appearance, but much inferior in grain and “standing” + quality, was plentiful and close at hand. Dave and party were “about +full of” the job and place, and wanted to get their cheque and be gone +to another “spec” they had in view. So they came to reckon they'd get +the last girder from a handy tree, and have it squared, in place, and +carefully and conscientiously tarred before the inspector happened +along, if he did. But they didn't. They got it squared, and ready to be +lifted into its place; the kindly darkness of tar was ready to cover a +fraud that took four strong men with crowbars and levers to shift; and +now (such is the regular cussedness of things) as the fraudulent piece +of timber lay its last hour on the ground, looking and smelling, to +their guilty imaginations like anything but iron-bark, they were aware +of the Government inspector drifting down upon them obliquely, with +something of the atmosphere of a casual Bill or Jim who had dropped out +of his easy-going track to see how they were getting on, and borrow a +match. They had more than half hoped that, as he had visited them pretty +frequently during the progress of the work, and knew how near it was to +completion, he wouldn't bother coming any more. But it's the way with +the Government. You might move heaven and earth in vain endeavour to +get the “Guvermunt” to flutter an eyelash over something of the most +momentous importance to yourself and mates and the district--even to +the country; but just when you are leaving authority severely alone, and +have strong reasons for not wanting to worry or interrupt it, and not +desiring it to worry about you, it will take a fancy into its head to +come along and bother. + +“It's always the way!” muttered Dave to his mates. “I knew the beggar +would turn up!... And the only cronk log we've had, too!” he added, in +an injured tone. “If this had 'a' been the only blessed iron-bark in the +whole contract, it would have been all right.... Good-day, sir!” (to the +inspector). “It's hot?” + +The inspector nodded. He was not of an impulsive nature. He got down +from his horse and looked at the girder in an abstracted way; and +presently there came into his eyes a dreamy, far-away, sad sort of +expression, as if there had been a very sad and painful occurrence in +his family, way back in the past, and that piece of timber in some way +reminded him of it and brought the old sorrow home to him. He blinked +three times, and asked, in a subdued tone: + +“Is that iron-bark?” + +Jack Bentley, the fluent liar of the party, caught his breath with a +jerk and coughed, to cover the gasp and gain time. “I--iron-bark? Of +course it is! I thought you would know iron-bark, mister.” (Mister was +silent.) “What else d'yer think it is?” + +The dreamy, abstracted expression was back. The inspector, by-the-way, +didn't know much about timber, but he had a great deal of instinct, and +went by it when in doubt. + +“L--look here, mister!” put in Dave Regan, in a tone of innocent +puzzlement and with a blank bucolic face. “B--but don't the plans and +specifications say iron-bark? Ours does, anyway. I--I'll git the papers +from the tent and show yer, if yer like.” + +It was not necessary. The inspector admitted the fact slowly. He +stooped, and with an absent air picked up a chip. He looked at it +abstractedly for a moment, blinked his threefold blink; then, seeming to +recollect an appointment, he woke up suddenly and asked briskly: + +“Did this chip come off that girder?” + +Blank silence. The inspector blinked six times, divided in threes, +rapidly, mounted his horse, said “Day,” and rode off. + +Regan and party stared at each other. + +“Wha--what did he do that for?” asked Andy Page, the third in the party. + +“Do what for, you fool?” enquired Dave. + +“Ta--take that chip for?” + +“He's taking it to the office!” snarled Jack Bentley. + +“What--what for? What does he want to do that for?” + +“To get it blanky well analysed! You ass! Now are yer satisfied?” And +Jack sat down hard on the timber, jerked out his pipe, and said to Dave, +in a sharp, toothache tone: + +“Gimmiamatch!” + +“We--well! what are we to do now?” enquired Andy, who was the hardest +grafter, but altogether helpless, hopeless, and useless in a crisis like +this. + +“Grain and varnish the bloomin' culvert!” snapped Bentley. + +But Dave's eyes, that had been ruefully following the inspector, +suddenly dilated. The inspector had ridden a short distance along the +line, dismounted, thrown the bridle over a post, laid the chip (which +was too big to go in his pocket) on top of it, got through the fence, +and was now walking back at an angle across the line in the direction +of the fencing party, who had worked up on the other side, a little more +than opposite the culvert. + +Dave took in the lay of the country at a glance and thought rapidly. + +“Gimme an iron-bark chip!” he said suddenly. + +Bentley, who was quick-witted when the track was shown him, as is a +kangaroo dog (Jack ran by sight, not scent), glanced in the line of +Dave's eyes, jumped up, and got a chip about the same size as that which +the inspector had taken. + +Now the “lay of the country” sloped generally to the line from both +sides, and the angle between the inspector's horse, the fencing party, +and the culvert was well within a clear concave space; but a couple +of hundred yards back from the line and parallel to it (on the side on +which Dave's party worked their timber) a fringe of scrub ran to within +a few yards of a point which would be about in line with a single tree +on the cleared slope, the horse, and the fencing party. + +Dave took the iron-bark chip, ran along the bed of the water-course into +the scrub, raced up the siding behind the bushes, got safely, though +without breathing, across the exposed space, and brought the tree into +line between him and the inspector, who was talking to the fencers. Then +he began to work quickly down the slope towards the tree (which was a +thin one), keeping it in line, his arms close to his sides, and working, +as it were, down the trunk of the tree, as if the fencing party were +kangaroos and Dave was trying to get a shot at them. The inspector, +by-the-bye, had a habit of glancing now and then in the direction of his +horse, as though under the impression that it was flighty and restless +and inclined to bolt on opportunity. It was an anxious moment for all +parties concerned--except the inspector. They didn't want HIM to be +perturbed. And, just as Dave reached the foot of the tree, the inspector +finished what he had to say to the fencers, turned, and started to walk +briskly back to his horse. There was a thunderstorm coming. Now was the +critical moment--there were certain prearranged signals between Dave's +party and the fencers which might have interested the inspector, but +none to meet a case like this. + +Jack Bentley gasped, and started forward with an idea of intercepting +the inspector and holding him for a few minutes in bogus conversation. +Inspirations come to one at a critical moment, and it flashed on Jack's +mind to send Andy instead. Andy looked as innocent and guileless as he +was, but was uncomfortable in the vicinity of “funny business”, and +must have an honest excuse. “Not that that mattered,” commented Jack +afterwards; “it would have taken the inspector ten minutes to get at +what Andy was driving at, whatever it was.” + +“Run, Andy! Tell him there's a heavy thunderstorm coming and he'd better +stay in our humpy till it's over. Run! Don't stand staring like a blanky +fool. He'll be gone!” + +Andy started. But just then, as luck would have it, one of the fencers +started after the inspector, hailing him as “Hi, mister!” He wanted to +be set right about the survey or something--or to pretend to want to be +set right--from motives of policy which I haven't time to explain here. + +That fencer explained afterwards to Dave's party that he “seen what you +coves was up to,” and that's why he called the inspector back. But he +told them that after they had told their yarn--which was a mistake. + +“Come back, Andy!” cried Jack Bentley. + +Dave Regan slipped round the tree, down on his hands and knees, and made +quick time through the grass which, luckily, grew pretty tall on the +thirty or forty yards of slope between the tree and the horse. Close to +the horse, a thought struck Dave that pulled him up, and sent a shiver +along his spine and a hungry feeling under it. The horse would +break away and bolt! But the case was desperate. Dave ventured an +interrogatory “Cope, cope, cope?” The horse turned its head wearily and +regarded him with a mild eye, as if he'd expected him to come, and come +on all fours, and wondered what had kept him so long; then he went +on thinking. Dave reached the foot of the post; the horse obligingly +leaning over on the other leg. Dave reared head and shoulders cautiously +behind the post, like a snake; his hand went up twice, swiftly--the +first time he grabbed the inspector's chip, and the second time he put +the iron-bark one in its place. He drew down and back, and scuttled off +for the tree like a gigantic tailless “goanna”. + +A few minutes later he walked up to the culvert from along the creek, +smoking hard to settle his nerves. + +The sky seemed to darken suddenly; the first great drops of the +thunderstorm came pelting down. The inspector hurried to his horse, and +cantered off along the line in the direction of the fettlers' camp. + +He had forgotten all about the chip, and left it on top of the post! + +Dave Regan sat down on the beam in the rain and swore comprehensively. + + + + +“Middleton's Peter” + + + I. + + The First Born + + +The struggling squatter is to be found in Australia as well as the +“struggling farmer”. The Australian squatter is not always the mighty +wool king that English and American authors and other uninformed people +apparently imagine him to be. Squatting, at the best, is but a game of +chance. It depends mainly on the weather, and that, in New South Wales +at least, depends on nothing. + +Joe Middleton was a struggling squatter, with a station some distance +to the westward of the furthest line reached by the ordinary “new chum”. +His run, at the time of our story, was only about six miles square, and +his stock was limited in proportion. The hands on Joe's run consisted +of his brother Dave, a middle-aged man known only as “Middleton's Peter” + (who had been in the service of the Middleton family ever since Joe +Middleton could remember), and an old black shepherd, with his gin and +two boys. + +It was in the first year of Joe's marriage. He had married a very +ordinary girl, as far as Australian girls go, but in his eyes she was an +angel. He really worshipped her. + +One sultry afternoon in midsummer all the station hands, with the +exception of Dave Middleton, were congregated about the homestead door, +and it was evident from their solemn faces that something unusual was +the matter. They appeared to be watching for something or someone across +the flat, and the old black shepherd, who had been listening intently +with bent head, suddenly straightened himself up and cried: + +“I can hear the cart. I can see it!” + +You must bear in mind that our blackfellows do not always talk the +gibberish with which they are credited by story writers. + +It was not until some time after Black Bill had spoken that the +white--or, rather, the brown--portion of the party could see or even +hear the approaching vehicle. At last, far out through the trunks of the +native apple-trees, the cart was seen approaching; and as it came nearer +it was evident that it was being driven at a break-neck pace, the horses +cantering all the way, while the motion of the cart, as first one +wheel and then the other sprang from a root or a rut, bore a striking +resemblance to the Highland Fling. There were two persons in the cart. +One was Mother Palmer, a stout, middle-aged party (who sometimes did the +duties of a midwife), and the other was Dave Middleton, Joe's brother. + +The cart was driven right up to the door with scarcely any abatement of +speed, and was stopped so suddenly that Mrs. Palmer was sent sprawling +on to the horse's rump. She was quickly helped down, and, as soon as +she had recovered sufficient breath, she followed Black Mary into the +bedroom where young Mrs. Middleton was lying, looking very pale and +frightened. The horse which had been driven so cruelly had not done +blowing before another cart appeared, also driven very fast. It +contained old Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, who lived comfortably on a small +farm not far from Palmer's place. + +As soon as he had dumped Mrs. Palmer, Dave Middleton left the cart and, +mounting a fresh horse which stood ready saddled in the yard, galloped +off through the scrub in a different direction. + +Half an hour afterwards Joe Middleton came home on a horse that had been +almost ridden to death. His mother came out at the sound of his arrival, +and he anxiously asked her: + +“How is she?” + +“Did you find Doc. Wild?” asked the mother. + +“No, confound him!” exclaimed Joe bitterly. “He promised me faithfully +to come over on Wednesday and stay until Maggie was right again. Now +he has left Dean's and gone--Lord knows where. I suppose he is drinking +again. How is Maggie?” + +“It's all over now--the child is born. It's a boy; but she is very weak. +Dave got Mrs. Palmer here just in time. I had better tell you at once +that Mrs. Palmer says if we don't get a doctor here to-night poor Maggie +won't live.” + +“Good God! and what am I to do?” cried Joe desperately. + +“Is there any other doctor within reach?” + +“No; there is only the one at B----; that's forty miles away, and he is +laid up with the broken leg he got in the buggy accident. Where's Dave?” + +“Gone to Black's shanty. One of Mrs. Palmer's sons thought he remembered +someone saying that Doc. Wild was there last week. That's fifteen miles +away.” + +“But it is our only hope,” said Joe dejectedly. “I wish to God that I +had taken Maggie to some civilised place a month ago.” + +Doc. Wild was a well-known character among the bushmen of New South +Wales, and although the profession did not recognise him, and denounced +him as an empiric, his skill was undoubted. Bushmen had great faith in +him, and would often ride incredible distances in order to bring him +to the bedside of a sick friend. He drank fearfully, but was seldom +incapable of treating a patient; he would, however, sometimes be found +in an obstinate mood and refuse to travel to the side of a sick person, +and then the devil himself could not make the doctor budge. But for all +this he was very generous--a fact that could, no doubt, be testified to +by many a grateful sojourner in the lonely bush. + + + + II. + + The Only Hope + + +Night came on, and still there was no change in the condition of +the young wife, and no sign of the doctor. Several stockmen from +the neighbouring stations, hearing that there was trouble at Joe +Middleton's, had ridden over, and had galloped off on long, hopeless +rides in search of a doctor. Being generally free from sickness +themselves, these bushmen look upon it as a serious business even in its +mildest form; what is more, their sympathy is always practical where +it is possible for it to be so. One day, while out on the run after +an “outlaw”, Joe Middleton was badly thrown from his horse, and the +break-neck riding that was done on that occasion from the time the horse +came home with empty saddle until the rider was safe in bed and attended +by a doctor was something extraordinary, even for the bush. + +Before the time arrived when Dave Middleton might reasonably have been +expected to return, the station people were anxiously watching for him, +all except the old blackfellow and the two boys, who had gone to yard +the sheep. + +The party had been increased by Jimmy Nowlett, the bullocky, who had +just arrived with a load of fencing wire and provisions for Middleton. +Jimmy was standing in the moonlight, whip in hand, looking as anxious as +the husband himself, and endeavouring to calculate by mental arithmetic +the exact time it ought to take Dave to complete his double journey, +taking into consideration the distance, the obstacles in the way, and +the chances of horse-flesh. + +But the time which Jimmy fixed for the arrival came without Dave. + +Old Peter (as he was generally called, though he was not really old) +stood aside in his usual sullen manner, his hat drawn down over his +brow and eyes, and nothing visible but a thick and very horizontal +black beard, from the depth of which emerged large clouds of very strong +tobacco smoke, the product of a short, black, clay pipe. + +They had almost given up all hope of seeing Dave return that night, when +Peter slowly and deliberately removed his pipe and grunted: + +“He's a-comin'.” + +He then replaced the pipe, and smoked on as before. + +All listened, but not one of them could hear a sound. + +“Yer ears must be pretty sharp for yer age, Peter. We can't hear him,” + remarked Jimmy Nowlett. + +“His dog ken,” said Peter. + +The pipe was again removed and its abbreviated stem pointed in the +direction of Dave's cattle dog, who had risen beside his kennel with +pointed ears, and was looking eagerly in the direction from which his +master was expected to come. + +Presently the sound of horse's hoofs was distinctly heard. + +“I can hear two horses,” cried Jimmy Nowlett excitedly. + +“There's only one,” said old Peter quietly. + +A few moments passed, and a single horseman appeared on the far side of +the flat. + +“It's Doc. Wild on Dave's horse,” cried Jimmy Nowlett. “Dave don't ride +like that.” + +“It's Dave,” said Peter, replacing his pipe and looking more unsociable +than ever. + +Dave rode up and, throwing himself wearily from the saddle, stood +ominously silent by the side of his horse. + +Joe Middleton said nothing, but stood aside with an expression of utter +hopelessness on his face. + +“Not there?” asked Jimmy Nowlett at last, addressing Dave. + +“Yes, he's there,” answered Dave, impatiently. + +This was not the answer they expected, but nobody seemed surprised. + +“Drunk?” asked Jimmy. + +“Yes.” + +Here old Peter removed his pipe, and pronounced the one word--“How?” + +“What the hell do you mean by that?” muttered Dave, whose patience had +evidently been severely tried by the clever but intemperate bush doctor. + +“How drunk?” explained Peter, with great equanimity. + +“Stubborn drunk, blind drunk, beastly drunk, dead drunk, and damned well +drunk, if that's what you want to know!” + +“What did Doc. say?” asked Jimmy. + +“Said he was sick--had lumbago--wouldn't come for the Queen of England; +said he wanted a course of treatment himself. Curse him! I have no +patience to talk about him.” + +“I'd give him a course of treatment,” muttered Jimmy viciously, trailing +the long lash of his bullock-whip through the grass and spitting +spitefully at the ground. + +Dave turned away and joined Joe, who was talking earnestly to his mother +by the kitchen door. He told them that he had spent an hour trying to +persuade Doc. Wild to come, and, that before he had left the shanty, +Black had promised him faithfully to bring the doctor over as soon as +his obstinate mood wore off. + +Just then a low moan was heard from the sick room, followed by the sound +of Mother Palmer's voice calling old Mrs. Middleton, who went inside +immediately. + +No one had noticed the disappearance of Peter, and when he presently +returned from the stockyard, leading the only fresh horse that remained, +Jimmy Nowlett began to regard him with some interest. Peter transferred +the saddle from Dave's horse to the other, and then went into a small +room off the kitchen, which served him as a bedroom; from it he soon +returned with a formidable-looking revolver, the chambers of which he +examined in the moonlight in full view of all the company. They thought +for a moment the man had gone mad. Old Middleton leaped quickly behind +Nowlett, and Black Mary, who had come out to the cask at the corner for +a dipper of water, dropped the dipper and was inside like a shot. One of +the black boys came softly up at that moment; as soon as his sharp eye +“spotted” the weapon, he disappeared as though the earth had swallowed +him. + +“What the mischief are yer goin' ter do, Peter?” asked Jimmy. + +“Goin' to fetch him,” said Peter, and, after carefully emptying his pipe +and replacing it in a leather pouch at his belt, he mounted and rode off +at an easy canter. + +Jimmy watched the horse until it disappeared at the edge of the flat, +and then after coiling up the long lash of his bullock-whip in the dust +until it looked like a sleeping snake, he prodded the small end of the +long pine handle into the middle of the coil, as though driving home a +point, and said in a tone of intense conviction: + +“He'll fetch him.” + + + + III. + + Doc. Wild + + +Peter gradually increased his horse's speed along the rough bush track +until he was riding at a good pace. It was ten miles to the main road, +and five from there to the shanty kept by Black. + +For some time before Peter started the atmosphere had been very close +and oppressive. The great black edge of a storm-cloud had risen in the +east, and everything indicated the approach of a thunderstorm. It was +not long coming. Before Peter had completed six miles of his journey, +the clouds rolled over, obscuring the moon, and an Australian +thunderstorm came on with its mighty downpour, its blinding lightning, +and its earth-shaking thunder. Peter rode steadily on, only pausing now +and then until a flash revealed the track in front of him. + +Black's shanty--or, rather, as the sign had it, “Post Office and General +Store”--was, as we have said, five miles along the main road from the +point where Middleton's track joined it. The building was of the usual +style of bush architecture. About two hundred yards nearer the creek, +which crossed the road further on, stood a large bark and slab stable, +large enough to have met the requirements of a legitimate bush “public”. + +The reader may doubt that a “sly grog shop” could openly carry on +business on a main Government road along which mounted troopers were +continually passing. But then, you see, mounted troopers get thirsty +like other men; moreover, they could always get their thirst quenched +'gratis' at these places; so the reader will be prepared to hear that +on this very night two troopers' horses were stowed snugly away in the +stable, and two troopers were stowed snugly away in the back room of the +shanty, sleeping off the effects of their cheap but strong potations. + +There were two rooms, of a sort, attached to the stables--one at each +end. One was occupied by a man who was “generally useful”, and the other +was the surgery, office, and bedroom 'pro tem.' of Doc. Wild. + +Doc. Wild was a tall man, of spare proportions. He had a cadaverous +face, black hair, bushy black eyebrows, eagle nose, and eagle eyes. He +never slept while he was drinking. On this occasion he sat in front of +the fire on a low three-legged stool. His knees were drawn up, his toes +hooked round the front legs of the stool, one hand resting on one knee, +and one elbow (the hand supporting the chin) resting on the other. He +was staring intently into the fire, on which an old black saucepan +was boiling and sending forth a pungent odour of herbs. There seemed +something uncanny about the doctor as the red light of the fire fell on +his hawk-like face and gleaming eyes. He might have been Mephistopheles +watching some infernal brew. + +He had sat there some time without stirring a finger, when the door +suddenly burst open and Middleton's Peter stood within, dripping wet. +The doctor turned his black, piercing eyes upon the intruder (who +regarded him silently) for a moment, and then asked quietly: + +“What the hell do you want?” + +“I want you,” said Peter. + +“And what do you want me for?” + +“I want you to come to Joe Middleton's wife. She's bad,” said Peter +calmly. + +“I won't come,” shouted the doctor. “I've brought enough horse-stealers +into the world already. If any more want to come they can go to blazes +for me. Now, you get out of this!” + +“Don't get yer rag out,” said Peter quietly. “The hoss-stealer's come, +an' nearly killed his mother ter begin with; an' if yer don't get yer +physic-box an' come wi' me, by the great God I'll----” + +Here the revolver was produced and pointed at Doc. Wild's head. The +sight of the weapon had a sobering effect upon the doctor. He rose, +looked at Peter critically for a moment, knocked the weapon out of his +hand, and said slowly and deliberately: + +“Wall, ef the case es as serious as that, I (hic) reckon I'd better +come.” + +Peter was still of the same opinion, so Doc. Wild proceeded to get his +medicine chest ready. He explained afterwards, in one of his softer +moments, that the shooter didn't frighten him so much as it touched his +memory--“sorter put him in mind of the old days in California, and made +him think of the man he might have been,” he'd say,--“kinder touched +his heart and slid the durned old panorama in front of him like a flash; +made him think of the time when he slipped three leaden pills into 'Blue +Shirt' for winking at a new chum behind his (the Doc.'s) back when he +was telling a truthful yarn, and charged the said 'Blue Shirt' a hundred +dollars for extracting the said pills.” + +Joe Middleton's wife is a grandmother now. + +Peter passed after the manner of his sort; he was found dead in his +bunk. + +Poor Doc. Wild died in a shepherd's hut at the Dry Creeks. The shepherds +(white men) found him, “naked as he was born and with the hide half +burned off him with the sun,” rounding up imaginary snakes on a dusty +clearing, one blazing hot day. The hut-keeper had some “quare” (queer) +experiences with the doctor during the next three days and used, in +after years, to tell of them, between the puffs of his pipe, calmly +and solemnly and as if the story was rather to the doctor's credit than +otherwise. The shepherds sent for the police and a doctor, and sent word +to Joe Middleton. Doc. Wild was sensible towards the end. His interview +with the other doctor was characteristic. “And, now you see how far I +am,” he said in conclusion--“have you brought the brandy?” The other +doctor had. Joe Middleton came with his waggonette, and in it the +softest mattress and pillows the station afforded. He also, in his +innocence, brought a dozen of soda-water. Doc. Wild took Joe's hand +feebly, and, a little later, he “passed out” (as he would have said) +murmuring “something that sounded like poetry”, in an unknown tongue. +Joe took the body to the home station. “Who's the boss bringin'?” asked +the shearers, seeing the waggonette coming very slowly and the boss +walking by the horses' heads. “Doc. Wild,” said a station hand. “Take +yer hats off.” + +They buried him with bush honours, and chiselled his name on a slab of +bluegum--a wood that lasts. + + + + +The Mystery of Dave Regan + + + +“And then there was Dave Regan,” said the traveller. “Dave used to die +oftener than any other bushman I knew. He was always being reported +dead and turnin' up again. He seemed to like it--except once, when his +brother drew his money and drank it all to drown his grief at what he +called Dave's 'untimely end'. Well, Dave went up to Queensland once with +cattle, and was away three years and reported dead, as usual. He was +drowned in the Bogan this time while tryin' to swim his horse acrost +a flood--and his sweetheart hurried up and got spliced to a worse man +before Dave got back. + +“Well, one day I was out in the bush lookin' for timber, when the +biggest storm ever knowed in that place come on. There was hail in it, +too, as big as bullets, and if I hadn't got behind a stump and crouched +down in time I'd have been riddled like a--like a bushranger. As it was, +I got soakin' wet. The storm was over in a few minutes, the water run +off down the gullies, and the sun come out and the scrub steamed--and +stunk like a new pair of moleskin trousers. I went on along the track, +and presently I seen a long, lanky chap get on to a long, lanky horse +and ride out of a bush yard at the edge of a clearin'. I knowed it was +Dave d'reckly I set eyes on him. + +“Dave used to ride a tall, holler-backed thoroughbred with a body and +limbs like a kangaroo dog, and it would circle around you and sidle away +as if it was frightened you was goin' to jab a knife into it. + +“''Ello! Dave!' said I, as he came spurrin' up. 'How are yer!' + +“''Ello, Jim!' says he. 'How are you?' + +“'All right!' says I. 'How are yer gettin' on?' + +“But, before we could say any more, that horse shied away and broke off +through the scrub to the right. I waited, because I knowed Dave would +come back again if I waited long enough; and in about ten minutes he +came sidlin' in from the scrub to the left. + +“'Oh, I'm all right,' says he, spurrin' up sideways; 'How are you?' + +“'Right!' says I. 'How's the old people?' + +“'Oh, I ain't been home yet,' says he, holdin' out his hand; but, afore +I could grip it, the cussed horse sidled off to the south end of the +clearin' and broke away again through the scrub. + +“I heard Dave swearin' about the country for twenty minutes or so, and +then he came spurrin' and cursin' in from the other end of the clearin'. + +“'Where have you been all this time?' I said, as the horse came curvin' +up like a boomerang. + +“'Gulf country,' said Dave. + +“'That was a storm, Dave,' said I. + +“'My oath!' says Dave. + +“'Get caught in it?' + +“'Yes.' + +“'Got to shelter?' + +“'No.' + +“'But you're as dry's a bone, Dave!' + +“Dave grinned. '------and------and------the--------!' he yelled. + +“He said that to the horse as it boomeranged off again and broke away +through the scrub. I waited; but he didn't come back, and I reckoned +he'd got so far away before he could pull up that he didn't think it +worth while comin' back; so I went on. By-and-bye I got thinkin'. Dave +was as dry as a bone, and I knowed that he hadn't had time to get to +shelter, for there wasn't a shed within twelve miles. He wasn't only +dry, but his coat was creased and dusty too--same as if he'd been +sleepin' in a holler log; and when I come to think of it, his face +seemed thinner and whiter than it used ter, and so did his hands and +wrists, which always stuck a long way out of his coat-sleeves; and there +was blood on his face--but I thought he'd got scratched with a twig. +(Dave used to wear a coat three or four sizes too small for him, with +sleeves that didn't come much below his elbows and a tail that scarcely +reached his waist behind.) And his hair seemed dark and lank, instead +of bein' sandy and stickin' out like an old fibre brush, as it used +ter. And then I thought his voice sounded different, too. And, when +I enquired next day, there was no one heard of Dave, and the chaps +reckoned I must have been drunk, or seen his ghost. + +“It didn't seem all right at all--it worried me a lot. I couldn't make +out how Dave kept dry; and the horse and saddle and saddle-cloth was +wet. I told the chaps how he talked to me and what he said, and how he +swore at the horse; but they only said it was Dave's ghost and nobody +else's. I told 'em about him bein' dry as a bone after gettin' caught in +that storm; but they only laughed and said it was a dry place where Dave +went to. I talked and argued about it until the chaps began to tap their +foreheads and wink--then I left off talking. But I didn't leave off +thinkin'--I always hated a mystery. Even Dave's father told me that Dave +couldn't be alive or else his ghost wouldn't be round--he said he knew +Dave better than that. One or two fellers did turn up afterwards that +had seen Dave about the time that I did--and then the chaps said they +was sure that Dave was dead. + +“But one fine day, as a lot of us chaps was playin' pitch and toss at +the shanty, one of the fellers yelled out: + +“'By Gee! Here comes Dave Regan!' + +“And I looked up and saw Dave himself, sidlin' out of a cloud of dust on +a long lanky horse. He rode into the stockyard, got down, hung his horse +up to a post, put up the rails, and then come slopin' towards us with +a half-acre grin on his face. Dave had long, thin bow-legs, and when he +was on the ground he moved as if he was on roller skates. + +“''El-lo, Dave!' says I. 'How are yer?' + +“''Ello, Jim!' said he. 'How the blazes are you?' + +“'All right!' says I, shakin' hands. 'How are yer?' + +“'Oh! I'm all right!' he says. 'How are yer poppin' up!' + +“Well, when we'd got all that settled, and the other chaps had asked how +he was, he said: 'Ah, well! Let's have a drink.' + +“And all the other chaps crawfished up and flung themselves round the +corner and sidled into the bar after Dave. We had a lot of talk, and he +told us that he'd been down before, but had gone away without seein' any +of us, except me, because he'd suddenly heard of a mob of cattle at a +station two hundred miles away; and after a while I took him aside and +said: + +“'Look here, Dave! Do you remember the day I met you after the storm?' + +“He scratched his head. + +“'Why, yes,' he says. + +“'Did you get under shelter that day?' + +“'Why--no.' + +“'Then how the blazes didn't yer get wet?' + +“Dave grinned; then he says: + +“'Why, when I seen the storm coming I took off me clothes and stuck 'em +in a holler log till the rain was over.' + +“'Yes,' he says, after the other coves had done laughin', but before +I'd done thinking; 'I kept my clothes dry and got a good refreshin' +shower-bath into the bargain.' + +“Then he scratched the back of his neck with his little finger, and +dropped his jaw, and thought a bit; then he rubbed the top of his head +and his shoulder, reflective-like, and then he said: + +“'But I didn't reckon for them there blanky hailstones.'” + + + + +Mitchell on Matrimony + + + +“I suppose your wife will be glad to see you,” said Mitchell to his +mate in their camp by the dam at Hungerford. They were overhauling their +swags, and throwing away the blankets, and calico, and old clothes, and +rubbish they didn't want--everything, in fact, except their pocket-books +and letters and portraits, things which men carry about with them +always, that are found on them when they die, and sent to their +relations if possible. Otherwise they are taken in charge by the +constable who officiates at the inquest, and forwarded to the Minister +of Justice along with the depositions. + +It was the end of the shearing season. Mitchell and his mate had been +lucky enough to get two good sheds in succession, and were going to take +the coach from Hungerford to Bourke on their way to Sydney. The morning +stars were bright yet, and they sat down to a final billy of tea, two +dusty Johnny-cakes, and a scrag of salt mutton. + +“Yes,” said Mitchell's mate, “and I'll be glad to see her too.” + +“I suppose you will,” said Mitchell. He placed his pint-pot between his +feet, rested his arm against his knee, and stirred the tea meditatively +with the handle of his pocket-knife. It was vaguely understood that +Mitchell had been married at one period of his chequered career. + +“I don't think we ever understood women properly,” he said, as he took +a cautious sip to see if his tea was cool and sweet enough, for his lips +were sore; “I don't think we ever will--we never took the trouble to +try, and if we did it would be only wasted brain power that might just +as well be spent on the blackfellow's lingo; because by the time you've +learnt it they'll be extinct, and woman 'll be extinct before you've +learnt her.... The morning star looks bright, doesn't it?” + +“Ah, well,” said Mitchell after a while, “there's many little things +we might try to understand women in. I read in a piece of newspaper the +other day about how a man changes after he's married; how he gets short, +and impatient, and bored (which is only natural), and sticks up a wall +of newspaper between himself and his wife when he's at home; and how it +comes like a cold shock to her, and all her air-castles vanish, and +in the end she often thinks about taking the baby and the clothes she +stands in, and going home for sympathy and comfort to mother. + +“Perhaps she never got a word of sympathy from her mother in her life, +nor a day's comfort at home before she was married; but that doesn't +make the slightest difference. It doesn't make any difference in your +case either, if you haven't been acting like a dutiful son-in-law. + +“Somebody wrote that a woman's love is her whole existence, while a +man's love is only part of his--which is true, and only natural and +reasonable, all things considered. But women never consider as a rule. A +man can't go on talking lovey-dovey talk for ever, and listening to his +young wife's prattle when he's got to think about making a living, and +nursing her and answering her childish questions and telling her he +loves his little ownest every minute in the day, while the bills are +running up, and rent mornings begin to fly round and hustle and crowd +him. + +“He's got her and he's satisfied; and if the truth is known he loves +her really more than he did when they were engaged, only she won't be +satisfied about it unless he tells her so every hour in the day. At +least that's how it is for the first few months. + +“But a woman doesn't understand these things--she never will, she +can't--and it would be just as well for us to try and understand that +she doesn't and can't understand them.” + +Mitchell knocked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin against his boot, +and reached for the billy. + +“There's many little things we might do that seem mere trifles and +nonsense to us, but mean a lot to her; that wouldn't be any trouble +or sacrifice to us, but might help to make her life happy. It's just +because we never think about these little things--don't think them worth +thinking about, in fact--they never enter our intellectual foreheads. + +“For instance, when you're going out in the morning you might put your +arms round her and give her a hug and a kiss, without her having to +remind you. You may forget about it and never think any more of it--but +she will. + +“It wouldn't be any trouble to you, and would only take a couple of +seconds, and would give her something to be happy about when you're +gone, and make her sing to herself for hours while she bustles about her +work and thinks up what she'll get you for dinner.” + +Mitchell's mate sighed, and shifted the sugar-bag over towards Mitchell. +He seemed touched and bothered over something. + +“Then again,” said Mitchell, “it mightn't be convenient for you to go +home to dinner--something might turn up during the morning--you might +have some important business to do, or meet some chaps and get invited +to lunch and not be very well able to refuse, when it's too late, or you +haven't a chance to send a message to your wife. But then again, chaps +and business seem very big things to you, and only little things to the +wife; just as lovey-dovey talk is important to her and nonsense to you. +And when you come to analyse it, one is not so big, nor the other so +small, after all; especially when you come to think that chaps can +always wait, and business is only an inspiration in your mind, nine +cases out of ten. + +“Think of the trouble she takes to get you a good dinner, and how she +keeps it hot between two plates in the oven, and waits hour after hour +till the dinner gets dried up, and all her morning's work is wasted. +Think how it hurts her, and how anxious she'll be (especially if you're +inclined to booze) for fear that something has happened to you. You +can't get it out of the heads of some young wives that you're liable to +get run over, or knocked down, or assaulted, or robbed, or get into one +of the fixes that a woman is likely to get into. But about the dinner +waiting. Try and put yourself in her place. Wouldn't you get mad under +the same circumstances? I know I would. + +“I remember once, only just after I was married, I was invited +unexpectedly to a kidney pudding and beans--which was my favourite grub +at the time--and I didn't resist, especially as it was washing day and +I told the wife not to bother about anything for dinner. I got home an +hour or so late, and had a good explanation thought out, when the wife +met me with a smile as if we had just been left a thousand pounds. She'd +got her washing finished without assistance, though I'd told her to get +somebody to help her, and she had a kidney pudding and beans, with a lot +of extras thrown in, as a pleasant surprise for me. + +“Well, I kissed her, and sat down, and stuffed till I thought every +mouthful would choke me. I got through with it somehow, but I've never +cared for kidney pudding or beans since.” + +Mitchell felt for his pipe with a fatherly smile in his eyes. + +“And then again,” he continued, as he cut up his tobacco, “your wife +might put on a new dress and fix herself up and look well, and you might +think so and be satisfied with her appearance and be proud to take her +out; but you want to tell her so, and tell her so as often as you think +about it--and try to think a little oftener than men usually do, too.” + + . . . . . + +“You should have made a good husband, Jack,” said his mate, in a +softened tone. + +“Ah, well, perhaps I should,” said Mitchell, rubbing up his tobacco; +then he asked abstractedly: “What sort of a husband did you make, Joe?” + +“I might have made a better one than I did,” said Joe seriously, and +rather bitterly, “but I know one thing, I'm going to try and make up for +it when I go back this time.” + +“We all say that,” said Mitchell reflectively, filling his pipe. “She +loves you, Joe.” + +“I know she does,” said Joe. + +Mitchell lit up. + +“And so would any man who knew her or had seen her letters to you,” he +said between the puffs. “She's happy and contented enough, I believe?” + +“Yes,” said Joe, “at least while I was there. She's never easy when I'm +away. I might have made her a good deal more happy and contented without +hurting myself much.” + +Mitchell smoked long, soft, measured puffs. + +His mate shifted uneasily and glanced at him a couple of times, and +seemed to become impatient, and to make up his mind about something; +or perhaps he got an idea that Mitchell had been “having” him, and +felt angry over being betrayed into maudlin confidences; for he asked +abruptly: + +“How is your wife now, Mitchell?” + +“I don't know,” said Mitchell calmly. + +“Don't know?” echoed the mate. “Didn't you treat her well?” + +Mitchell removed his pipe and drew a long breath. + +“Ah, well, I tried to,” he said wearily. + +“Well, did you put your theory into practice?” + +“I did,” said Mitchell very deliberately. + +Joe waited, but nothing came. + +“Well?” he asked impatiently, “How did it act? Did it work well?” + +“I don't know,” said Mitchell (puff); “she left me.” + +“What!” + +Mitchell jerked the half-smoked pipe from his mouth, and rapped the +burning tobacco out against the toe of his boot. + +“She left me,” he said, standing up and stretching himself. Then, with a +vicious jerk of his arm, “She left me for--another kind of a fellow!” + +He looked east towards the public-house, where they were taking the +coach-horses from the stable. + +“Why don't you finish your tea, Joe? The billy's getting cold.” + + + + +Mitchell on Women + + + +“All the same,” said Mitchell's mate, continuing an argument by the +camp-fire; “all the same, I think that a woman can stand cold water +better than a man. Why, when I was staying in a boarding-house in +Dunedin, one very cold winter, there was a lady lodger who went down to +the shower-bath first thing every morning; never missed one; sometimes +went in freezing weather when I wouldn't go into a cold bath for a +fiver; and sometimes she'd stay under the shower for ten minutes at a +time.” + +“How'd you know?” + +“Why, my room was near the bath-room, and I could hear the shower and +tap going, and her floundering about.” + +“Hear your grandmother!” exclaimed Mitchell, contemptuously. “You don't +know women yet. Was this woman married? Did she have a husband there?” + +“No; she was a young widow.” + +“Ah! well, it would have been the same if she was a young girl--or an +old one. Were there some passable men-boarders there?” + +“_I_ was there.” + +“Oh, yes! But I mean, were there any there beside you?” + +“Oh, yes, there were three or four; there was--a clerk and a----” + +“Never mind, as long as there was something with trousers on. Did it +ever strike you that she never got into the bath at all?” + +“Why, no! What would she want to go there at all for, in that case?” + +“To make an impression on the men,” replied Mitchell promptly. “She +wanted to make out she was nice, and wholesome, and well-washed, +and particular. Made an impression on YOU, it seems, or you wouldn't +remember it.” + +“Well, yes, I suppose so; and, now I come to think of it, the bath +didn't seem to injure her make-up or wet her hair; but I supposed she +held her head from under the shower somehow.” + +“Did she make-up so early in the morning?” asked Mitchell. + +“Yes--I'm sure.” + +“That's unusual; but it might have been so where there was a lot of +boarders. And about the hair--that didn't count for anything, because +washing-the-head ain't supposed to be always included in a lady's bath; +it's only supposed to be washed once a fortnight, and some don't do it +once a month. The hair takes so long to dry; it don't matter so much if +the woman's got short, scraggy hair; but if a girl's hair was down to +her waist it would take hours to dry.” + +“Well, how do they manage it without wetting their heads?” + +“Oh, that's easy enough. They have a little oilskin cap that fits tight +over the forehead, and they put it on, and bunch their hair up in it +when they go under the shower. Did you ever see a woman sit in a sunny +place with her hair down after having a wash?” + +“Yes, I used to see one do that regular where I was staying; but I +thought she only did it to show off.” + +“Not at all--she was drying her hair; though perhaps she was showing +off at the same time, for she wouldn't sit where you--or even a +Chinaman--could see her, if she didn't think she had a good head of +hair. Now, I'LL tell you a yarn about a woman's bath. I was stopping +at a shabby-genteel boarding-house in Melbourne once, and one very cold +winter, too; and there was a rather good-looking woman there, looking +for a husband. She used to go down to the bath every morning, no matter +how cold it was, and flounder and splash about as if she enjoyed it, +till you'd feel as though you'd like to go and catch hold of her and +wrap her in a rug and carry her in to the fire and nurse her till she +was warm again.” + +Mitchell's mate moved uneasily, and crossed the other leg; he seemed +greatly interested. + +“But she never went into the water at all!” continued Mitchell. “As soon +as one or two of the men was up in the morning she'd come down from her +room in a dressing-gown. It was a toney dressing-gown, too, and set her +off properly. She knew how to dress, anyway; most of that sort of women +do. The gown was a kind of green colour, with pink and white flowers +all over it, and red lining, and a lot of coffee-coloured lace round the +neck and down the front. Well, she'd come tripping downstairs and along +the passage, holding up one side of the gown to show her little +bare white foot in a slipper; and in the other hand she carried her +tooth-brush and bath-brush, and soap--like this--so's we all could see +'em; trying to make out she was too particular to use soap after anyone +else. She could afford to buy her own soap, anyhow; it was hardly ever +wet. + +“Well, she'd go into the bathroom and turn on the tap and shower; when +she got about three inches of water in the bath, she'd step in, holding +up her gown out of the water, and go slithering and kicking up and down +the bath, like this, making a tremendous splashing. Of course she'd turn +off the shower first, and screw it off very tight--wouldn't do to let +that leak, you know; she might get wet; but she'd leave the other tap +on, so as to make all the more noise.” + +“But how did you come to know all about this?” + +“Oh, the servant girl told me. One morning she twigged her through a +corner of the bathroom window that the curtain didn't cover.” + +“You seem to have been pretty thick with servant girls.” + +“So do you with landladies! But never mind--let me finish the yarn. When +she thought she'd splashed enough, she'd get out, wipe her feet, wash +her face and hands, and carefully unbutton the two top buttons of her +gown; then throw a towel over her head and shoulders, and listen at the +door till she thought she heard some of the men moving about. Then +she'd start for her room, and, if she met one of the men-boarders in the +passage or on the stairs, she'd drop her eyes, and pretend to see for +the first time that the top of her dressing-gown wasn't buttoned--and +she'd give a little start and grab the gown and scurry off to her room +buttoning it up. + +“And sometimes she'd come skipping into the breakfast-room late, looking +awfully sweet in her dressing-gown; and if she saw any of us there, +she'd pretend to be much startled, and say that she thought all the men +had gone out, and make as though she was going to clear; and someone 'd +jump up and give her a chair, while someone else said, 'Come in, Miss +Brown! come in! Don't let us frighten you. Come right in, and have +your breakfast before it gets cold.' So she'd flutter a bit in pretty +confusion, and then make a sweet little girly-girly dive for her chair, +and tuck her feet away under the table; and she'd blush, too, but I +don't know how she managed that. + +“I know another trick that women have; it's mostly played by private +barmaids. That is, to leave a stocking by accident in the bathroom for +the gentlemen to find. If the barmaid's got a nice foot and ankle, she +uses one of her own stockings; but if she hasn't she gets hold of +a stocking that belongs to a girl that has. Anyway, she'll have one +readied up somehow. The stocking must be worn and nicely darned; one +that's been worn will keep the shape of the leg and foot--at least +till it's washed again. Well, the barmaid generally knows what time the +gentlemen go to bath, and she'll make it a point of going down just as +a gentleman's going. Of course he'll give her the preference--let her go +first, you know--and she'll go in and accidentally leave the stocking +in a place where he's sure to see it, and when she comes out he'll go in +and find it; and very likely he'll be a jolly sort of fellow, and when +they're all sitting down to breakfast he'll come in and ask them to +guess what he's found, and then he'll hold up the stocking. The barmaid +likes this sort of thing; but she'll hold down her head, and pretend +to be confused, and keep her eyes on her plate, and there'll be much +blushing and all that sort of thing, and perhaps she'll gammon to be +mad at him, and the landlady'll say, 'Oh, Mr. Smith! how can yer? At the +breakfast table, too!' and they'll all laugh and look at the barmaid, +and she'll get more embarrassed than ever, and spill her tea, and make +out as though the stocking didn't belong to her.” + + + + +No Place for a Woman + + + +He had a selection on a long box-scrub siding of the ridges, about half +a mile back and up from the coach road. There were no neighbours that +I ever heard of, and the nearest “town” was thirty miles away. He grew +wheat among the stumps of his clearing, sold the crop standing to a +Cockie who lived ten miles away, and had some surplus sons; or, some +seasons, he reaped it by hand, had it thrashed by travelling “steamer” + (portable steam engine and machine), and carried the grain, a few bags +at a time, into the mill on his rickety dray. + +He had lived alone for upwards of 15 years, and was known to those who +knew him as “Ratty Howlett”. + +Trav'lers and strangers failed to see anything uncommonly ratty about +him. It was known, or, at least, it was believed, without question, that +while at work he kept his horse saddled and bridled, and hung up to the +fence, or grazing about, with the saddle on--or, anyway, close handy +for a moment's notice--and whenever he caught sight, over the scrub and +through the quarter-mile break in it, of a traveller on the road, he +would jump on his horse and make after him. If it was a horseman +he usually pulled him up inside of a mile. Stories were told of +unsuccessful chases, misunderstandings, and complications arising out of +Howlett's mania for running down and bailing up travellers. Sometimes he +caught one every day for a week, sometimes not one for weeks--it was a +lonely track. + +The explanation was simple, sufficient, and perfectly natural--from a +bushman's point of view. Ratty only wanted to have a yarn. He and the +traveller would camp in the shade for half an hour or so and yarn and +smoke. The old man would find out where the traveller came from, and +how long he'd been there, and where he was making for, and how long +he reckoned he'd be away; and ask if there had been any rain along the +traveller's back track, and how the country looked after the drought; +and he'd get the traveller's ideas on abstract questions--if he had any. +If it was a footman (swagman), and he was short of tobacco, old Howlett +always had half a stick ready for him. Sometimes, but very rarely, he'd +invite the swagman back to the hut for a pint of tea, or a bit of meat, +flour, tea, or sugar, to carry him along the track. + +And, after the yarn by the road, they said, the old man would ride back, +refreshed, to his lonely selection, and work on into the night as long +as he could see his solitary old plough horse, or the scoop of his +long-handled shovel. + +And so it was that I came to make his acquaintance--or, rather, that he +made mine. I was cantering easily along the track--I was making for the +north-west with a pack horse--when about a mile beyond the track to the +selection I heard, “Hi, Mister!” and saw a dust cloud following me. I +had heard of “Old Ratty Howlett” casually, and so was prepared for him. + +A tall gaunt man on a little horse. He was clean-shaven, except for +a frill beard round under his chin, and his long wavy, dark hair +was turning grey; a square, strong-faced man, and reminded me of one +full-faced portrait of Gladstone more than any other face I had seen. +He had large reddish-brown eyes, deep set under heavy eyebrows, and with +something of the blackfellow in them--the sort of eyes that will peer +at something on the horizon that no one else can see. He had a way of +talking to the horizon, too--more than to his companion; and he had a +deep vertical wrinkle in his forehead that no smile could lessen. + +I got down and got out my pipe, and we sat on a log and yarned awhile on +bush subjects; and then, after a pause, he shifted uneasily, it seemed +to me, and asked rather abruptly, and in an altered tone, if I was +married. A queer question to ask a traveller; more especially in my +case, as I was little more than a boy then. + +He talked on again of old things and places where we had both been, and +asked after men he knew, or had known--drovers and others--and whether +they were living yet. Most of his inquiries went back before my time; +but some of the drovers, one or two overlanders with whom he had been +mates in his time, had grown old into mine, and I knew them. I notice +now, though I didn't then--and if I had it would not have seemed +strange from a bush point of view--that he didn't ask for news, nor seem +interested in it. + +Then after another uneasy pause, during which he scratched crosses in +the dust with a stick, he asked me, in the same queer tone and without +looking at me or looking up, if I happened to know anything about +doctoring--if I'd ever studied it. + +I asked him if anyone was sick at his place. He hesitated, and said +“No.” Then I wanted to know why he had asked me that question, and +he was so long about answering that I began to think he was hard of +hearing, when, at last, he muttered something about my face reminding +him of a young fellow he knew of who'd gone to Sydney to “study for a +doctor”. That might have been, and looked natural enough; but why didn't +he ask me straight out if I was the chap he “knowed of”? Travellers do +not like beating about the bush in conversation. + +He sat in silence for a good while, with his arms folded, and looking +absently away over the dead level of the great scrubs that spread +from the foot of the ridge we were on to where a blue peak or two of a +distant range showed above the bush on the horizon. + +I stood up and put my pipe away and stretched. Then he seemed to wake +up. “Better come back to the hut and have a bit of dinner,” he said. +“The missus will about have it ready, and I'll spare you a handful of +hay for the horses.” + +The hay decided it. It was a dry season. I was surprised to hear of a +wife, for I thought he was a hatter--I had always heard so; but +perhaps I had been mistaken, and he had married lately; or had got a +housekeeper. The farm was an irregularly-shaped clearing in the scrub, +with a good many stumps in it, with a broken-down two-rail fence +along the frontage, and logs and “dog-leg” the rest. It was about +as lonely-looking a place as I had seen, and I had seen some +out-of-the-way, God-forgotten holes where men lived alone. The hut was +in the top corner, a two-roomed slab hut, with a shingle roof, which +must have been uncommon round there in the days when that hut was built. +I was used to bush carpentering, and saw that the place had been put +up by a man who had plenty of life and hope in front of him, and for +someone else beside himself. But there were two unfinished skilling +rooms built on to the back of the hut; the posts, sleepers, and +wall-plates had been well put up and fitted, and the slab walls were +up, but the roof had never been put on. There was nothing but burrs +and nettles inside those walls, and an old wooden bullock plough and a +couple of yokes were dry-rotting across the back doorway. The remains of +a straw-stack, some hay under a bark humpy, a small iron plough, and an +old stiff coffin-headed grey draught horse, were all that I saw about +the place. + +But there was a bit of a surprise for me inside, in the shape of a clean +white tablecloth on the rough slab table which stood on stakes driven +into the ground. The cloth was coarse, but it was a tablecloth--not +a spare sheet put on in honour of unexpected visitors--and perfectly +clean. The tin plates, pannikins, and jam tins that served as sugar +bowls and salt cellars were polished brightly. The walls and fireplace +were whitewashed, the clay floor swept, and clean sheets of newspaper +laid on the slab mantleshelf under the row of biscuit tins that held the +groceries. I thought that his wife, or housekeeper, or whatever she was, +was a clean and tidy woman about a house. I saw no woman; but on the +sofa--a light, wooden, batten one, with runged arms at the ends--lay a +woman's dress on a lot of sheets of old stained and faded newspapers. +He looked at it in a puzzled way, knitting his forehead, then took it +up absently and folded it. I saw then that it was a riding skirt and +jacket. He bundled them into the newspapers and took them into the +bedroom. + +“The wife was going on a visit down the creek this afternoon,” he said +rapidly and without looking at me, but stooping as if to have another +look through the door at those distant peaks. “I suppose she got tired +o' waitin', and went and took the daughter with her. But, never mind, +the grub is ready.” There was a camp-oven with a leg of mutton and +potatoes sizzling in it on the hearth, and billies hanging over the +fire. I noticed the billies had been scraped, and the lids polished. + +There seemed to be something queer about the whole business, but then he +and his wife might have had a “breeze” during the morning. I thought +so during the meal, when the subject of women came up, and he said one +never knew how to take a woman, etc.; but there was nothing in what he +said that need necessarily have referred to his wife or to any woman in +particular. For the rest he talked of old bush things, droving, digging, +and old bushranging--but never about live things and living men, unless +any of the old mates he talked about happened to be alive by accident. +He was very restless in the house, and never took his hat off. + +There was a dress and a woman's old hat hanging on the wall near the +door, but they looked as if they might have been hanging there for a +lifetime. There seemed something queer about the whole place--something +wanting; but then all out-of-the-way bush homes are haunted by that +something wanting, or, more likely, by the spirits of the things that +should have been there, but never had been. + +As I rode down the track to the road I looked back and saw old Howlett +hard at work in a hole round a big stump with his long-handled shovel. + +I'd noticed that he moved and walked with a slight list to port, and put +his hand once or twice to the small of his back, and I set it down to +lumbago, or something of that sort. + +Up in the Never Never I heard from a drover who had known Howlett that +his wife had died in the first year, and so this mysterious woman, if +she was his wife, was, of course, his second wife. The drover seemed +surprised and rather amused at the thought of old Howlett going in for +matrimony again. + + . . . . . + +I rode back that way five years later, from the Never Never. It was +early in the morning--I had ridden since midnight. I didn't think the +old man would be up and about; and, besides, I wanted to get on home, +and have a look at the old folk, and the mates I'd left behind--and the +girl. But I hadn't got far past the point where Howlett's track joined +the road, when I happened to look back, and saw him on horseback, +stumbling down the track. I waited till he came up. + +He was riding the old grey draught horse this time, and it looked very +much broken down. I thought it would have come down every step, and +fallen like an old rotten humpy in a gust of wind. And the old man was +not much better off. I saw at once that he was a very sick man. His face +was drawn, and he bent forward as if he was hurt. He got down stiffly +and awkwardly, like a hurt man, and as soon as his feet touched the +ground he grabbed my arm, or he would have gone down like a man who +steps off a train in motion. He hung towards the bank of the road, +feeling blindly, as it were, for the ground, with his free hand, as I +eased him down. I got my blanket and calico from the pack saddle to make +him comfortable. + +“Help me with my back agen the tree,” he said. “I must sit up--it's no +use lyin' me down.” + +He sat with his hand gripping his side, and breathed painfully. + +“Shall I run up to the hut and get the wife?” I asked. + +“No.” He spoke painfully. “No!” Then, as if the words were jerked out of +him by a spasm: “She ain't there.” + +I took it that she had left him. + +“How long have you been bad? How long has this been coming on?” + +He took no notice of the question. I thought it was a touch of rheumatic +fever, or something of that sort. “It's gone into my back and sides +now--the pain's worse in me back,” he said presently. + +I had once been mates with a man who died suddenly of heart disease, +while at work. He was washing a dish of dirt in the creek near a claim +we were working; he let the dish slip into the water, fell back, crying, +“O, my back!” and was gone. And now I felt by instinct that it was poor +old Howlett's heart that was wrong. A man's heart is in his back as well +as in his arms and hands. + +The old man had turned pale with the pallor of a man who turns faint in +a heat wave, and his arms fell loosely, and his hands rocked helplessly +with the knuckles in the dust. I felt myself turning white, too, and the +sick, cold, empty feeling in my stomach, for I knew the signs. Bushmen +stand in awe of sickness and death. + +But after I'd fixed him comfortably and given him a drink from the water +bag the greyness left his face, and he pulled himself together a bit; he +drew up his arms and folded them across his chest. He let his head rest +back against the tree--his slouch hat had fallen off revealing a broad, +white brow, much higher than I expected. He seemed to gaze on the azure +fin of the range, showing above the dark blue-green bush on the horizon. + +Then he commenced to speak--taking no notice of me when I asked him if +he felt better now--to talk in that strange, absent, far-away tone that +awes one. He told his story mechanically, monotonously--in set words, as +I believe now, as he had often told it before; if not to others, then to +the loneliness of the bush. And he used the names of people and places +that I had never heard of--just as if I knew them as well as he did. + +“I didn't want to bring her up the first year. It was no place for a +woman. I wanted her to stay with her people and wait till I'd got the +place a little more ship-shape. The Phippses took a selection down the +creek. I wanted her to wait and come up with them so's she'd have some +company--a woman to talk to. They came afterwards, but they didn't stop. +It was no place for a woman. + +“But Mary would come. She wouldn't stop with her people down country. +She wanted to be with me, and look after me, and work and help me.” + +He repeated himself a great deal--said the same thing over and over +again sometimes. He was only mad on one track. He'd tail off and +sit silent for a while; then he'd become aware of me in a hurried, +half-scared way, and apologise for putting me to all that trouble, and +thank me. “I'll be all right d'reckly. Best take the horses up to the +hut and have some breakfast; you'll find it by the fire. I'll foller +you, d'reckly. The wife'll be waitin' an'----” He would drop off, and be +going again presently on the old track:-- + +“Her mother was coming up to stay awhile at the end of the year, but the +old man hurt his leg. Then her married sister was coming, but one of the +youngsters got sick and there was trouble at home. I saw the doctor in +the town--thirty miles from here--and fixed it up with him. He was a +boozer--I'd 'a shot him afterwards. I fixed up with a woman in the town +to come and stay. I thought Mary was wrong in her time. She must have +been a month or six weeks out. But I listened to her.... Don't argue +with a woman. Don't listen to a woman. Do the right thing. We should +have had a mother woman to talk to us. But it was no place for a woman!” + +He rocked his head, as if from some old agony of mind, against the +tree-trunk. + +“She was took bad suddenly one night, but it passed off. False alarm. I +was going to ride somewhere, but she said to wait till daylight. Someone +was sure to pass. She was a brave and sensible girl, but she had a +terror of being left alone. It was no place for a woman! + +“There was a black shepherd three or four miles away. I rode over while +Mary was asleep, and started the black boy into town. I'd 'a shot him +afterwards if I'd 'a caught him. The old black gin was dead the week +before, or Mary would a' bin alright. She was tied up in a bunch with +strips of blanket and greenhide, and put in a hole. So there wasn't even +a gin near the place. It was no place for a woman! + +“I was watchin' the road at daylight, and I was watchin' the road at +dusk. I went down in the hollow and stooped down to get the gap agen the +sky, so's I could see if anyone was comin' over.... I'd get on the horse +and gallop along towards the town for five miles, but something would +drag me back, and then I'd race for fear she'd die before I got to the +hut. I expected the doctor every five minutes. + +“It come on about daylight next morning. I ran back'ards and for'ards +between the hut and the road like a madman. And no one come. I was +running amongst the logs and stumps, and fallin' over them, when I saw +a cloud of dust agen sunrise. It was her mother an' sister in the +spring-cart, an' just catchin' up to them was the doctor in his buggy +with the woman I'd arranged with in town. The mother and sister was +staying at the town for the night, when they heard of the black boy. It +took him a day to ride there. I'd 'a shot him if I'd 'a caught him ever +after. The doctor'd been on the drunk. If I'd had the gun and known she +was gone I'd have shot him in the buggy. They said she was dead. And the +child was dead, too. + +“They blamed me, but I didn't want her to come; it was no place for a +woman. I never saw them again after the funeral. I didn't want to see +them any more.” + +He moved his head wearily against the tree, and presently drifted on +again in a softer tone--his eyes and voice were growing more absent and +dreamy and far away. + +“About a month after--or a year, I lost count of the time long ago--she +came back to me. At first she'd come in the night, then sometimes when +I was at work--and she had the baby--it was a girl--in her arms. And +by-and-bye she came to stay altogether.... I didn't blame her for going +away that time--it was no place for a woman.... She was a good wife to +me. She was a jolly girl when I married her. The little girl grew up +like her. I was going to send her down country to be educated--it was no +place for a girl. + +“But a month, or a year, ago, Mary left me, and took the daughter, and +never came back till last night--this morning, I think it was. I thought +at first it was the girl with her hair done up, and her mother's skirt +on, to surprise her old dad. But it was Mary, my wife--as she was when +I married her. She said she couldn't stay, but she'd wait for me on the +road; on--the road....” + +His arms fell, and his face went white. I got the water-bag. “Another +turn like that and you'll be gone,” I thought, as he came to again. Then +I suddenly thought of a shanty that had been started, when I came that +way last, ten or twelve miles along the road, towards the town. There +was nothing for it but to leave him and ride on for help, and a cart of +some kind. + +“You wait here till I come back,” I said. “I'm going for the doctor.” + +He roused himself a little. “Best come up to the hut and get some grub. +The wife'll be waiting....” He was off the track again. + +“Will you wait while I take the horse down to the creek?” + +“Yes--I'll wait by the road.” + +“Look!” I said, “I'll leave the water-bag handy. Don't move till I come +back.” + +“I won't move--I'll wait by the road,” he said. + +I took the packhorse, which was the freshest and best, threw the +pack-saddle and bags into a bush, left the other horse to take care of +itself, and started for the shanty, leaving the old man with his back to +the tree, his arms folded, and his eyes on the horizon. + +One of the chaps at the shanty rode on for the doctor at once, while the +other came back with me in a spring-cart. He told me that old Howlett's +wife had died in child-birth the first year on the selection--“she was a +fine girl he'd heered!” He told me the story as the old man had told it, +and in pretty well the same words, even to giving it as his opinion that +it was no place for a woman. “And he 'hatted' and brooded over it till +he went ratty.” + +I knew the rest. He not only thought that his wife, or the ghost of his +wife, had been with him all those years, but that the child had lived +and grown up, and that the wife did the housework; which, of course, he +must have done himself. + +When we reached him his knotted hands had fallen for the last time, and +they were at rest. I only took one quick look at his face, but could +have sworn that he was gazing at the blue fin of the range on the +horizon of the bush. + +Up at the hut the table was set as on the first day I saw it, and +breakfast in the camp-oven by the fire. + + + + +Mitchell's Jobs + + + +“I'm going to knock off work and try to make some money,” said Mitchell, +as he jerked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin and reached for the +billy. “It's been the great mistake of my life--if I hadn't wasted all +my time and energy working and looking for work I might have been an +independent man to-day.” + +“Joe!” he added in a louder voice, condescendingly adapting his language +to my bushed comprehension. “I'm going to sling graft and try and get +some stuff together.” + +I didn't feel in a responsive humour, but I lit up and settled back +comfortably against the tree, and Jack folded his arms on his knees and +presently continued, reflectively: + +“I remember the first time I went to work. I was a youngster then. +Mother used to go round looking for jobs for me. She reckoned, perhaps, +that I was too shy to go in where there was a boy wanted and barrack for +myself properly, and she used to help me and see me through to the best +of her ability. I'm afraid I didn't always feel as grateful to her as I +should have felt. I was a thankless kid at the best of times--most kids +are--but otherwise I was a straight enough little chap as nippers go. +Sometimes I almost wish I hadn't been. My relations would have thought +a good deal more of me and treated me better--and, besides, it's a +comfort, at times, to sit and watch the sun going down in the bed of the +bush, and think of your wicked childhood and wasted life, and the way +you treated your parents and broke their hearts, and feel just properly +repentant and bitter and remorseful and low-spirited about it when it's +too late. + +“Ah, well!... I generally did feel a bit backward in going in when I +came to the door of an office or shop where there was a 'Strong Lad', or +a 'Willing Youth', wanted inside to make himself generally useful. I +was a strong lad and a willing youth enough, in some things, for that +matter; but I didn't like to see it written up on a card in a shop +window, and I didn't want to make myself generally useful in a close +shop in a hot dusty street on mornings when the weather was fine and the +great sunny rollers were coming in grand on the Bondi Beach and down at +Coogee, and I could swim.... I'd give something to be down along there +now.” + +Mitchell looked away out over the sultry sandy plain that we were to +tackle next day, and sighed. + +“The first job I got was in a jam factory. They only had 'Boy Wanted' on +the card in the window, and I thought it would suit me. They set me to +work to peel peaches, and, as soon as the foreman's back was turned, +I picked out a likely-looking peach and tried it. They soaked those +peaches in salt or acid or something--it was part of the process--and +I had to spit it out. Then I got an orange from a boy who was slicing +them, but it was bitter, and I couldn't eat it. I saw that I'd been had +properly. I was in a fix, and had to get out of it the best way I could. +I'd left my coat down in the front shop, and the foreman and boss were +there, so I had to work in that place for two mortal hours. It was about +the longest two hours I'd ever spent in my life. At last the foreman +came up, and I told him I wanted to go down to the back for a minute. I +slipped down, watched my chance till the boss' back was turned, got my +coat, and cleared. + +“The next job I got was in a mat factory; at least, Aunt got that for +me. I didn't want to have anything to do with mats or carpets. The worst +of it was the boss didn't seem to want me to go, and I had a job to get +him to sack me, and when he did he saw some of my people and took me +back again next week. He sacked me finally the next Saturday. + +“I got the next job myself. I didn't hurry; I took my time and picked +out a good one. It was in a lolly factory. I thought it would suit +me--and it did, for a while. They put me on stirring up and mixing stuff +in the jujube department; but I got so sick of the smell of it and so +full of jujube and other lollies that I soon wanted a change; so I had +a row with the chief of the jujube department and the boss gave me the +sack. + +“I got a job in a grocery then. I thought I'd have more variety there. +But one day the boss was away, sick or something, all the afternoon, and +I sold a lot of things too cheap. I didn't know. When a customer came in +and asked for something I'd just look round in the window till I saw +a card with the price written up on it, and sell the best quality +according to that price; and once or twice I made a mistake the other +way about and lost a couple of good customers. It was a hot, drowsy +afternoon, and by-and-bye I began to feel dull and sleepy. So I looked +round the corner and saw a Chinaman coming. I got a big tin garden +syringe and filled it full of brine from the butter keg, and, when he +came opposite the door, I let him have the full force of it in the ear. + +“That Chinaman put down his baskets and came for me. I was strong for my +age, and thought I could fight, but he gave me a proper mauling. + +“It was like running up against a thrashing machine, and it wouldn't +have been well for me if the boss of the shop next door hadn't +interfered. He told my boss, and my boss gave me the sack at once. + +“I took a spell of eighteen months or so after that, and was growing +up happy and contented when a married sister of mine must needs come +to live in town and interfere. I didn't like married sisters, though I +always got on grand with my brothers-in-law, and wished there were more +of them. The married sister comes round and cleans up the place and +pulls your things about and finds your pipe and tobacco and things, and +cigarette portraits, and “Deadwood Dicks”, that you've got put away all +right, so's your mother and aunt wouldn't find them in a generation of +cats, and says: + +“'Mother, why don't you make that boy go to work. It's a scandalous +shame to see a big boy like that growing up idle. He's going to the bad +before your eyes.' And she's always trying to make out that you're a +liar, and trying to make mother believe it, too. My married sister got +me a job with a chemist, whose missus she knew. + +“I got on pretty well there, and by-and-bye I was put upstairs in the +grinding and mixing department; but, after a while, they put another +boy that I was chummy with up there with me, and that was a mistake. +I didn't think so at the time, but I can see it now. We got up to all +sorts of tricks. We'd get mixing together chemicals that weren't related +to see how they'd agree, and we nearly blew up the shop several times, +and set it on fire once. But all the chaps liked us, and fixed things up +for us. One day we got a big black dog--that we meant to take home that +evening--and sneaked him upstairs and put him on a flat roof outside the +laboratory. He had a touch of the mange and didn't look well, so we gave +him a dose of something; and he scrambled over the parapet and slipped +down a steep iron roof in front, and fell on a respected townsman that +knew my people. We were awfully frightened, and didn't say anything. +Nobody saw it but us. The dog had the presence of mind to leave at once, +and the respected townsman was picked up and taken home in a cab; and +he got it hot from his wife, too, I believe, for being in that drunken, +beastly state in the main street in the middle of the day. + +“I don't think he was ever quite sure that he hadn't been drunk or +what had happened, for he had had one or two that morning; so it didn't +matter much. Only we lost the dog. + +“One day I went downstairs to the packing-room and saw a lot of +phosphorus in jars of water. I wanted to fix up a ghost for Billy, my +mate, so I nicked a bit and slipped it into my trouser pocket. + +“I stood under the tap and let it pour on me. The phosphorus burnt clean +through my pocket and fell on the ground. I was sent home that night +with my leg dressed with lime-water and oil, and a pair of the boss's +pants on that were about half a yard too long for me, and I felt +miserable enough, too. They said it would stop my tricks for a while, +and so it did. I'll carry the mark to my dying day--and for two or three +days after, for that matter.” + + . . . . . + +I fell asleep at this point, and left Mitchell's cattle pup to hear it +out. + + + + +Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster + + + +“When we were up country on the selection, we had a rooster at our +place, named Bill,” said Mitchell; “a big mongrel of no particular +breed, though the old lady said he was a 'brammer'--and many an argument +she had with the old man about it too; she was just as stubborn and +obstinate in her opinion as the governor was in his. But, anyway, we +called him Bill, and didn't take any particular notice of him till a +cousin of some of us came from Sydney on a visit to the country, and +stayed at our place because it was cheaper than stopping at a pub. Well, +somehow this chap got interested in Bill, and studied him for two or +three days, and at last he says: + +“'Why, that rooster's a ventriloquist!' + +“'A what?' + +“'A ventriloquist!' + +“'Go along with yer!' + +“'But he is. I've heard of cases like this before; but this is the first +I've come across. Bill's a ventriloquist right enough.' + +“Then we remembered that there wasn't another rooster within five +miles--our only neighbour, an Irishman named Page, didn't have one at +the time--and we'd often heard another cock crow, but didn't think +to take any notice of it. We watched Bill, and sure enough he WAS +a ventriloquist. The 'ka-cocka' would come all right, but the +'co-ka-koo-oi-oo' seemed to come from a distance. And sometimes the +whole crow would go wrong, and come back like an echo that had been lost +for a year. Bill would stand on tiptoe, and hold his elbows out, and +curve his neck, and go two or three times as if he was swallowing +nest-eggs, and nearly break his neck and burst his gizzard; and then +there'd be no sound at all where he was--only a cock crowing in the +distance. + +“And pretty soon we could see that Bill was in great trouble about it +himself. You see, he didn't know it was himself--thought it was another +rooster challenging him, and he wanted badly to find that other bird. +He would get up on the wood-heap, and crow and listen--crow and listen +again--crow and listen, and then he'd go up to the top of the paddock, +and get up on the stack, and crow and listen there. Then down to the +other end of the paddock, and get up on a mullock-heap, and crow and +listen there. Then across to the other side and up on a log among the +saplings, and crow 'n' listen some more. He searched all over the place +for that other rooster, but, of course, couldn't find him. Sometimes +he'd be out all day crowing and listening all over the country, and then +come home dead tired, and rest and cool off in a hole that the hens had +scratched for him in a damp place under the water-cask sledge. + +“Well, one day Page brought home a big white rooster, and when he let +it go it climbed up on Page's stack and crowed, to see if there was any +more roosters round there. Bill had come home tired; it was a hot day, +and he'd rooted out the hens, and was having a spell-oh under the cask +when the white rooster crowed. Bill didn't lose any time getting out and +on to the wood-heap, and then he waited till he heard the crow again; +then he crowed, and the other rooster crowed again, and they crowed at +each other for three days, and called each other all the wretches they +could lay their tongues to, and after that they implored each other +to come out and be made into chicken soup and feather pillows. But +neither'd come. You see, there were THREE crows--there was Bill's crow, +and the ventriloquist crow, and the white rooster's crow--and each +rooster thought that there was TWO roosters in the opposition camp, and +that he mightn't get fair play, and, consequently, both were afraid to +put up their hands. + +“But at last Bill couldn't stand it any longer. He made up his mind to +go and have it out, even if there was a whole agricultural show of prize +and honourable-mention fighting-cocks in Page's yard. He got down from +the wood-heap and started off across the ploughed field, his head down, +his elbows out, and his thick awkward legs prodding away at the furrows +behind for all they were worth. + +“I wanted to go down badly and see the fight, and barrack for Bill. But +I daren't, because I'd been coming up the road late the night before +with my brother Joe, and there was about three panels of turkeys +roosting along on the top rail of Page's front fence; and we brushed 'em +with a bough, and they got up such a blessed gobbling fuss about it that +Page came out in his shirt and saw us running away; and I knew he was +laying for us with a bullock whip. Besides, there was friction between +the two families on account of a thoroughbred bull that Page borrowed +and wouldn't lend to us, and that got into our paddock on account of me +mending a panel in the party fence, and carelessly leaving the top +rail down after sundown while our cows was moving round there in the +saplings. + +“So there was too much friction for me to go down, but I climbed a tree +as near the fence as I could and watched. Bill reckoned he'd found that +rooster at last. The white rooster wouldn't come down from the stack, +so Bill went up to him, and they fought there till they tumbled down the +other side, and I couldn't see any more. Wasn't I wild? I'd have given +my dog to have seen the rest of the fight. I went down to the far side +of Page's fence and climbed a tree there, but, of course, I couldn't +see anything, so I came home the back way. Just as I got home Page came +round to the front and sung out, 'Insoid there!' And me and Jim went +under the house like snakes and looked out round a pile. But Page was +all right--he had a broad grin on his face, and Bill safe under his arm. +He put Bill down on the ground very carefully, and says he to the old +folks: + +“'Yer rooster knocked the stuffin' out of my rooster, but I bear no +malice. 'Twas a grand foight.' + +“And then the old man and Page had a yarn, and got pretty friendly after +that. And Bill didn't seem to bother about any more ventriloquism; but +the white rooster spent a lot of time looking for that other rooster. +Perhaps he thought he'd have better luck with him. But Page was on the +look-out all the time to get a rooster that would lick ours. He did +nothing else for a month but ride round and enquire about roosters; and +at last he borrowed a game-bird in town, left five pounds deposit on +him, and brought him home. And Page and the old man agreed to have a +match--about the only thing they'd agreed about for five years. And they +fixed it up for a Sunday when the old lady and the girls and kids were +going on a visit to some relations, about fifteen miles away--to stop +all night. The guv'nor made me go with them on horseback; but I knew +what was up, and so my pony went lame about a mile along the road, and +I had to come back and turn him out in the top paddock, and hide the +saddle and bridle in a hollow log, and sneak home and climb up on the +roof of the shed. It was a awful hot day, and I had to keep climbing +backward and forward over the ridge-pole all the morning to keep out of +sight of the old man, for he was moving about a good deal. + +“Well, after dinner, the fellows from roundabout began to ride in and +hang up their horses round the place till it looked as if there was +going to be a funeral. Some of the chaps saw me, of course, but I tipped +them the wink, and they gave me the office whenever the old man happened +around. + +“Well, Page came along with his game-rooster. Its name was Jim. It +wasn't much to look at, and it seemed a good deal smaller and weaker +than Bill. Some of the chaps were disgusted, and said it wasn't a +game-rooster at all; Bill'd settle it in one lick, and they wouldn't +have any fun. + +“Well, they brought the game one out and put him down near the +wood-heap, and rousted Bill out from under his cask. He got interested +at once. He looked at Jim, and got up on the wood-heap and crowed and +looked at Jim again. He reckoned THIS at last was the fowl that had been +humbugging him all along. Presently his trouble caught him, and then +he'd crow and take a squint at the game 'un, and crow again, and +have another squint at gamey, and try to crow and keep his eye on the +game-rooster at the same time. But Jim never committed himself, until +at last he happened to gape just after Bill's whole crow went wrong, and +Bill spotted him. He reckoned he'd caught him this time, and he got down +off that wood-heap and went for the foe. But Jim ran away--and Bill ran +after him. + +“Round and round the wood-heap they went, and round the shed, and round +the house and under it, and back again, and round the wood-heap and over +it and round the other way, and kept it up for close on an hour. Bill's +bill was just within an inch or so of the game-rooster's tail feathers +most of the time, but he couldn't get any nearer, do how he liked. And +all the time the fellers kept chyackin Page and singing out, 'What price +yer game 'un, Page! Go it, Bill! Go it, old cock!' and all that sort of +thing. Well, the game-rooster went as if it was a go-as-you-please, and +he didn't care if it lasted a year. He didn't seem to take any interest +in the business, but Bill got excited, and by-and-by he got mad. He held +his head lower and lower and his wings further and further out from his +sides, and prodded away harder and harder at the ground behind, but it +wasn't any use. Jim seemed to keep ahead without trying. They stuck +to the wood-heap towards the last. They went round first one way for a +while, and then the other for a change, and now and then they'd go over +the top to break the monotony; and the chaps got more interested in the +race than they would have been in the fight--and bet on it, too. But +Bill was handicapped with his weight. He was done up at last; he slowed +down till he couldn't waddle, and then, when he was thoroughly knocked +up, that game-rooster turned on him, and gave him the father of a +hiding. + +“And my father caught me when I'd got down in the excitement, and wasn't +thinking, and HE gave ME the step-father of a hiding. But he had a +lively time with the old lady afterwards, over the cock-fight. + +“Bill was so disgusted with himself that he went under the cask and +died.” + + + + +Bush Cats + + + +“Domestic cats” we mean--the descendants of cats who came from the +northern world during the last hundred odd years. We do not know the +name of the vessel in which the first Thomas and his Maria came out +to Australia, but we suppose that it was one of the ships of the +First Fleet. Most likely Maria had kittens on the voyage--two lots, +perhaps--the majority of which were buried at sea; and no doubt the +disembarkation caused her much maternal anxiety. + + . . . . . + +The feline race has not altered much in Australia, from a physical point +of view--not yet. The rabbit has developed into something like a cross +between a kangaroo and a possum, but the bush has not begun to develop +the common cat. She is just as sedate and motherly as the mummy cats +of Egypt were, but she takes longer strolls of nights, climbs gum-trees +instead of roofs, and hunts stranger vermin than ever came under the +observation of her northern ancestors. Her views have widened. She is +mostly thinner than the English farm cat--which is, they say, on account +of eating lizards. + +English rats and English mice--we say “English” because everything which +isn't Australian in Australia, IS English (or British)--English rats and +English mice are either rare or non-existent in the bush; but the hut +cat has a wider range for game. She is always dragging in things which +are unknown in the halls of zoology; ugly, loathsome, crawling abortions +which have not been classified yet--and perhaps could not be. + +The Australian zoologist ought to rake up some more dead languages, and +then go Out Back with a few bush cats. + +The Australian bush cat has a nasty, unpleasant habit of dragging +a long, wriggling, horrid, black snake--she seems to prefer black +snakes--into a room where there are ladies, proudly laying it down in +a conspicuous place (usually in front of the exit), and then looking up +for approbation. She wonders, perhaps, why the visitors are in such a +hurry to leave. + +Pussy doesn't approve of live snakes round the place, especially if +she has kittens; and if she finds a snake in the vicinity of her +progeny--well, it is bad for that particular serpent. + +This brings recollections of a neighbour's cat who went out in the +scrub, one midsummer's day, and found a brown snake. Her name--the cat's +name--was Mary Ann. She got hold of the snake all right, just within an +inch of its head; but it got the rest of its length wound round her body +and squeezed about eight lives out of her. She had the presence of mind +to keep her hold; but it struck her that she was in a fix, and that if +she wanted to save her ninth life, it wouldn't be a bad idea to go home +for help. So she started home, snake and all. + +The family were at dinner when Mary Ann came in, and, although she +stood on an open part of the floor, no one noticed her for a while. She +couldn't ask for help, for her mouth was too full of snake. By-and-bye +one of the girls glanced round, and then went over the table, with a +shriek, and out of the back door. The room was cleared very quickly. The +eldest boy got a long-handled shovel, and in another second would have +killed more cat than snake; but his father interfered. The father was +a shearer, and Mary Ann was a favourite cat with him. He got a pair of +shears from the shelf and deftly shore off the snake's head, and one +side of Mary Ann's whiskers. She didn't think it safe to let go yet. She +kept her teeth in the neck until the selector snipped the rest of the +snake off her. The bits were carried out on a shovel to die at sundown. +Mary Ann had a good drink of milk, and then got her tongue out and +licked herself back into the proper shape for a cat; after which she +went out to look for that snake's mate. She found it, too, and dragged +it home the same evening. + +Cats will kill rabbits and drag them home. We knew a fossicker whose cat +used to bring him a bunny nearly every night. The fossicker had rabbits +for breakfast until he got sick of them, and then he used to swap them +with a butcher for meat. The cat was named Ingersoll, which indicates +his sex and gives an inkling to his master's religious and political +opinions. Ingersoll used to prospect round in the gloaming until he +found some rabbit holes which showed encouraging indications. He would +shepherd one hole for an hour or so every evening until he found it was +a duffer, or worked it out; then he would shift to another. One day he +prospected a big hollow log with a lot of holes in it, and more going +down underneath. The indications were very good, but Ingersoll had no +luck. The game had too many ways of getting out and in. He found that he +could not work that claim by himself, so he floated it into a company. +He persuaded several cats from a neighbouring selection to take shares, +and they watched the holes together, or in turns--they worked shifts. +The dividends more than realised even their wildest expectations, for +each cat took home at least one rabbit every night for a week. + +A selector started a vegetable garden about the time when rabbits were +beginning to get troublesome up country. The hare had not shown itself +yet. The farmer kept quite a regiment of cats to protect his garden--and +they protected it. He would shut the cats up all day with nothing to +eat, and let them out about sundown; then they would mooch off to the +turnip patch like farm-labourers going to work. They would drag the +rabbits home to the back door, and sit there and watch them until the +farmer opened the door and served out the ration of milk. Then the cats +would turn in. He nearly always found a semi-circle of dead rabbits and +watchful cats round the door in the morning. They sold the product of +their labour direct to the farmer for milk. It didn't matter if one cat +had been unlucky--had not got a rabbit--each had an equal share in the +general result. They were true socialists, those cats. + +One of those cats was a mighty big Tom, named Jack. He was death on +rabbits; he would work hard all night, laying for them and dragging them +home. Some weeks he would graft every night, and at other times every +other night, but he was generally pretty regular. When he reckoned he +had done an extra night's work, he would take the next night off and go +three miles to the nearest neighbour's to see his Maria and take her out +for a stroll. Well, one evening Jack went into the garden and chose a +place where there was good cover, and lay low. He was a bit earlier than +usual, so he thought he would have a doze till rabbit time. By-and-bye +he heard a noise, and slowly, cautiously opening one eye, he saw two big +ears sticking out of the leaves in front of him. He judged that it was +an extra big bunny, so he put some extra style into his manoeuvres. In +about five minutes he made his spring. He must have thought (if cats +think) that it was a whopping, old-man rabbit, for it was a pioneer +hare--not an ordinary English hare, but one of those great coarse, lanky +things which the bush is breeding. The selector was attracted by an +unusual commotion and a cloud of dust among his cabbages, and came along +with his gun in time to witness the fight. First Jack would drag the +hare, and then the hare would drag Jack; sometimes they would be down +together, and then Jack would use his hind claws with effect; finally he +got his teeth in the right place, and triumphed. Then he started to drag +the corpse home, but he had to give it best and ask his master to lend a +hand. The selector took up the hare, and Jack followed home, much to +the family's surprise. He did not go back to work that night; he took +a spell. He had a drink of milk, licked the dust off himself, washed it +down with another drink, and sat in front of the fire and thought for a +goodish while. Then he got up, walked over to the corner where the hare +was lying, had a good look at it, came back to the fire, sat down again, +and thought hard. He was still thinking when the family retired. + + + + +Meeting Old Mates + + + + I. + + Tom Smith + + +You are getting well on in the thirties, and haven't left off being a +fool yet. You have been away in another colony or country for a year or +so, and have now come back again. Most of your chums have gone away or +got married, or, worse still, signed the pledge--settled down and got +steady; and you feel lonely and desolate and left-behind enough for +anything. While drifting aimlessly round town with an eye out for some +chance acquaintance to have a knock round with, you run against an old +chum whom you never dreamt of meeting, or whom you thought to be in some +other part of the country--or perhaps you knock up against someone who +knows the old chum in question, and he says: + +“I suppose you know Tom Smith's in Sydney?” + +“Tom Smith! Why, I thought he was in Queensland! I haven't seen him for +more than three years. Where's the old joker hanging out at all? Why, +except you, there's no one in Australia I'd sooner see than Tom Smith. +Here I've been mooning round like an unemployed for three weeks, looking +for someone to have a knock round with, and Tom in Sydney all the time. +I wish I'd known before. Where'll I run against him--where does he +live?” + +“Oh, he's living at home.” + +“But where's his home? I was never there.” + +“Oh, I'll give you his address.... There, I think that's it. I'm not +sure about the number, but you'll soon find out in that street--most of +'em'll know Tom Smith.” + +“Thanks! I rather think they will. I'm glad I met you. I'll hunt Tom up +to-day.” + +So you put a few shillings in your pocket, tell your landlady that +you're going to visit an old aunt of yours or a sick friend, and mayn't +be home that night; and then you start out to hunt up Tom Smith and have +at least one more good night, if you die for it. + + . . . . . + +This is the first time you have seen Tom at home; you knew of his home +and people in the old days, but only in a vague, indefinite sort of way. +Tom has changed! He is stouter and older-looking; he seems solemn and +settled down. You intended to give him a surprise and have a good old +jolly laugh with him, but somehow things get suddenly damped at the +beginning. He grins and grips your hand right enough, but there seems +something wanting. You can't help staring at him, and he seems to look +at you in a strange, disappointing way; it doesn't strike you that you +also have changed, and perhaps more in his eyes than he in yours. He +introduces you to his mother and sisters and brothers, and the rest of +the family; or to his wife, as the case may be; and you have to suppress +your feelings and be polite and talk common-place. You hate to be polite +and talk common-place. You aren't built that way--and Tom wasn't either, +in the old days. The wife (or the mother and sisters) receives you +kindly, for Tom's sake, and makes much of you; but they don't know you +yet. You want to get Tom outside, and have a yarn and a drink and a +laugh with him--you are bursting to tell him all about yourself, and get +him to tell you all about himself, and ask him if he remembers things; +and you wonder if he is bursting the same way, and hope he is. The old +lady and sisters (or the wife) bore you pretty soon, and you wonder +if they bore Tom; you almost fancy, from his looks, that they do. You +wonder whether Tom is coming out to-night, whether he wants to get out, +and if he wants to and wants to get out by himself, whether he'll be +able to manage it; but you daren't broach the subject, it wouldn't be +polite. You've got to be polite. Then you get worried by the thought +that Tom is bursting to get out with you and only wants an excuse; is +waiting, in fact, and hoping for you to ask him in an off-hand sort of +way to come out for a stroll. But you're not quite sure; and besides, if +you were, you wouldn't have the courage. By-and-bye you get tired of +it all, thirsty, and want to get out in the open air. You get tired of +saying, “Do you really, Mrs. Smith?” or “Do you think so, Miss Smith?” + or “You were quite right, Mrs. Smith,” and “Well, I think so too, Mrs. +Smith,” or, to the brother, “That's just what I thought, Mr. Smith.” + You don't want to “talk pretty” to them, and listen to their wishy-washy +nonsense; you want to get out and have a roaring spree with Tom, as you +had in the old days; you want to make another night of it with your +old mate, Tom Smith; and pretty soon you get the blues badly, and feel +nearly smothered in there, and you've got to get out and have a beer +anyway--Tom or no Tom; and you begin to feel wild with Tom himself; and +at last you make a bold dash for it and chance Tom. You get up, look +at your hat, and say: “Ah, well, I must be going, Tom; I've got to meet +someone down the street at seven o'clock. Where'll I meet you in town +next week?” + +But Tom says: + +“Oh, dash it; you ain't going yet. Stay to tea, Joe, stay to tea. It'll +be on the table in a minute. Sit down--sit down, man! Here, gimme your +hat.” + +And Tom's sister, or wife, or mother comes in with an apron on and her +hands all over flour, and says: + +“Oh, you're not going yet, Mr. Brown? Tea'll be ready in a minute. Do +stay for tea.” And if you make excuses, she cross-examines you about the +time you've got to keep that appointment down the street, and tells you +that their clock is twenty minutes fast, and that you have got plenty of +time, and so you have to give in. But you are mightily encouraged by +a winksome expression which you see, or fancy you see, on your side of +Tom's face; also by the fact of his having accidentally knocked his foot +against your shins. So you stay. + +One of the females tells you to “Sit there, Mr. Brown,” and you take +your place at the table, and the polite business goes on. You've got to +hold your knife and fork properly, and mind your p's and q's, and when +she says, “Do you take milk and sugar, Mr. Brown?” you've got to say, +“Yes, please, Miss Smith--thanks--that's plenty.” And when they press +you, as they will, to have more, you've got to keep on saying, “No, +thanks, Mrs. Smith; no, thanks, Miss Smith; I really couldn't; I've done +very well, thank you; I had a very late dinner, and so on”--bother such +tommy-rot. And you don't seem to have any appetite, anyway. And you +think of the days out on the track when you and Tom sat on your +swags under a mulga at mid-day, and ate mutton and johnny-cake with +clasp-knives, and drank by turns out of the old, battered, leaky billy. + +And after tea you have to sit still while the precious minutes are +wasted, and listen and sympathize, while all the time you are on the +fidget to get out with Tom, and go down to a private bar where you know +some girls. + +And perhaps by-and-bye the old lady gets confidential, and seizes an +opportunity to tell you what a good steady young fellow Tom is now that +he never touches drink, and belongs to a temperance society (or the +Y.M.C.A.), and never stays out of nights. + +Consequently you feel worse than ever, and lonelier, and sorrier that +you wasted your time coming. You are encouraged again by a glimpse of +Tom putting on a clean collar and fixing himself up a bit; but when you +are ready to go, and ask him if he's coming a bit down the street +with you, he says he thinks he will in such a disinterested, +don't-mind-if-I-do sort of tone, that he makes you mad. + +At last, after promising to “drop in again, Mr. Brown, whenever you're +passing,” and to “don't forget to call,” and thanking them for their +assurance that they'll “be always glad to see you,” and telling them +that you've spent a very pleasant evening and enjoyed yourself, and are +awfully sorry you couldn't stay--you get away with Tom. + +You don't say much to each other till you get round the corner and +down the street a bit, and then for a while your conversation is mostly +common-place, such as, “Well, how have you been getting on all this +time, Tom?” “Oh, all right. How have you been getting on?” and so on. + +But presently, and perhaps just as you have made up your mind to chance +the alleged temperance business and ask Tom in to have a drink, he +throws a glance up and down the street, nudges your shoulder, says “Come +on,” and disappears sideways into a pub. + + . . . . . + +“What's yours, Tom?” “What's yours, Joe?” “The same for me.” “Well, +here's luck, old man.” “Here's luck.” You take a drink, and look over +your glass at Tom. Then the old smile spreads over his face, and it +makes you glad--you could swear to Tom's grin in a hundred years. Then +something tickles him--your expression, perhaps, or a recollection of +the past--and he sets down his glass on the bar and laughs. Then you +laugh. Oh, there's no smile like the smile that old mates favour each +other with over the tops of their glasses when they meet again after +years. It is eloquent, because of the memories that give it birth. + +“Here's another. Do you remember----? Do you remember----?” Oh, it all +comes back again like a flash. Tom hasn't changed a bit; just the same +good-hearted, jolly idiot he always was. Old times back again! “It's +just like old times,” says Tom, after three or four more drinks. + + . . . . . + +And so you make a night of it and get uproariously jolly. You get as +“glorious” as Bobby Burns did in the part of Tam O'Shanter, and have a +better “time” than any of the times you had in the old days. And you see +Tom as nearly home in the morning as you dare, and he reckons he'll get +it hot from his people--which no doubt he will--and he explains that +they are very particular up at home--church people, you know--and, of +course, especially if he's married, it's understood between you that +you'd better not call for him up at home after this--at least, not till +things have cooled down a bit. It's always the way. The friend of the +husband always gets the blame in cases like this. But Tom fixes up a +yarn to tell them, and you aren't to “say anything different” in case +you run against any of them. And he fixes up an appointment with you for +next Saturday night, and he'll get there if he gets divorced for it. +But he MIGHT have to take the wife out shopping, or one of the girls +somewhere; and if you see her with him you've got to lay low, and be +careful, and wait--at another hour and place, perhaps, all of which is +arranged--for if she sees you she'll smell a rat at once, and he won't +be able to get off at all. + +And so, as far as you and Tom are concerned, the “old times” have come +back once more. + + . . . . . + +But, of course (and we almost forgot it), you might chance to fall in +love with one of Tom's sisters, in which case there would be another and +a totally different story to tell. + + + + II. + + Jack Ellis + + +Things are going well with you. You have escaped from “the track”, so to +speak, and are in a snug, comfortable little billet in the city. Well, +while doing the block you run against an old mate of other days--VERY +other days--call him Jack Ellis. Things have gone hard with Jack. He +knows you at once, but makes no advance towards a greeting; he acts as +though he thinks you might cut him--which, of course, if you are a true +mate, you have not the slightest intention of doing. His coat is yellow +and frayed, his hat is battered and green, his trousers “gone” in +various places, his linen very cloudy, and his boots burst and innocent +of polish. You try not to notice these things--or rather, not to seem +to notice them--but you cannot help doing so, and you are afraid he'll +notice that you see these things, and put a wrong construction on it. +How men will misunderstand each other! You greet him with more than the +necessary enthusiasm. In your anxiety to set him at his ease and make +him believe that nothing--not even money--can make a difference in your +friendship, you over-act the business; and presently you are afraid that +he'll notice that too, and put a wrong construction on it. You wish that +your collar was not so clean, nor your clothes so new. Had you known you +would meet him, you would have put on some old clothes for the occasion. + +You are both embarrassed, but it is YOU who feel ashamed--you are +almost afraid to look at him lest he'll think you are looking at his +shabbiness. You ask him in to have a drink, but he doesn't respond +so heartily as you wish, as he did in the old days; he doesn't like +drinking with anybody when he isn't “fixed”, as he calls it--when he +can't shout. + +It didn't matter in the old days who held the money so long as there was +plenty of “stuff” in the camp. You think of the days when Jack stuck to +you through thick and thin. You would like to give him money now, but +he is so proud; he always was; he makes you mad with his beastly pride. +There wasn't any pride of that sort on the track or in the camp in +those days; but times have changed--your lives have drifted too widely +apart--you have taken different tracks since then; and Jack, without +intending to, makes you feel that it is so. + +You have a drink, but it isn't a success; it falls flat, as far as Jack +is concerned; he won't have another; he doesn't “feel on”, and presently +he escapes under plea of an engagement, and promises to see you again. + +And you wish that the time was come when no one could have more or less +to spend than another. + + . . . . . + +P.S.--I met an old mate of that description once, and so successfully +persuaded him out of his beastly pride that he borrowed two pounds off +me till Monday. I never got it back since, and I want it badly at +the present time. In future I'll leave old mates with their pride +unimpaired. + + + + +Two Larrikins + + + +“Y'orter do something, Ernie. Yer know how I am. YOU don't seem to care. +Y'orter to do something.” + +Stowsher slouched at a greater angle to the greasy door-post, and +scowled under his hat-brim. It was a little, low, frowsy room opening +into Jones' Alley. She sat at the table, sewing--a thin, sallow girl +with weak, colourless eyes. She looked as frowsy as her surroundings. + +“Well, why don't you go to some of them women, and get fixed up?” + +She flicked the end of the table-cloth over some tiny, unfinished +articles of clothing, and bent to her work. + +“But you know very well I haven't got a shilling, Ernie,” she said, +quietly. “Where am I to get the money from?” + +“Who asked yer to get it?” + +She was silent, with the exasperating silence of a woman who has +determined to do a thing in spite of all reasons and arguments that may +be brought against it. + +“Well, wot more do yer want?” demanded Stowsher, impatiently. + +She bent lower. “Couldn't we keep it, Ernie?” + +“Wot next?” asked Stowsher, sulkily--he had half suspected what was +coming. Then, with an impatient oath, “You must be gettin' ratty.” + +She brushed the corner of the cloth further over the little clothes. + +“It wouldn't cost anything, Ernie. I'd take a pride in him, and keep him +clean, and dress him like a little lord. He'll be different from all the +other youngsters. He wouldn't be like those dirty, sickly little brats +out there. He'd be just like you, Ernie; I know he would. I'll look +after him night and day, and bring him up well and strong. We'd train +his little muscles from the first, Ernie, and he'd be able to knock 'em +all out when he grew up. It wouldn't cost much, and I'd work hard and be +careful if you'd help me. And you'd be proud of him, too, Ernie--I know +you would.” + +Stowsher scraped the doorstep with his foot; but whether he was +“touched”, or feared hysterics and was wisely silent, was not apparent. + +“Do you remember the first day I met you, Ernie?” she asked, presently. + +Stowsher regarded her with an uneasy scowl: “Well--wot o' that?” + +“You came into the bar-parlour at the 'Cricketers' Arms' and caught a +push of 'em chyacking your old man.” + +“Well, I altered that.” + +“I know you did. You done for three of them, one after another, and two +was bigger than you.” + +“Yes! and when the push come up we done for the rest,” said Stowsher, +softening at the recollection. + +“And the day you come home and caught the landlord bullying your old +mother like a dog----” + +“Yes; I got three months for that job. But it was worth it!” he +reflected. “Only,” he added, “the old woman might have had the knocker +to keep away from the lush while I was in quod.... But wot's all this +got to do with it?” + +“HE might barrack and fight for you, some day, Ernie,” she said softly, +“when you're old and out of form and ain't got no push to back you.” + +The thing was becoming decidedly embarrassing to Stowsher; not that he +felt any delicacy on the subject, but because he hated to be drawn into +a conversation that might be considered “soft”. + +“Oh, stow that!” he said, comfortingly. “Git on yer hat, and I'll take +yer for a trot.” + +She rose quickly, but restrained herself, recollecting that it was not +good policy to betray eagerness in response to an invitation from Ernie. + +“But--you know--I don't like to go out like this. You can't--you +wouldn't like to take me out the way I am, Ernie!” + +“Why not? Wot rot!” + +“The fellows would see me, and--and----” + +“And... wot?” + +“They might notice----” + +“Well, wot o' that? I want 'em to. Are yer comin' or are yer ain't? +Fling round now. I can't hang on here all day.” + +They walked towards Flagstaff Hill. + +One or two, slouching round a pub. corner, saluted with “Wotcher, +Stowsher!” + +“Not too stinkin',” replied Stowsher. “Soak yer heads.” + +“Stowsher's goin' to stick,” said one privately. + +“An' so he orter,” said another. “Wish I had the chanst.” + +The two turned up a steep lane. + +“Don't walk so fast up hill, Ernie; I can't, you know.” + +“All right, Liz. I forgot that. Why didn't yer say so before?” + +She was contentedly silent most of the way, warned by instinct, after +the manner of women when they have gained their point by words. + +Once he glanced over his shoulder with a short laugh. “Gorblime!” he +said, “I nearly thought the little beggar was a-follerin' along behind!” + +When he left her at the door he said: “Look here, Liz. 'Ere's half a +quid. Git what yer want. Let her go. I'm goin' to graft again in the +mornin', and I'll come round and see yer to-morrer night.” + +Still she seemed troubled and uneasy. + +“Ernie.” + +“Well. Wot now?” + +“S'posin' it's a girl, Ernie.” + +Stowsher flung himself round impatiently. + +“Oh, for God's sake, stow that! Yer always singin' out before yer +hurt.... There's somethin' else, ain't there--while the bloomin' shop's +open?” + +“No, Ernie. Ain't you going to kiss me?... I'm satisfied.” + +“Satisfied! Yer don't want the kid to be arst 'oo 'is father was, do +yer? Yer'd better come along with me some day this week and git spliced. +Yer don't want to go frettin' or any of that funny business while it's +on.” + +“Oh, Ernie! do you really mean it?”--and she threw her arms round his +neck, and broke down at last. + + . . . . . + +“So-long, Liz. No more funny business now--I've had enough of it. Keep +yer pecker up, old girl. To-morrer night, mind.” Then he added suddenly: +“Yer might have known I ain't that sort of a bloke”--and left abruptly. + +Liz was very happy. + + + + +Mr. Smellingscheck + + + +I met him in a sixpenny restaurant--“All meals, 6d.--Good beds, 1s.” + That was before sixpenny restaurants rose to a third-class position, +and became possibly respectable places to live in, through the +establishment, beneath them, of fourpenny hash-houses (good beds, 6d.), +and, beneath THEM again, of THREE-penny “dining-rooms--CLEAN beds, 4d.” + +There were five beds in our apartment, the head of one against the foot +of the next, and so on round the room, with a space where the door and +washstand were. I chose the bed the head of which was near the foot of +his, because he looked like a man who took his bath regularly. I +should like, in the interests of sentiment, to describe the place as a +miserable, filthy, evil-smelling garret; but I can't--because it wasn't. +The room was large and airy; the floor was scrubbed and the windows +cleaned at least once a week, and the beds kept fresh and neat, which +is more--a good deal more--than can be said of many genteel private +boarding-houses. The lodgers were mostly respectable unemployed, and +one or two--fortunate men!--in work; it was the casual boozer, +the professional loafer, and the occasional spieler--the +one-shilling-bed-men--who made the place objectionable, not the +hard-working people who paid ten pounds a week for the house; and, but +for the one-night lodgers and the big gilt black-and-red bordered and +“shaded” “6d.” in the window--which made me glance guiltily up and down +the street, like a burglar about to do a job, before I went in--I was +pretty comfortable there. + +They called him “Mr. Smellingscheck”, and treated him with a peculiar +kind of deference, the reason for which they themselves were doubtless +unable to explain or even understand. The haggard woman who made the +beds called him “Mr. Smell-'is-check”. Poor fellow! I didn't think, by +the look of him, that he'd smelt his cheque, or anyone else's, or that +anyone else had smelt his, for many a long day. He was a fat man, slow +and placid. He looked like a typical monopolist who had unaccountably +got into a suit of clothes belonging to a Domain unemployed, and hadn't +noticed, or had entirely forgotten, the circumstance in his business +cares--if such a word as care could be connected with such a calm, +self-contained nature. He wore a suit of cheap slops of some kind of +shoddy “tweed”. The coat was too small and the trousers too short, and +they were drawn up to meet the waistcoat--which they did with painful +difficulty, now and then showing, by way of protest, two pairs of brass +buttons and the ends of the brace-straps; and they seemed to blame the +irresponsive waistcoat or the wearer for it all. Yet he never gave way +to assist them. A pair of burst elastic-sides were in full evidence, and +a rim of cloudy sock, with a hole in it, showed at every step. + +But he put on his clothes and wore them like--like a gentleman. He had +two white shirts, and they were both dirty. He'd lay them out on +the bed, turn them over, regard them thoughtfully, choose that which +appeared to his calm understanding to be the cleaner, and put it on, and +wear it until it was unmistakably dirtier than the other; then he'd +wear the other till it was dirtier than the first. He managed his three +collars the same way. His handkerchiefs were washed in the bathroom, and +dried, without the slightest disguise, in the bedroom. He never hurried +in anything. The way he cleaned his teeth, shaved, and made his toilet +almost transformed the place, in my imagination, into a gentleman's +dressing-room. + +He talked politics and such things in the abstract--always in the +abstract--calmly in the abstract. He was an old-fashioned Conservative +of the Sir Leicester Deadlock style. When he was moved by an extra +shower of aggressive democratic cant--which was seldom--he defended +Capital, but only as if it needed no defence, and as if its opponents +were merely thoughtless, ignorant children whom he condescended to set +right because of their inexperience and for their own good. He stuck +calmly to his own order--the order which had dropped him like a foul +thing when the bottom dropped out of his boom, whatever that was. He +never talked of his misfortunes. + +He took his meals at the little greasy table in the dark corner +downstairs, just as if he were dining at the Exchange. He had a +chop--rather well-done--and a sheet of the 'Herald' for breakfast. He +carried two handkerchiefs; he used one for a handkerchief and the other +for a table-napkin, and sometimes folded it absently and laid it on the +table. He rose slowly, putting his chair back, took down his battered +old green hat, and regarded it thoughtfully--as though it had just +occurred to him in a calm, casual way that he'd drop into his hatter's, +if he had time, on his way down town, and get it blocked, or else send +the messenger round with it during business hours. He'd draw his stick +out from behind the next chair, plant it, and, if you hadn't quite +finished your side of the conversation, stand politely waiting until you +were done. Then he'd look for a suitable reply into his hat, put it +on, give it a twitch to settle it on his head--as gentlemen do a +“chimney-pot”--step out into the gangway, turn his face to the door, and +walk slowly out on to the middle of the pavement--looking more placidly +well-to-do than ever. The saying is that clothes make a man, but HE +made his almost respectable just by wearing them. Then he'd consult his +watch--(he stuck to the watch all through, and it seemed a good one--I +often wondered why he didn't pawn it); then he'd turn slowly, right +turn, and look down the street. Then slowly back, left-about turn, and +take a cool survey in that direction, as if calmly undecided whether to +take a cab and drive to the Exchange, or (as it was a very fine morning, +and he had half an hour to spare) walk there and drop in at his club +on the way. He'd conclude to walk. I never saw him go anywhere in +particular, but he walked and stood as if he could. + +Coming quietly into the room one day, I surprised him sitting at the +table with his arms lying on it and his face resting on them. I heard +something like a sob. He rose hastily, and gathered up some papers which +were on the table; then he turned round, rubbing his forehead and +eyes with his forefinger and thumb, and told me that he suffered +from--something, I forget the name of it, but it was a well-to-do +ailment. His manner seemed a bit jolted and hurried for a minute or so, +and then he was himself again. He told me he was leaving for Melbourne +next day. He left while I was out, and left an envelope downstairs for +me. There was nothing in it except a pound note. + +I saw him in Brisbane afterwards, well-dressed, getting out of a cab at +the entrance of one of the leading hotels. But his manner was no more +self-contained and well-to-do than it had been in the old sixpenny +days--because it couldn't be. We had a well-to-do whisky together, and +he talked of things in the abstract. He seemed just as if he'd met me in +the Australia. + + + + +“A Rough Shed” + + + +A hot, breathless, blinding sunrise--the sun having appeared suddenly +above the ragged edge of the barren scrub like a great disc of molten +steel. No hint of a morning breeze before it, no sign on earth or sky to +show that it is morning--save the position of the sun. + +A clearing in the scrub--bare as though the surface of the earth were +ploughed and harrowed, and dusty as the road. Two oblong huts--one for +the shearers and one for the rouseabouts--in about the centre of the +clearing (as if even the mongrel scrub had shrunk away from them) built +end-to-end, of weatherboards, and roofed with galvanised iron. Little +ventilation; no verandah; no attempt to create, artificially, a breath +of air through the buildings. Unpainted, sordid--hideous. Outside, heaps +of ashes still hot and smoking. Close at hand, “butcher's shop”--a bush +and bag breakwind in the dust, under a couple of sheets of iron, with +offal, grease and clotted blood blackening the surface of the +ground about it. Greasy, stinking sheepskins hanging everywhere with +blood-blotched sides out. Grease inches deep in great black patches +about the fireplace ends of the huts, where wash-up and “boiling” water +is thrown. + +Inside, a rough table on supports driven into the black, greasy ground +floor, and formed of flooring boards, running on uneven lines the length +of the hut from within about 6ft. of the fire-place. Lengths of single +six-inch boards or slabs on each side, supported by the projecting ends +of short pieces of timber nailed across the legs of the table to serve +as seats. + +On each side of the hut runs a rough framework, like the partitions in a +stable; each compartment battened off to about the size of a manger, and +containing four bunks, one above the other, on each side--their ends, +of course, to the table. Scarcely breathing space anywhere between. +Fireplace, the full width of the hut in one end, where all the cooking +and baking for forty or fifty men is done, and where flour, sugar, etc., +are kept in open bags. Fire, like a very furnace. Buckets of tea and +coffee on roasting beds of coals and ashes on the hearth. Pile of +“brownie” on the bare black boards at the end of the table. Unspeakable +aroma of forty or fifty men who have little inclination and less +opportunity to wash their skins, and who soak some of the grease out +of their clothes--in buckets of hot water--on Saturday afternoons or +Sundays. And clinging to all, and over all, the smell of the dried, +stale yolk of wool--the stink of rams! + + . . . . . + +“I am a rouseabout of the rouseabouts. I have fallen so far that it +is beneath me to try to climb to the proud position of 'ringer' of the +shed. I had that ambition once, when I was the softest of green hands; +but then I thought I could work out my salvation and go home. I've got +used to hell since then. I only get twenty-five shillings a week (less +station store charges) and tucker here. I have been seven years west of +the Darling and never shore a sheep. Why don't I learn to shear, and +so make money? What should I do with more money? Get out of this and go +home? I would never go home unless I had enough money to keep me for +the rest of my life, and I'll never make that Out Back. Otherwise, what +should I do at home? And how should I account for the seven years, if +I were to go home? Could I describe shed life to them and explain how +I lived. They think shearing only takes a few days of the year--at the +beginning of summer. They'd want to know how I lived the rest of the +year. Could I explain that I 'jabbed trotters' and was a 'tea-and-sugar +burglar' between sheds. They'd think I'd been a tramp and a beggar all +the time. Could I explain ANYTHING so that they'd understand? I'd have +to be lying all the time and would soon be tripped up and found out. +For, whatever else I have been I was never much of a liar. No, I'll +never go home. + +“I become momentarily conscious about daylight. The flies on the track +got me into that habit, I think; they start at day-break--when the +mosquitoes give over. + +“The cook rings a bullock bell. + +“The cook is fire-proof. He is as a fiend from the nethermost sheol +and needs to be. No man sees him sleep, for he makes bread--or worse, +brownie--at night, and he rings a bullock bell loudly at half-past +five in the morning to rouse us from our animal torpors. Others, the +sheep-ho's or the engine-drivers at the shed or wool-wash, call him, if +he does sleep. They manage it in shifts, somehow, and sleep somewhere, +sometime. We haven't time to know. The cook rings the bullock bell and +yells the time. It was the same time five minutes ago--or a year ago. +No time to decide which. I dash water over my head and face and slap +handfuls on my eyelids--gummed over aching eyes--still blighted by the +yolk o' wool--grey, greasy-feeling water from a cut-down kerosene +tin which I sneaked from the cook and hid under my bunk and had the +foresight to refill from the cask last night, under cover of warm, +still, suffocating darkness. Or was it the night before last? Anyhow, it +will be sneaked from me to-day, and from the crawler who will collar it +to-morrow, and 'touched' and 'lifted' and 'collared' and recovered by +the cook, and sneaked back again, and cause foul language, and fights, +maybe, till we 'cut-out'. + +“No; we didn't have sweet dreams of home and mother, gentle poet--nor +yet of babbling brooks and sweethearts, and love's young dream. We are +too dirty and dog-tired when we tumble down, and have too little time to +sleep it off. We don't want to dream those dreams out here--they'd only +be nightmares for us, and we'd wake to remember. We MUSTN'T remember +here. + +“At the edge of the timber a great galvanised-iron shed, nearly all +roof, coming down to within 6ft. 6in. of the 'board' over the 'shoots'. +Cloud of red dust in the dead timber behind, going up--noon-day dust. +Fence covered with skins; carcases being burned; blue smoke going +straight up as in noonday. Great glossy (greasy-glossy) black crows +'flopping' around. + +“The first syren has gone. We hurry in single files from opposite ends +of rouseabouts' and shearers' huts (as the paths happen to run to the +shed) gulping hot tea or coffee from a pint-pot in one hand and biting +at a junk of brownie in the other. + +“Shed of forty hands. Shearers rush the pens and yank out sheep and +throw them like demons; grip them with their knees, take up machines, +jerk the strings; and with a rattling whirring roar the great +machine-shed starts for the day. + +“'Go it, you----tigers!' yells a tar-boy. 'Wool away!' 'Tar!' 'Sheep +Ho!' We rush through with a whirring roar till breakfast time. + +“We seize our tin plate from the pile, knife and fork from the +candle-box, and crowd round the camp-oven to jab out lean chops, dry as +chips, boiled in fat. Chops or curry-and-rice. There is some growling +and cursing. We slip into our places without removing our hats. There's +no time to hunt for mislaid hats when the whistle goes. Row of hat +brims, level, drawn over eyes, or thrust back--according to characters +or temperaments. Thrust back denotes a lucky absence of brains, I fancy. +Row of forks going up, or jabbing, or poised, loaded, waiting for last +mouthful to be bolted. + +“We pick up, sweep, tar, sew wounds, catch sheep that break from the +pens, jump down and pick up those that can't rise at the bottom of +the shoots, 'bring-my-combs-from-the-grinder-will-yer,' laugh at dirty +jokes, and swear--and, in short, are the 'will-yer' slaves, body and +soul, of seven, six, five, or four shearers, according to the distance +from the rolling tables. + +“The shearer on the board at the shed is a demon. He gets so much a +hundred; we, 25s. a week. He is not supposed, by the rules of the shed, +the Union, and humanity, to take a sheep out of the pen AFTER the bell +goes (smoke-ho, meals, or knock-off), but his watch is hanging on the +post, and he times himself to get so many sheep out of the pen BEFORE +the bell goes, and ONE MORE--the 'bell-sheep'--as it is ringing. We have +to take the last fleece to the table and leave our board clean. We go +through the day of eight hours in runs of about an hour and 20 minutes +between smoke-ho's--from 6 to 6. If the shearers shore 200 instead of +100, they'd get 2 Pounds a day instead of 1 Pound, and we'd have twice +as much work to do for our 25s. per week. But the shearers are racing +each other for tallies. And it's no use kicking. There is no God here +and no Unionism (though we all have tickets). But what am I growling +about? I've worked from 6 to 6 with no smoke-ho's for half the wages, +and food we wouldn't give the sheep-ho dog. It's the bush growl, born of +heat, flies, and dust. I'd growl now if I had a thousand a year. We MUST +growl, swear, and some of us drink to d.t.'s, or go mad sober. + +“Pants and shirts stiff with grease as though a couple of pounds of soft +black putty were spread on with a painter's knife. + +“No, gentle bard!--we don't sing at our work. Over the whirr and roar +and hum all day long, and with iteration that is childish and irritating +to the intelligent greenhand, float unthinkable adjectives and adverbs, +addressed to jumbucks, jackaroos, and mates indiscriminately. And worse +words for the boss over the board--behind his back. + +“I came of a Good Christian Family--perhaps that's why I went to the +Devil. When I came out here I'd shrink from the man who used foul +language. In a short time I used it with the worst. I couldn't help it. + +“That's the way of it. If I went back to a woman's country again I +wouldn't swear. I'd forget this as I would a nightmare. That's the +way of it. There's something of the larrikin about us. We don't exist +individually. Off the board, away from the shed (and each other) we are +quiet--even gentle. + +“A great-horned ram, in poor condition, but shorn of a heavy fleece, +picks himself up at the foot of the 'shoot', and hesitates, as if +ashamed to go down to the other end where the ewes are. The most +ridiculous object under Heaven. + +“A tar-boy of fifteen, of the bush, with a mouth so vile that +a street-boy, same age (up with a shearing uncle), kicks him +behind--having proved his superiority with his fists before the shed +started. Of which unspeakable little fiend the roughest shearer of a +rough shed was heard to say, in effect, that if he thought there was +the slightest possibility of his becoming the father of such a boy +he'd----take drastic measures to prevent the possibility of his becoming +a proud parent at all. + +“Twice a day the cooks and their familiars carry buckets of +oatmeal-water and tea to the shed, two each on a yoke. We cry, 'Where +are you coming to, my pretty maids?' + +“In ten minutes the surfaces of the buckets are black with flies. We +have given over trying to keep them clear. We stir the living cream +aside with the bottoms of the pints, and guzzle gallons, and sweat it +out again. Occasionally a shearer pauses and throws the perspiration +from his forehead in a rain. + +“Shearers live in such a greedy rush of excitement that often a strong +man will, at a prick of the shears, fall in a death-like faint on the +board. + +“We hate the Boss-of-the-Board as the shearers' 'slushy' hates the +shearers' cook. I don't know why. He's a very fair boss. + +“He refused to put on a traveller yesterday, and the traveller knocked +him down. He walked into the shed this morning with his hat back and +thumbs in waistcoat--a tribute to man's weakness. He threatened to +dismiss the traveller's mate, a bigger man, for rough shearing--a +tribute to man's strength. The shearer said nothing. We hate the boss +because he IS boss, but we respect him because he is a strong man. He is +as hard up as any of us, I hear, and has a sick wife and a large, small +family in Melbourne. God judge us all! + +“There is a gambling-school here, headed by the shearers' cook. After +tea they head-'em, and advance cheques are passed from hand to hand, and +thrown in the dust until they are black. When it's too dark to see with +nose to the ground, they go inside and gamble with cards. Sometimes +they start on Saturday afternoon, heading 'em till dark, play cards all +night, start again heading 'em Sunday afternoon, play cards all Sunday +night, and sleep themselves sane on Monday, or go to work ghastly--like +dead men. + +“Cry of 'Fight'; we all rush out. But there isn't much fighting. Afraid +of murdering each other. I'm beginning to think that most bush crime is +due to irritation born of dust, heat, and flies. + +“The smothering atmosphere shudders when the sun goes down. We call it +the sunset breeze. + +“Saturday night or Sunday we're invited into the shearers' hut. There +are songs that are not hymns and recitations and speeches that are not +prayers. + +“Last Sunday night: Slush lamps at long intervals on table. Men playing +cards, sewing on patches--(nearly all smoking)--some writing, and +the rest reading Deadwood Dick. At one end of the table a Christian +Endeavourer endeavouring; at the other a cockney Jew, from the hawker's +boat, trying to sell rotten clothes. In response to complaints, direct +and not chosen generally for Sunday, the shearers' rep. requests both +apostles to shut up or leave. + +“He couldn't be expected to take the Christian and leave the Jew, any +more than he could take the Jew and leave the Christian. We are just +amongst ourselves in our hell. + + . . . . . + +“Fiddle at the end of rouseabouts' hut. Voice of Jackeroo, from upper +bunk with apologetic oaths: 'For God's sake chuck that up; it makes a +man think of blanky old things!' + +“A lost soul laughs (mine) and dreadful night smothers us.” + + + + +Payable Gold + + + +Among the crowds who left the Victorian side for New South Wales about +the time Gulgong broke out was an old Ballarat digger named Peter +McKenzie. He had married and retired from the mining some years +previously and had made a home for himself and family at the village of +St. Kilda, near Melbourne; but, as was often the case with old diggers, +the gold fever never left him, and when the fields of New South Wales +began to blaze he mortgaged his little property in order to raise funds +for another campaign, leaving sufficient behind him to keep his wife and +family in comfort for a year or so. + +As he often remarked, his position was now very different from what it +had been in the old days when he first arrived from Scotland, in the +height of the excitement following on the great discovery. He was a +young man then with only himself to look out for, but now that he was +getting old and had a family to provide for he had staked too much on +this venture to lose. His position did certainly look like a forlorn +hope, but he never seemed to think so. + +Peter must have been very lonely and low-spirited at times. A young +or unmarried man can form new ties, and even make new sweethearts if +necessary, but Peter's heart was with his wife and little ones at home, +and they were mortgaged, as it were, to Dame Fortune. Peter had to lift +this mortgage off. + +Nevertheless he was always cheerful, even at the worst of times, and +his straight grey beard and scrubby brown hair encircled a smile which +appeared to be a fixture. He had to make an effort in order to look +grave, such as some men do when they want to force a smile. + +It was rumoured that Peter had made a vow never to return home until +he could take sufficient wealth to make his all-important family +comfortable, or, at least, to raise the mortgage from the property, for +the sacrifice of which to his mad gold fever he never forgave himself. +But this was one of the few things which Peter kept to himself. + +The fact that he had a wife and children at St. Kilda was well known to +all the diggers. They had to know it, and if they did not know the age, +complexion, history and peculiarities of every child and of the “old +woman” it was not Peter's fault. + +He would cross over to our place and talk to the mother for hours about +his wife and children. And nothing pleased him better than to discover +peculiarities in us children wherein we resembled his own. It pleased us +also for mercenary reasons. “It's just the same with my old woman,” + or “It's just the same with my youngsters,” Peter would exclaim +boisterously, for he looked upon any little similarity between the two +families as a remarkable coincidence. He liked us all, and was always +very kind to us, often standing between our backs and the rod that +spoils the child--that is, I mean, if it isn't used. I was very +short-tempered, but this failing was more than condoned by the fact that +Peter's “eldest” was given that way also. Mother's second son was very +good-natured; so was Peter's third. Her “third” had a great aversion +for any duty that threatened to increase his muscles; so had Peter's +“second”. Our baby was very fat and heavy and was given to sucking her +own thumb vigorously, and, according to the latest bulletins from home, +it was just the same with Peter's “last”. + +I think we knew more about Peter's family than we did about our own. +Although we had never seen them, we were as familiar with their features +as the photographer's art could make us, and always knew their domestic +history up to the date of the last mail. + +We became interested in the McKenzie family. Instead of getting bored by +them as some people were, we were always as much pleased when Peter got +a letter from home as he was himself, and if a mail were missed, which +seldom happened--we almost shared his disappointment and anxiety. Should +one of the youngsters be ill, we would be quite uneasy, on Peter's +account, until the arrival of a later bulletin removed his anxiety, and +ours. + +It must have been the glorious power of a big true heart that gained for +Peter the goodwill and sympathy of all who knew him. + +Peter's smile had a peculiar fascination for us children. We would +stand by his pointing forge when he'd be sharpening picks in the early +morning, and watch his face for five minutes at a time, wondering +sometimes whether he was always SMILING INSIDE, or whether the smile +went on externally irrespective of any variation in Peter's condition of +mind. + +I think it was the latter case, for often when he had received bad news +from home we have heard his voice quaver with anxiety, while the old +smile played on his round, brown features just the same. + +Little Nelse (one of those queer old-man children who seem to come into +the world by mistake, and who seldom stay long) used to say that Peter +“cried inside”. + +Once, on Gulgong, when he attended the funeral of an old Ballarat +mate, a stranger who had been watching his face curiously remarked that +McKenzie seemed as pleased as though the dead digger had bequeathed him +a fortune. But the stranger had soon reason to alter his opinion, for +when another old mate began in a tremulous voice to repeat the words +“Ashes to ashes, an' dust to dust,” two big tears suddenly burst from +Peter's eyes, and hurried down to get entrapped in his beard. + +Peter's goldmining ventures were not successful. He sank three duffers +in succession on Gulgong, and the fourth shaft, after paying expenses, +left a little over a hundred to each party, and Peter had to send the +bulk of his share home. He lived in a tent (or in a hut when he could +get one) after the manner of diggers, and he “did for himself”, even to +washing his own clothes. He never drank nor “played”, and he took little +enjoyment of any kind, yet there was not a digger on the field who would +dream of calling old Peter McKenzie “a mean man”. He lived, as we know +from our own observations, in a most frugal manner. He always tried to +hide this, and took care to have plenty of good things for us when he +invited us to his hut; but children's eyes are sharp. Some said that +Peter half-starved himself, but I don't think his family ever knew, +unless he told them so afterwards. + +Ah, well! the years go over. Peter was now three years from home, and he +and Fortune were enemies still. Letters came by the mail, full of little +home troubles and prayers for Peter's return, and letters went back by +the mail, always hopeful, always cheerful. Peter never gave up. When +everything else failed he would work by the day (a sad thing for a +digger), and he was even known to do a job of fencing until such time +as he could get a few pounds and a small party together to sink another +shaft. + +Talk about the heroic struggles of early explorers in a hostile country; +but for dogged determination and courage in the face of poverty, +illness, and distance, commend me to the old-time digger--the truest +soldier Hope ever had! + +In the fourth year of his struggle Peter met with a terrible +disappointment. His party put down a shaft called the Forlorn Hope near +Happy Valley, and after a few weeks' fruitless driving his mates jibbed +on it. Peter had his own opinion about the ground--an old digger's +opinion, and he used every argument in his power to induce his mates to +put a few days' more work in the claim. In vain he pointed out that the +quality of the wash and the dip of the bottom exactly resembled that of +the “Brown Snake”, a rich Victorian claim. In vain he argued that in the +case of the abovementioned claim, not a colour could be got until the +payable gold was actually reached. Home Rule and The Canadian and that +cluster of fields were going ahead, and his party were eager to shift. +They remained obstinate, and at last, half-convinced against his +opinion, Peter left with them to sink the “Iawatha”, in Log Paddock, +which turned out a rank duffer--not even paying its own expenses. + +A party of Italians entered the old claim and, after driving it a few +feet further, made their fortune. + + . . . . . + +We all noticed the change in Peter McKenzie when he came to “Log +Paddock”, whither we had shifted before him. The old smile still +flickered, but he had learned to “look” grave for an hour at a time +without much effort. He was never quite the same after the affair of +Forlorn Hope, and I often think how he must have “cried” sometimes +“inside”. + +However, he still read us letters from home, and came and smoked in +the evening by our kitchen-fire. He showed us some new portraits of his +family which he had received by a late mail, but something gave me +the impression that the portraits made him uneasy. He had them in his +possession for nearly a week before showing them to us, and to the best +of our knowledge he never showed them to anybody else. Perhaps they +reminded him of the flight of time--perhaps he would have preferred his +children to remain just as he left them until he returned. + +But stay! there was one portrait that seemed to give Peter infinite +pleasure. It was the picture of a chubby infant of about three years +or more. It was a fine-looking child taken in a sitting position on +a cushion, and arrayed in a very short shirt. On its fat, soft, white +face, which was only a few inches above the ten very podgy toes, was a +smile something like Peter's. Peter was never tired of looking at and +showing the picture of his child--the child he had never seen. Perhaps +he cherished a wild dream of making his fortune and returning home +before THAT child grew up. + + . . . . . + +McKenzie and party were sinking a shaft at the upper end of Log Paddock, +generally called “The other end”. We were at the lower end. + +One day Peter came down from “the other end” and told us that his party +expected to “bottom” during the following week, and if they got no +encouragement from the wash they intended to go prospecting at the +“Happy Thought”, near Specimen Flat. + +The shaft in Log Paddock was christened “Nil Desperandum”. Towards the +end of the week we heard that the wash in the “Nil” was showing good +colours. + +Later came the news that “McKenzie and party” had bottomed on payable +gold, and the red flag floated over the shaft. Long before the first +load of dirt reached the puddling machine on the creek, the news was all +round the diggings. The “Nil Desperandum” was a “Golden Hole”! + + . . . . . + +We will not forget the day when Peter went home. He hurried down in the +morning to have an hour or so with us before Cobb and Co. went by. He +told us all about his little cottage by the bay at St. Kilda. He had +never spoken of it before, probably because of the mortgage. He told us +how it faced the bay--how many rooms it had, how much flower garden, and +how on a clear day he could see from the window all the ships that came +up to the Yarra, and how with a good telescope he could even distinguish +the faces of the passengers on the big ocean liners. + +And then, when the mother's back was turned, he hustled us children +round the corner, and surreptitiously slipped a sovereign into each +of our dirty hands, making great pantomimic show for silence, for the +mother was very independent. + +And when we saw the last of Peter's face setting like a good-humoured +sun on the top of Cobb and Co.'s, a great feeling of discontent and +loneliness came over all our hearts. Little Nelse, who had been Peter's +favourite, went round behind the pig-stye, where none might disturb him, +and sat down on the projecting end of a trough to “have a cry”, in his +usual methodical manner. But old “Alligator Desolation”, the dog, had +suspicions of what was up, and, hearing the sobs, went round to offer +whatever consolation appertained to a damp and dirty nose and a pair of +ludicrously doleful yellow eyes. + + + + +An Oversight of Steelman's + + + +Steelman and Smith--professional wanderers--were making back for +Wellington, down through the wide and rather dreary-looking Hutt Valley. +They were broke. They carried their few remaining belongings in two +skimpy, amateurish-looking swags. Steelman had fourpence left. They were +very tired and very thirsty--at least Steelman was, and he answered for +both. It was Smith's policy to feel and think just exactly as Steelman +did. Said Steelman: + +“The landlord of the next pub. is not a bad sort. I won't go in--he +might remember me. You'd best go in. You've been tramping round in the +Wairarapa district for the last six months, looking for work. You're +going back to Wellington now, to try and get on the new corporation +works just being started there--the sewage works. You think you've got a +show. You've got some mates in Wellington, and they're looking out for +a chance for you. You did get a job last week on a sawmill at +Silverstream, and the boss sacked you after three days and wouldn't pay +you a penny. That's just his way. I know him--at least a mate of mine +does. I've heard of him often enough. His name's Cowman. Don't forget +the name, whatever you do. The landlord here hates him like poison; +he'll sympathize with you. Tell him you've got a mate with you; he's +gone ahead--took a short cut across the paddocks. Tell him you've got +only fourpence left, and see if he'll give you a drop in a bottle. Says +you: 'Well, boss, the fact is we've only got fourpence, but you might +let us have a drop in a bottle'; and very likely he'll stand you a +couple of pints in a gin-bottle. You can fling the coppers on the +counter, but the chances are he won't take them. He's not a bad sort. +Beer's fourpence a pint out here, same's in Wellington. See that +gin-bottle lying there by the stump; get it and we'll take it down to +the river with us and rinse it out.” + +They reached the river bank. + +“You'd better take my swag--it looks more decent,” said Steelman. “No, +I'll tell you what we'll do: we'll undo both swags and make them into +one--one decent swag, and I'll cut round through the lanes and wait for +you on the road ahead of the pub.” + +He rolled up the swag with much care and deliberation and considerable +judgment. He fastened Smith's belt round one end of it, and +the handkerchiefs round the other, and made a towel serve as a +shoulder-strap. + +“I wish we had a canvas bag to put it in,” he said, “or a cover of some +sort. But never mind. The landlord's an old Australian bushman, now +I come to think of it; the swag looks Australian enough, and it might +appeal to his feelings, you know--bring up old recollections. But you'd +best not say you come from Australia, because he's been there, and he'd +soon trip you up. He might have been where you've been, you know, so +don't try to do too much. You always do mug-up the business when you +try to do more than I tell you. You might tell him your mate came from +Australia--but no, he might want you to bring me in. Better stick to +Maoriland. I don't believe in too much ornamentation. Plain lies are the +best.” + +“What's the landlord's name?” asked Smith. + +“Never mind that. You don't want to know that. You are not supposed to +know him at all. It might look suspicious if you called him by his name, +and lead to awkward questions; then you'd be sure to put your foot into +it.” + +“I could say I read it over the door.” + +“Bosh. Travellers don't read the names over the doors, when they go into +pubs. You're an entire stranger to him. Call him 'Boss'. Say 'Good-day, +Boss,' when you go in, and swing down your swag as if you're used to +it. Ease it down like this. Then straighten yourself up, stick your hat +back, and wipe your forehead, and try to look as hearty and independent +and cheerful as you possibly can. Curse the Government, and say the +country's done. It don't matter what Government it is, for he's always +against it. I never knew a real Australian that wasn't. Say that you're +thinking about trying to get over to Australia, and then listen to +him talking about it--and try to look interested, too! Get that damned +stone-deaf expression off your face!... He'll run Australia down most +likely (I never knew an Other-sider that had settled down over here who +didn't). But don't you make any mistake and agree with him, because, +although successful Australians over here like to run their own country +down, there's very few of them that care to hear anybody else do it.... +Don't come away as soon as you get your beer. Stay and listen to him for +a while, as if you're interested in his yarning, and give him time to +put you on to a job, or offer you one. Give him a chance to ask how you +and your mate are off for tobacco or tucker. Like as not he'll sling you +half a crown when you come away--that is, if you work it all right. +Now try to think of something to say to him, and make yourself a bit +interesting--if you possibly can. Tell him about the fight we saw back +at the pub. the other day. He might know some of the chaps. This is a +sleepy hole, and there ain't much news knocking round.... I wish I could +go in myself, but he's sure to remember ME. I'm afraid he got left the +last time I stayed there (so did one or two others); and, besides, I +came away without saying good-bye to him, and he might feel a bit sore +about it. That's the worst of travelling on the old road. Come on now, +wake up!” + +“Bet I'll get a quart,” said Smith, brightening up, “and some tucker for +it to wash down.” + +“If you don't,” said Steelman, “I'll stoush you. Never mind the bottle; +fling it away. It doesn't look well for a traveller to go into a pub. +with an empty bottle in his hand. A real swagman never does. It looks +much better to come out with a couple of full ones. That's what you've +got to do. Now, come along.” + +Steelman turned off into a lane, cut across the paddocks to the road +again, and waited for Smith. He hadn't long to wait. + +Smith went on towards the public-house, rehearsing his part as +he walked--repeating his “lines” to himself, so as to be sure of +remembering all that Steelman had told him to say to the landlord, and +adding, with what he considered appropriate gestures, some fancy touches +of his own, which he determined to throw in in spite of Steelman's +advice and warning. “I'll tell him (this)--I'll tell him (that). Well, +look here, boss, I'll say you're pretty right and I quite agree with you +as far as that's concerned, but,” &c. And so, murmuring and mumbling +to himself, Smith reached the hotel. The day was late, and the bar was +small, and low, and dark. Smith walked in with all the assurance he +could muster, eased down his swag in a corner in what he no doubt +considered the true professional style, and, swinging round to the bar, +said in a loud voice which he intended to be cheerful, independent, and +hearty: + +“Good-day, boss!” + +But it wasn't a “boss”. It was about the hardest-faced old woman that +Smith had ever seen. The pub. had changed hands. + +“I--I beg your pardon, missus,” stammered poor Smith. + +It was a knock-down blow for Smith. He couldn't come to time. He and +Steelman had had a landlord in their minds all the time, and laid +their plans accordingly; the possibility of having a she--and one like +this--to deal with never entered into their calculations. Smith had no +time to reorganise, even if he had had the brains to do so, without the +assistance of his mate's knowledge of human nature. + +“I--I beg your pardon, missus,” he stammered. + +Painful pause. She sized him up. + +“Well, what do you want?” + +“Well, missus--I--the fact is--will you give me a bottle of beer for +fourpence?” + +“Wha--what?” + +“I mean----. The fact is, we've only got fourpence left, and--I've got a +mate outside, and you might let us have a quart or so, in a bottle, for +that. I mean--anyway, you might let us have a pint. I'm very sorry to +bother you, missus.” + +But she couldn't do it. No. Certainly not. Decidedly not! All her drinks +were sixpence. She had her license to pay, and the rent, and a family to +keep. It wouldn't pay out there--it wasn't worth her while. It wouldn't +pay the cost of carting the liquor out, &c., &c. + +“Well, missus,” poor Smith blurted out at last, in sheer desperation, +“give me what you can in a bottle for this. I've--I've got a mate +outside.” And he put the four coppers on the bar. + +“Have you got a bottle?” + +“No--but----” + +“If I give you one, will you bring it back? You can't expect me to give +you a bottle as well as a drink.” + +“Yes, mum; I'll bring it back directly.” + +She reached out a bottle from under the bar, and very deliberately +measured out a little over a pint and poured it into the bottle, which +she handed to Smith without a cork. + +Smith went his way without rejoicing. It struck him forcibly that he +should have saved the money until they reached Petone, or the city, +where Steelman would be sure to get a decent drink. But how was he to +know? He had chanced it, and lost; Steelman might have done the same. +What troubled Smith most was the thought of what Steelman would say; he +already heard him, in imagination, saying: “You're a mug, Smith--Smith, +you ARE a mug.” + +But Steelman didn't say much. He was prepared for the worst by seeing +Smith come along so soon. He listened to his story with an air of gentle +sadness, even as a stern father might listen to the voluntary confession +of a wayward child; then he held the bottle up to the fading light of +departing day, looked through it (the bottle), and said: + +“Well--it ain't worth while dividing it.” + +Smith's heart shot right down through a hole in the sole of his left +boot into the hard road. + +“Here, Smith,” said Steelman, handing him the bottle, “drink it, old +man; you want it. It wasn't altogether your fault; it was an oversight +of mine. I didn't bargain for a woman of that kind, and, of course, YOU +couldn't be expected to think of it. Drink it! Drink it down, Smith. +I'll manage to work the oracle before this night is out.” + +Smith was forced to believe his ears, and, recovering from his surprise, +drank. + +“I promised to take back the bottle,” he said, with the ghost of a +smile. + +Steelman took the bottle by the neck and broke it on the fence. + +“Come on, Smith; I'll carry the swag for a while.” + +And they tramped on in the gathering starlight. + + + + +How Steelman told his Story + + + +It was Steelman's humour, in some of his moods, to take Smith into his +confidence, as some old bushmen do their dogs. + +“You're nearly as good as an intelligent sheep-dog to talk to, +Smith--when a man gets tired of thinking to himself and wants a relief. +You're a bit of a mug and a good deal of an idiot, and the chances are +that you don't know what I'm driving at half the time--that's the main +reason why I don't mind talking to you. You ought to consider yourself +honoured; it ain't every man I take into my confidence, even that far.” + +Smith rubbed his head. + +“I'd sooner talk to you--or a stump--any day than to one of those +silent, suspicious, self-contained, worldly-wise chaps that listen to +everything you say--sense and rubbish alike--as if you were trying to +get them to take shares in a mine. I drop the man who listens to me all +the time and doesn't seem to get bored. He isn't safe. He isn't to be +trusted. He mostly wants to grind his axe against yours, and there's +too little profit for me where there are two axes to grind, and no +stone--though I'd manage it once, anyhow.” + +“How'd you do it?” asked Smith. + +“There are several ways. Either you join forces, for instance, and find +a grindstone--or make one of the other man's axe. But the last way is +too slow, and, as I said, takes too much brain-work--besides, it doesn't +pay. It might satisfy your vanity or pride, but I've got none. I had +once, when I was younger, but it--well, it nearly killed me, so I +dropped it. + +“You can mostly trust the man who wants to talk more than you do; he'll +make a safe mate--or a good grindstone.” + +Smith scratched the nape of his neck and sat blinking at the fire, with +the puzzled expression of a woman pondering over a life-question or the +trimming of a hat. Steelman took his chin in his hand and watched Smith +thoughtfully. + +“I--I say, Steely,” exclaimed Smith, suddenly, sitting up and scratching +his head and blinking harder than ever--“wha--what am I?” + +“How do you mean?” + +“Am I the axe or the grindstone?” + +“Oh! your brain seems in extra good working order to-night, Smith. Well, +you turn the grindstone and I grind.” Smith settled. “If you could +grind better than I, I'd turn the stone and let YOU grind, I'd never go +against the interests of the firm--that's fair enough, isn't it?” + +“Ye-es,” admitted Smith; “I suppose so.” + +“So do I. Now, Smith, we've got along all right together for years, off +and on, but you never know what might happen. I might stop breathing, +for instance--and so might you.” + +Smith began to look alarmed. + +“Poetical justice might overtake one or both of us--such things have +happened before, though not often. Or, say, misfortune or death might +mistake us for honest, hard-working mugs with big families to keep, and +cut us off in the bloom of all our wisdom. You might get into trouble, +and, in that case, I'd be bound to leave you there, on principle; or +I might get into trouble, and you wouldn't have the brains to get me +out--though I know you'd be mug enough to try. I might make a rise and +cut you, or you might be misled into showing some spirit, and clear out +after I'd stoushed you for it. You might get tired of me calling you a +mug, and bossing you and making a tool or convenience of you, you know. +You might go in for honest graft (you were always a bit weak-minded) and +then I'd have to wash my hands of you (unless you agreed to keep me) +for an irreclaimable mug. Or it might suit me to become a respected and +worthy fellow townsman, and then, if you came within ten miles of me +or hinted that you ever knew me, I'd have you up for vagrancy, or +soliciting alms, or attempting to levy blackmail. I'd have to fix +you--so I give you fair warning. Or we might get into some desperate +fix (and it needn't be very desperate, either) when I'd be obliged to +sacrifice you for my own personal safety, comfort, and convenience. +Hundreds of things might happen. + +“Well, as I said, we've been at large together for some years, and I've +found you sober, trustworthy, and honest; so, in case we do part--as we +will sooner or later--and you survive, I'll give you some advice from my +own experience. + +“In the first place: If you ever happen to get born again--and it +wouldn't do you much harm--get born with the strength of a bullock and +the hide of one as well, and a swelled head, and no brains--at least +no more brains than you've got now. I was born with a skin like +tissue-paper, and brains; also a heart. + +“Get born without relatives, if you can: if you can't help it, clear out +on your own just as soon after you're born as you possibly can. I hung +on. + +“If you have relations, and feel inclined to help them any time when +you're flush (and there's no telling what a weak-minded man like you +might take it into his head to do)--don't do it. They'll get a down on +you if you do. It only causes family troubles and bitterness. There's +no dislike like that of a dependant. You'll get neither gratitude +nor civility in the end, and be lucky if you escape with a character. +(You've got NO character, Smith; I'm only just supposing you have.) +There's no hatred too bitter for, and nothing too bad to be said of, the +mug who turns. The worst yarns about a man are generally started by his +own tribe, and the world believes them at once on that very account. +Well, the first thing to do in life is to escape from your friends. + +“If you ever go to work--and miracles have happened before--no matter +what your wages are, or how you are treated, you can take it for granted +that you're sweated; act on that to the best of your ability, or you'll +never rise in the world. If you go to see a show on the nod you'll be +found a comfortable seat in a good place; but if you pay the chances +are the ticket clerk will tell you a lie, and you'll have to hustle for +standing room. The man that doesn't ante gets the best of this world; +anything he'll stand is good enough for the man that pays. If you try to +be too sharp you'll get into gaol sooner or later; if you try to be too +honest the chances are that the bailiff will get into your house--if you +have one--and make a holy show of you before the neighbours. The honest +softy is more often mistaken for a swindler, and accused of being one, +than the out-and-out scamp; and the man that tells the truth too much +is set down as an irreclaimable liar. But most of the time crow low +and roost high, for it's a funny world, and you never know what might +happen. + +“And if you get married (and there's no accounting for a woman's taste) +be as bad as you like, and then moderately good, and your wife will +love you. If you're bad all the time she can't stand it for ever, and if +you're good all the time she'll naturally treat you with contempt. Never +explain what you're going to do, and don't explain afterwards, if you +can help it. If you find yourself between two stools, strike hard for +your own self, Smith--strike hard, and you'll be respected more than if +you fought for all the world. Generosity isn't understood nowadays, and +what the people don't understand is either 'mad' or 'cronk'. Failure has +no case, and you can't build one for it.... I started out in life very +young--and very soft.” + + . . . . . + +“I thought you were going to tell me your story, Steely,” remarked +Smith. + +Steelman smiled sadly. + + + + +[End of original text.] + + + + + +About the author: + + + +Henry Lawson was born near Grenfell, New South Wales, Australia on +17 June 1867. Although he has since become Australia's most acclaimed +writer, in his own lifetime his writing was often “on the side”--his +“real” work being whatever he could find. His writing was frequently +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 at +Sydney, 2 September 1922. He is most famous for his short stories. + +“On the Track” and “Over the Sliprails” were both published at Sydney +in 1900, the prefaces being dated March and June respectively--and so, +though printed separately, a combined edition was printed the same +year (the two separate, complete works were simply put together in one +binding); hence they are sometimes referred to as “On the Track and Over +the Sliprails”. + + . . . . . + +An incomplete Glossary of Australian terms and concepts which may prove +helpful to understanding this book: + + Anniversary Day: Alluded to 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. + + Billy: A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil water for + tea. + + Cabbage-tree/Cabbage-tree hat: A wide-brimmed hat made with the + leaves of the cabbage tree palm (Livistona australis). It was a + common hat in early colonial days, and later became associated with + patriotism. + + Gin: An aboriginal woman; use of the term is analogous to “squaw” + in N. America. May be considered derogatory in modern usage. + + Graft: Work; hard work. + + Humpy: (Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in the bush, + especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. A gunyah, + wurley, or mia-mia. + + Jackeroo/Jackaroo: At the time Lawson wrote, a Jackeroo 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. + + Jumbuck: A sheep. + + Larrikin: A hoodlum. + + Lollies: Candy, sweets. + + 'Possum/Possum: In Australia, a class of marsupials that were + originally mistaken for the American animal of the same name. They + are not especially related to the possums of North and South + America, other than 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. + + Push: A group of people sharing something in common; Lawson uses the + word in an older and more particular sense, as a gang of violent + city hoodlums. + + Ratty: Shabby, dilapidated; somewhat eccentric, perhaps even + slightly mad. + + Selector: A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled land + by lease or license from the government. + + Shout: To buy a round of drinks. + + Sliprails/slip-rails: movable rails, forming a section of fence, + which can be taken down in lieu of a gate. + + Sly grog shop or shanty: An unlicensed bar or liquor-store, + especially one selling cheap or poor-quality liquor. + + Squatter: A person who first settled on land without government + permission, and later continued by lease or license, generally to + raise stock; a wealthy rural landowner. + + Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + + Stoush: Violence; to do violence to. + + 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. + + + Also: a hint with the seasons--remember that the seasons are + reversed from those in the northern hemisphere, hence June may be + hot, but December is even hotter. Australia is at a lower latitude + than the United States, so the winters are not harsh by US + standards, and are not even mild in the north. In fact, large parts + of Australia are governed more by “dry” versus “wet” than by Spring- + Summer-Fall-Winter. + + +(Alan Light, Monroe, North Carolina, March 1998.) + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of On the Track, by Henry Lawson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON THE TRACK *** + +***** This file should be named 1231-0.txt or 1231-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/3/1231/ + +Produced by Alan R. Light + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: On the Track + +Author: Henry Lawson + +Release Date: August 26, 2008 [EBook #1231] +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON THE TRACK *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + ON THE TRACK + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Henry Lawson + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h4> + Author of “While the Billy Boils”, and “When the World was Wide” + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> [Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are CAPITALISED.<br /> + Some obvious errors have been corrected after being confirmed.] <br /> + <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + Preface + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of the stories in this volume many have already appeared + in (various periodicals), while several now appear in print + for the first time. + + H. L. + Sydney, March 17th, 1900. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> Preface </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>ON THE TRACK</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> The Songs They used to Sing </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> A Vision of Sandy Blight </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> Andy Page's Rival </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> The Iron-Bark Chip </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> “Middleton's Peter” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> The Mystery of Dave Regan </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> Mitchell on Matrimony </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> Mitchell on Women </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> No Place for a Woman </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> Mitchell's Jobs </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> Bush Cats </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> Meeting Old Mates </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> Two Larrikins </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> Mr. Smellingscheck </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> “A Rough Shed” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> Payable Gold </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> An Oversight of Steelman's </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> How Steelman told his Story </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> About the author </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + ON THE TRACK + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Songs They used to Sing + </h2> + <p> + On the diggings up to twenty odd years ago—and as far back as I can + remember—on Lambing Flat, the Pipe Clays, Gulgong, Home Rule, and so + through the roaring list; in bark huts, tents, public-houses, sly grog + shanties, and—well, the most glorious voice of all belonged to a bad + girl. We were only children and didn't know why she was bad, but we + weren't allowed to play near or go near the hut she lived in, and we were + trained to believe firmly that something awful would happen to us if we + stayed to answer a word, and didn't run away as fast as our legs could + carry us, if she attempted to speak to us. We had before us the dread + example of one urchin, who got an awful hiding and went on bread and water + for twenty-four hours for allowing her to kiss him and give him lollies. + She didn't look bad—she looked to us like a grand and beautiful + lady-girl—but we got instilled into us the idea that she was an + awful bad woman, something more terrible even than a drunken man, and one + whose presence was to be feared and fled from. There were two other girls + in the hut with her, also a pretty little girl, who called her “Auntie”, + and with whom we were not allowed to play—for they were all bad; + which puzzled us as much as child-minds can be puzzled. We couldn't make + out how everybody in one house could be bad. We used to wonder why these + bad people weren't hunted away or put in gaol if they were so bad. And + another thing puzzled us. Slipping out after dark, when the bad girls + happened to be singing in their house, we'd sometimes run against men + hanging round the hut by ones and twos and threes, listening. They seemed + mysterious. They were mostly good men, and we concluded they were + listening and watching the bad women's house to see that they didn't kill + anyone, or steal and run away with any bad little boys—ourselves, + for instance—who ran out after dark; which, as we were informed, + those bad people were always on the lookout for a chance to do. + </p> + <p> + We were told in after years that old Peter McKenzie (a respectable, + married, hard-working digger) would sometimes steal up opposite the bad + door in the dark, and throw in money done up in a piece of paper, and + listen round until the bad girl had sung the “Bonnie Hills of Scotland” + two or three times. Then he'd go and get drunk, and stay drunk two or + three days at a time. And his wife caught him throwing the money in one + night, and there was a terrible row, and she left him; and people always + said it was all a mistake. But we couldn't see the mistake then. + </p> + <p> + But I can hear that girl's voice through the night, twenty years ago: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh! the bloomin' heath, and the pale blue bell, + In my bonnet then I wore; + And memory knows no brighter theme + Than those happy days of yore. + Scotland! Land of chief and song! + Oh, what charms to thee belong! +</pre> + <p> + And I am old enough to understand why poor Peter McKenzie—who was + married to a Saxon, and a Tartar—went and got drunk when the bad + girl sang “The Bonnie Hills of Scotland.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + His anxious eye might look in vain + For some loved form it knew! + + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + And yet another thing puzzled us greatly at the time. Next door to the bad + girl's house there lived a very respectable family—a family of good + girls with whom we were allowed to play, and from whom we got lollies + (those hard old red-and-white “fish lollies” that grocers sent home with + parcels of groceries and receipted bills). Now one washing day, they being + as glad to get rid of us at home as we were to get out, we went over to + the good house and found no one at home except the grown-up daughter, who + used to sing for us, and read “Robinson Crusoe” of nights, “out loud”, and + give us more lollies than any of the rest—and with whom we were + passionately in love, notwithstanding the fact that she was engaged to a + “grown-up man”—(we reckoned he'd be dead and out of the way by the + time we were old enough to marry her). She was washing. She had carried + the stool and tub over against the stick fence which separated her house + from the bad house; and, to our astonishment and dismay, the bad girl had + brought HER tub over against her side of the fence. They stood and worked + with their shoulders to the fence between them, and heads bent down close + to it. The bad girl would sing a few words, and the good girl after her, + over and over again. They sang very low, we thought. Presently the good + grown-up girl turned her head and caught sight of us. She jumped, and her + face went flaming red; she laid hold of the stool and carried it, tub and + all, away from that fence in a hurry. And the bad grown-up girl took her + tub back to her house. The good grown-up girl made us promise never to + tell what we saw—that she'd been talking to a bad girl—else + she would never, never marry us. + </p> + <p> + She told me, in after years, when she'd grown up to be a grandmother, that + the bad girl was surreptitiously teaching her to sing “Madeline” that day. + </p> + <p> + I remember a dreadful story of a digger who went and shot himself one + night after hearing that bad girl sing. We thought then what a frightfully + bad woman she must be. The incident terrified us; and thereafter we kept + carefully and fearfully out of reach of her voice, lest we should go and + do what the digger did. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + I have a dreamy recollection of a circus on Gulgong in the roaring days, + more than twenty years ago, and a woman (to my child-fancy a being from + another world) standing in the middle of the ring, singing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Out in the cold world—out in the street— + Asking a penny from each one I meet; + Cheerless I wander about all the day, + Wearing my young life in sorrow away! +</pre> + <p> + That last line haunted me for many years. I remember being frightened by + women sobbing (and one or two great grown-up diggers also) that night in + that circus. + </p> + <p> + “Father, Dear Father, Come Home with Me Now”, was a sacred song then, not + a peg for vulgar parodies and more vulgar “business” for fourth-rate + clowns and corner-men. Then there was “The Prairie Flower”. “Out on the + Prairie, in an Early Day”—I can hear the digger's wife yet: she was + the prettiest girl on the field. They married on the sly and crept into + camp after dark; but the diggers got wind of it and rolled up with + gold-dishes, shovels, &c., &c., and gave them a real good + tinkettling in the old-fashioned style, and a nugget or two to start + housekeeping on. She had a very sweet voice. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Fair as a lily, joyous and free, + Light of the prairie home was she. +</pre> + <p> + She's a “granny” now, no doubt—or dead. + </p> + <p> + And I remember a poor, brutally ill-used little wife, wearing a black eye + mostly, and singing “Love Amongst the Roses” at her work. And they sang + the “Blue Tail Fly”, and all the first and best coon songs—in the + days when old John Brown sank a duffer on the hill. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + The great bark kitchen of Granny Mathews' “Redclay Inn”. A fresh back-log + thrown behind the fire, which lights the room fitfully. Company settled + down to pipes, subdued yarning, and reverie. + </p> + <p> + Flash Jack—red sash, cabbage-tree hat on back of head with nothing + in it, glossy black curls bunched up in front of brim. Flash Jack + volunteers, without invitation, preparation, or warning, and through his + nose: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hoh!— + There was a wild kerlonial youth, + John Dowlin was his name! + He bountied on his parients, + Who lived in Castlemaine! +</pre> + <p> + and so on to— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He took a pistol from his breast + And waved that lit—tle toy— +</pre> + <p> + “Little toy” with an enthusiastic flourish and great unction on Flash + Jack's part— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I'll fight, but I won't surrender!” said + The wild Kerlonial Boy. +</pre> + <p> + Even this fails to rouse the company's enthusiasm. “Give us a song, Abe! + Give us the 'Lowlands'!” Abe Mathews, bearded and grizzled, is lying on + the broad of his back on a bench, with his hands clasped under his head—his + favourite position for smoking, reverie, yarning, or singing. He had a + strong, deep voice, which used to thrill me through and through, from hair + to toenails, as a child. + </p> + <p> + They bother Abe till he takes his pipe out of his mouth and puts it behind + his head on the end of the stool: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The ship was built in Glasgow; + 'Twas the “Golden Vanitee”— +Lines have dropped out of my memory during the thirty years gone +between— + + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low! +</pre> + <p> + The public-house people and more diggers drop into the kitchen, as all do + within hearing, when Abe sings. + </p> + <p> + “Now then, boys: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low! +</pre> + <p> + “Now, all together! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Low Lands! The Low Lands! + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!” + </pre> + <p> + Toe and heel and flat of foot begin to stamp the clay floor, and horny + hands to slap patched knees in accompaniment. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh! save me, lads!” he cried, + “I'm drifting with the current, + And I'm drifting with the tide! + And I'm sinking in the Low Lands, Low! + + The Low Lands! The Low Lands!”— +</pre> + <p> + The old bark kitchen is a-going now. Heels drumming on gin-cases under + stools; hands, knuckles, pipe-bowls, and pannikins keeping time on the + table. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And we sewed him in his hammock, + And we slipped him o'er the side, + And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low! + The Low Lands! The Low Lands! + And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low! +</pre> + <p> + Old Boozer Smith—a dirty gin-sodden bundle of rags on the floor in + the corner with its head on a candle box, and covered by a horse rug—old + Boozer Smith is supposed to have been dead to the universe for hours past, + but the chorus must have disturbed his torpor; for, with a suddenness and + unexpectedness that makes the next man jump, there comes a bellow from + under the horse rug: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Wot though!—I wear!—a rag!—ged coat! + I'll wear it like a man! +</pre> + <p> + and ceases as suddenly as it commenced. He struggles to bring his ruined + head and bloated face above the surface, glares round; then, no one + questioning his manhood, he sinks back and dies to creation; and + subsequent proceedings are only interrupted by a snore, as far as he is + concerned. + </p> + <p> + Little Jimmy Nowlett, the bullock-driver, is inspired. “Go on, Jimmy! Give + us a song!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the days when we were hard up + For want of wood and wire— +Jimmy always blunders; it should have been “food and fire”— + + We used to tie our boots up + With lit—tle bits—er wire; +</pre> + <p> + and— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I'm sitting in my lit—tle room, + It measures six by six; + The work-house wall is opposite, + I've counted all the bricks! +</pre> + <p> + “Give us a chorus, Jimmy!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy does, giving his head a short, jerky nod for nearly every word, and + describing a circle round his crown—as if he were stirring a pint of + hot tea—with his forefinger, at the end of every line: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hall!—Round!—Me—Hat! + I wore a weepin' willer! +</pre> + <p> + Jimmy is a Cockney. + </p> + <p> + “Now then, boys!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hall—round—me hat! +</pre> + <p> + How many old diggers remember it? + </p> + <p> + And: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A butcher, and a baker, and a quiet-looking quaker, + All a-courting pretty Jessie at the Railway Bar. +</pre> + <p> + I used to wonder as a child what the “railway bar” meant. + </p> + <p> + And: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I would, I would, I would in vain + That I were single once again! + But ah, alas, that will not be + Till apples grow on the willow tree. +</pre> + <p> + A drunken gambler's young wife used to sing that song—to herself. + </p> + <p> + A stir at the kitchen door, and a cry of “Pinter,” and old Poynton, + Ballarat digger, appears and is shoved in; he has several drinks aboard, + and they proceed to “git Pinter on the singin' lay,” and at last talk him + round. He has a good voice, but no “theory”, and blunders worse than Jimmy + Nowlett with the words. He starts with a howl— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hoh! + Way down in Covent Gar-ar-r-dings + A-strolling I did go, + To see the sweetest flow-ow-wers + That e'er in gardings grow. +</pre> + <p> + He saw the rose and lily—the red and white and blue—and he saw + the sweetest flow-ow-ers that e'er in gardings grew; for he saw two lovely + maidens (Pinter calls 'em “virgings”) underneath (he must have meant on + top of) “a garding chair”, sings Pinter. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And one was lovely Jessie, + With the jet black eyes and hair, +</pre> + <p> + roars Pinter, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And the other was a vir-ir-ging, + I solemn-lye declare! +</pre> + <p> + “Maiden, Pinter!” interjects Mr. Nowlett. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's all the same,” retorts Pinter. “A maiden IS a virging, Jimmy. + If you're singing, Jimmy, and not me, I'll leave off!” Chorus of “Order! + Shut up, Jimmy!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I quicklye step-ped up to her, + And unto her did sa-a-y: + Do you belong to any young man, + Hoh, tell me that, I pra-a-y? +</pre> + <p> + Her answer, according to Pinter, was surprisingly prompt and + unconventional; also full and concise: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No; I belong to no young man— + I solemnlye declare! + I mean to live a virging + And still my laurels wear! +</pre> + <p> + Jimmy Nowlett attempts to move an amendment in favour of “maiden”, but is + promptly suppressed. It seems that Pinter's suit has a happy termination, + for he is supposed to sing in the character of a “Sailor Bold”, and as he + turns to pursue his stroll in “Covent Gar-ar-dings”: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!” she cried, + “I love a Sailor Bold!” + </pre> + <p> + “Hong-kore, Pinter! Give us the 'Golden Glove', Pinter!” + </p> + <p> + Thus warmed up, Pinter starts with an explanatory “spoken” to the effect + that the song he is about to sing illustrates some of the little ways of + woman, and how, no matter what you say or do, she is bound to have her own + way in the end; also how, in one instance, she set about getting it. + </p> + <p> + Hoh! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now, it's of a young squoire near Timworth did dwell, + Who courted a nobleman's daughter so well— +</pre> + <p> + The song has little or nothing to do with the “squire”, except so far as + “all friends and relations had given consent,” and— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The troo-soo was ordered—appointed the day, + And a farmer were appointed for to give her away— +</pre> + <p> + which last seemed a most unusual proceeding, considering the wedding was a + toney affair; but perhaps there were personal interests—the nobleman + might have been hard up, and the farmer backing him. But there was an + extraordinary scene in the church, and things got mixed. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For as soon as this maiding this farmer espied: + “Hoh, my heart! Hoh, my heart! + Hoh, my heart!” then she cried. +</pre> + <p> + Hysterics? Anyway, instead of being wed— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This maiden took sick and she went to her bed. +</pre> + <p> + (N.B.—Pinter sticks to 'virging'.) + </p> + <p> + Whereupon friends and relations and guests left the house in a body (a + strange but perhaps a wise proceeding, after all—maybe they smelt a + rat) and left her to recover alone, which she did promptly. And then: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Shirt, breeches, and waistcoat this maiding put on, + And a-hunting she went with her dog and her gun; + She hunted all round where this farmier did dwell, + Because in her own heart she love-ed him well. +</pre> + <p> + The cat's out of the bag now: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And often she fired, but no game she killed— +</pre> + <p> + which was not surprising— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Till at last the young farmier came into the field— +</pre> + <p> + No wonder. She put it to him straight: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh, why are you not at the wedding?” she cried, + “For to wait on the squoire, and to give him his bride.” + </pre> + <p> + He was as prompt and as delightfully unconventional in his reply as the + young lady in Covent Gardings: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh, no! and oh, no! For the truth I must sa-a-y, + I love her too well for to give her a-w-a-a-y!” + </pre> + <p> + which was satisfactory to the disguised “virging”. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “.... and I'd take sword in hand, + And by honour I'd win her if she would command.” + </pre> + <p> + Which was still more satisfactory. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now this virging, being— +(Jimmy Nowlett: “Maiden, Pinter—” Jim is thrown on a stool and sat on +by several diggers.) + + Now this maiding, being please-ed to see him so bold, + She gave him her glove that was flowered with gold, +</pre> + <p> + and explained that she found it in his field while hunting around with her + dog and her gun. It is understood that he promised to look up the owner. + Then she went home and put an advertisement in the local 'Herald'; and + that ad. must have caused considerable sensation. She stated that she had + lost her golden glove, and + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The young man that finds it and brings it to me, + Hoh! that very young man my husband shall be! +</pre> + <p> + She had a saving clause in case the young farmer mislaid the glove before + he saw the ad., and an OLD bloke got holt of it and fetched it along. But + everything went all right. The young farmer turned up with the glove. He + was a very respectable young farmer, and expressed his gratitude to her + for having “honour-ed him with her love.” They were married, and the song + ends with a picture of the young farmeress milking the cow, and the young + farmer going whistling to plough. The fact that they lived and grafted on + the selection proves that I hit the right nail on the head when I guessed, + in the first place, that the old nobleman was “stony”. + </p> + <p> + In after years, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ... she told him of the fun, + How she hunted him up with her dog and her gun. +</pre> + <p> + But whether he was pleased or otherwise to hear it, after years of + matrimonial experiences, the old song doesn't say, for it ends there. + </p> + <p> + Flash Jack is more successful with “Saint Patrick's Day”. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I come to the river, I jumped it quite clever! + Me wife tumbled in, and I lost her for ever, + St. Patrick's own day in the mornin'! +</pre> + <p> + This is greatly appreciated by Jimmy Nowlett, who is suspected, especially + by his wife, of being more cheerful when on the roads than when at home. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “Sam Holt” was a great favourite with Jimmy Nowlett in after years. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, do you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt? + Black Alice so dirty and dark— + Who'd a nose on her face—I forget how it goes— + And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark. +</pre> + <p> + Sam Holt must have been very hard up for tucker as well as beauty then, + for + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Do you remember the 'possums and grubs + She baked for you down by the creek? +</pre> + <p> + Sam Holt was, apparently, a hardened flash Jack. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You were not quite the cleanly potato, Sam Holt. +</pre> + <p> + Reference is made to his “manner of holding a flush”, and he is asked to + remember several things which he, no doubt, would rather forget, including + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ... the hiding you got from the boys. +</pre> + <p> + The song is decidedly personal. + </p> + <p> + But Sam Holt makes a pile and goes home, leaving many a better and worse + man to pad the hoof Out Back. And—Jim Nowlett sang this with so much + feeling as to make it appear a personal affair between him and the absent + Holt— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And, don't you remember the fiver, Sam Holt, + You borrowed so careless and free? + I reckon I'll whistle a good many tunes +</pre> + <p> + (with increasing feeling) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ere you think of that fiver and me. +</pre> + <p> + For the chances will be that Sam Holt's old mate + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden Road + To the end of the chapter of fate. + + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + An echo from “The Old Bark Hut”, sung in the opposition camp across the + gully: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You may leave the door ajar, but if you keep it shut, + There's no need of suffocation in the Ould Barrk Hut. + + . . . . . + + The tucker's in the gin-case, but you'd better keep it shut— + For the flies will canther round it in the Ould Bark Hut. +</pre> + <p> + However: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What's out of sight is out of mind, in the Ould Bark Hut. + + . . . . . + + We washed our greasy moleskins + On the banks of the Condamine.— +</pre> + <p> + Somebody tackling the “Old Bullock Dray”; it must be over fifty verses + now. I saw a bushman at a country dance start to sing that song; he'd get + up to ten or fifteen verses, break down, and start afresh. At last he sat + down on his heel to it, in the centre of the clear floor, resting his + wrist on his knee, and keeping time with an index finger. It was very + funny, but the thing was taken seriously all through. + </p> + <p> + Irreverent echo from the old Lambing Flat trouble, from camp across the + gully: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! + No more Chinamen will enter Noo South Wales! +</pre> + <p> + and + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yankee Doodle came to town + On a little pony— + Stick a feather in his cap, + And call him Maccaroni! +</pre> + <p> + All the camps seem to be singing to-night: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ring the bell, watchman! + Ring! Ring! Ring! + Ring, for the good news + Is now on the wing! +</pre> + <p> + Good lines, the introduction: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + High on the belfry the old sexton stands, + Grasping the rope with his thin bony hands!... + Bon-fires are blazing throughout the land... + Glorious and blessed tidings! Ring! Ring the bell! + + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + Granny Mathews fails to coax her niece into the kitchen, but persuades her + to sing inside. She is the girl who learnt 'sub rosa' from the bad girl + who sang “Madeline”. Such as have them on instinctively take their hats + off. Diggers, &c., strolling past, halt at the first notes of the + girl's voice, and stand like statues in the moonlight: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Shall we gather at the river, + Where bright angel feet have trod? + The beautiful—the beautiful river + That flows by the throne of God!— +</pre> + <p> + Diggers wanted to send that girl “Home”, but Granny Mathews had the + old-fashioned horror of any of her children becoming “public”— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Gather with the saints at the river, + That flows by the throne of God! + + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + But it grows late, or rather, early. The “Eyetalians” go by in the frosty + moonlight, from their last shift in the claim (for it is Saturday night), + singing a litany. + </p> + <p> + “Get up on one end, Abe!—stand up all!” Hands are clasped across the + kitchen table. Redclay, one of the last of the alluvial fields, has + petered out, and the Roaring Days are dying.... The grand old song that is + known all over the world; yet how many in ten thousand know more than one + verse and the chorus? Let Peter McKenzie lead: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And never brought to min'? +</pre> + <p> + And hearts echo from far back in the past and across wide, wide seas: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And days o' lang syne? +</pre> + <p> + Now boys! all together! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For auld lang syne, my dear, + For auld lang syne, + We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + + We twa hae run about the braes, + And pu'd the gowans fine; + But we've wandered mony a weary foot, + Sin' auld lang syne. +</pre> + <p> + The world was wide then. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, + Frae mornin' sun till dine: +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +the log fire seems to grow watery, for in wide, lonely Australia— + But seas between us braid hae roar'd, + Sin' auld lang syne. +</pre> + <p> + The kitchen grows dimmer, and the forms of the digger-singers seemed + suddenly vague and unsubstantial, fading back rapidly through a misty + veil. But the words ring strong and defiant through hard years: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And here's a hand, my trusty frien', + And gie's a grup o' thine; + And we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + And the nettles have been growing for over twenty years on the spot where + Granny Mathews' big bark kitchen stood. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Vision of Sandy Blight + </h2> + <p> + I'd been humping my back, and crouching and groaning for an hour or so in + the darkest corner of the travellers' hut, tortured by the demon of sandy + blight. It was too hot to travel, and there was no one there except + ourselves and Mitchell's cattle pup. We were waiting till after sundown, + for I couldn't have travelled in the daylight, anyway. Mitchell had tied a + wet towel round my eyes, and led me for the last mile or two by another + towel—one end fastened to his belt behind, and the other in my hand + as I walked in his tracks. And oh! but this was a relief! It was out of + the dust and glare, and the flies didn't come into the dark hut, and I + could hump and stick my knees in my eyes and groan in comfort. I didn't + want a thousand a year, or anything; I only wanted relief for my eyes—that + was all I prayed for in this world. When the sun got down a bit, Mitchell + started poking round, and presently he found amongst the rubbish a + dirty-looking medicine bottle, corked tight; when he rubbed the dirt off a + piece of notepaper that was pasted on, he saw “eye-water” written on it. + He drew the cork with his teeth, smelt the water, stuck his little finger + in, turned the bottle upside down, tasted the top of his finger, and + reckoned the stuff was all right. + </p> + <p> + “Here! Wake up, Joe!” he shouted. “Here's a bottle of tears.” + </p> + <p> + “A bottler wot?” I groaned. + </p> + <p> + “Eye-water,” said Mitchell. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure it's all right?” I didn't want to be poisoned or have my + eyes burnt out by mistake; perhaps some burning acid had got into that + bottle, or the label had been put on, or left on, in mistake or + carelessness. + </p> + <p> + “I dunno,” said Mitchell, “but there's no harm in tryin'.” + </p> + <p> + I chanced it. I lay down on my back in a bunk, and Mitchell dragged my + lids up and spilt half a bottle of eye-water over my eye-balls. + </p> + <p> + The relief was almost instantaneous. I never experienced such a quick cure + in my life. I carried the bottle in my swag for a long time afterwards, + with an idea of getting it analysed, but left it behind at last in a camp. + </p> + <p> + Mitchell scratched his head thoughtfully, and watched me for a while. + </p> + <p> + “I think I'll wait a bit longer,” he said at last, “and if it doesn't + blind you I'll put some in my eyes. I'm getting a touch of blight myself + now. That's the fault of travelling with a mate who's always catching + something that's no good to him.” + </p> + <p> + As it grew dark outside we talked of sandy-blight and fly-bite, and + sand-flies up north, and ordinary flies, and branched off to Barcoo rot, + and struck the track again at bees and bee stings. When we got to bees, + Mitchell sat smoking for a while and looking dreamily backwards along + tracks and branch tracks, and round corners and circles he had travelled, + right back to the short, narrow, innocent bit of track that ends in a + vague, misty point—like the end of a long, straight, cleared road in + the moonlight—as far back as we can remember. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “I had about fourteen hives,” said Mitchell—“we used to call them + 'swarms', no matter whether they were flying or in the box—when I + left home first time. I kept them behind the shed, in the shade, on tables + of galvanised iron cases turned down on stakes; but I had to make legs + later on, and stand them in pans of water, on account of the ants. When + the bees swarmed—and some hives sent out the Lord knows how many + swarms in a year, it seemed to me—we'd tin-kettle 'em, and throw + water on 'em, to make 'em believe the biggest thunderstorm was coming to + drown the oldest inhabitant; and, if they didn't get the start of us and + rise, they'd settle on a branch—generally on one of the scraggy + fruit trees. It was rough on the bees—come to think of it; their + instinct told them it was going to be fine, and the noise and water told + them it was raining. They must have thought that nature was mad, drunk, or + gone ratty, or the end of the world had come. We'd rig up a table, with a + box upside down, under the branch, cover our face with a piece of mosquito + net, have rags burning round, and then give the branch a sudden jerk, turn + the box down, and run. If we got most of the bees in, the rest that were + hanging to the bough or flying round would follow, and then we reckoned + we'd shook the queen in. If the bees in the box came out and joined the + others, we'd reckon we hadn't shook the queen in, and go for them again. + When a hive was full of honey we'd turn the box upside down, turn the + empty box mouth down on top of it, and drum and hammer on the lower box + with a stick till all the bees went up into the top box. I suppose it made + their heads ache, and they went up on that account. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose things are done differently on proper bee-farms. I've heard + that a bee-farmer will part a hanging swarm with his fingers, take out the + queen bee and arrange matters with her; but our ways suited us, and there + was a lot of expectation and running and excitement in it, especially when + a swarm took us by surprise. The yell of 'Bees swarmin'!' was as good to + us as the yell of 'Fight!' is now, or 'Bolt!' in town, or 'Fire' or 'Man + overboard!' at sea. + </p> + <p> + “There was tons of honey. The bees used to go to the vineyards at + wine-making and get honey from the heaps of crushed grape-skins thrown out + in the sun, and get so drunk sometimes that they wobbled in their + bee-lines home. They'd fill all the boxes, and then build in between and + under the bark, and board, and tin covers. They never seemed to get the + idea out of their heads that this wasn't an evergreen country, and it + wasn't going to snow all winter. My younger brother Joe used to put pieces + of meat on the tables near the boxes, and in front of the holes where the + bees went in and out, for the dogs to grab at. But one old dog, 'Black + Bill', was a match for him; if it was worth Bill's while, he'd camp there, + and keep Joe and the other dogs from touching the meat—once it was + put down—till the bees turned in for the night. And Joe would get + the other kids round there, and when they weren't looking or thinking, + he'd brush the bees with a stick and run. I'd lam him when I caught him at + it. He was an awful young devil, was Joe, and he grew up steady, and + respectable, and respected—and I went to the bad. I never trust a + good boy now.... Ah, well! + </p> + <p> + “I remember the first swarm we got. We'd been talking of getting a few + swarms for a long time. That was what was the matter with us English and + Irish and English-Irish Australian farmers: we used to talk so much about + doing things while the Germans and Scotch did them. And we even talked in + a lazy, easy-going sort of way. + </p> + <p> + “Well, one blazing hot day I saw father coming along the road, home to + dinner (we had it in the middle of the day), with his axe over his + shoulder. I noticed the axe particularly because father was bringing it + home to grind, and Joe and I had to turn the stone; but, when I noticed + Joe dragging along home in the dust about fifty yards behind father, I + felt easier in my mind. Suddenly father dropped the axe and started to run + back along the road towards Joe, who, as soon as he saw father coming, + shied for the fence and got through. He thought he was going to catch it + for something he'd done—or hadn't done. Joe used to do so many + things and leave so many things not done that he could never be sure of + father. Besides, father had a way of starting to hammer us unexpectedly—when + the idea struck him. But father pulled himself up in about thirty yards + and started to grab up handfuls of dust and sand and throw them into the + air. My idea, in the first flash, was to get hold of the axe, for I + thought it was sun-stroke, and father might take it into his head to start + chopping up the family before I could persuade him to put it (his head, I + mean) in a bucket of water. But Joe came running like mad, yelling: + </p> + <p> + “'Swarmer—bees! Swawmmer—bee—ee—es! Bring—a—tin—dish—and—a—dippera—wa-a-ter!' + </p> + <p> + “I ran with a bucket of water and an old frying-pan, and pretty soon the + rest of the family were on the spot, throwing dust and water, and banging + everything, tin or iron, they could get hold of. The only bullock bell in + the district (if it was in the district) was on the old poley cow, and + she'd been lost for a fortnight. Mother brought up the rear—but soon + worked to the front—with a baking-dish and a big spoon. The old lady—she + wasn't old then—had a deep-rooted prejudice that she could do + everything better than anybody else, and that the selection and all on it + would go to the dogs if she wasn't there to look after it. There was no + jolting that idea out of her. She not only believed that she could do + anything better than anybody, and hers was the only right or possible way, + and that we'd do everything upside down if she wasn't there to do it or + show us how—but she'd try to do things herself or insist on making + us do them her way, and that led to messes and rows. She was excited now, + and took command at once. She wasn't tongue-tied, and had no impediment in + her speech. + </p> + <p> + “'Don't throw up dust!—Stop throwing up dust!—Do you want to + smother 'em?—Don't throw up so much water!—Only throw up a + pannikin at a time!—D'yer want to drown 'em? Bang! Keep on banging, + Joe!—Look at that child! Run, someone!—run! you, Jack!—D'yer + want the child to be stung to death?—Take her inside!... Dy' hear + me?... Stop throwing up dust, Tom! (To father.) You're scaring 'em away! + Can't you see they want to settle?' [Father was getting mad and yelping: + 'For Godsake shettup and go inside.'] 'Throw up water, Jack! Throw up—Tom! + Take that bucket from him and don't make such a fool of yourself before + the children! Throw up water! Throw—keep on banging, children! Keep + on banging!' [Mother put her faith in banging.] 'There!—they're off! + You've lost 'em! I knew you would! I told yer—keep on bang—!' + </p> + <p> + “A bee struck her in the eye, and she grabbed at it! + </p> + <p> + “Mother went home—and inside. + </p> + <p> + “Father was good at bees—could manage them like sheep when he got to + know their ideas. When the swarm settled, he sent us for the old washing + stool, boxes, bags, and so on; and the whole time he was fixing the bees I + noticed that whenever his back was turned to us his shoulders would jerk + up as if he was cold, and he seemed to shudder from inside, and now and + then I'd hear a grunting sort of whimper like a boy that was just starting + to blubber. But father wasn't weeping, and bees weren't stinging him; it + was the bee that stung mother that was tickling father. When he went into + the house, mother's other eye had bunged for sympathy. Father was always + gentle and kind in sickness, and he bathed mother's eyes and rubbed mud + on, but every now and then he'd catch inside, and jerk and shudder, and + grunt and cough. Mother got wild, but presently the humour of it struck + her, and she had to laugh, and a rum laugh it was, with both eyes bunged + up. Then she got hysterical, and started to cry, and father put his arm + round her shoulder and ordered us out of the house. + </p> + <p> + “They were very fond of each other, the old people were, under it all—right + up to the end.... Ah, well!” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell pulled the swags out of a bunk, and started to fasten the + nose-bags on. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Andy Page's Rival + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tall and freckled and sandy, + Face of a country lout; + That was the picture of Andy— + Middleton's rouseabout. + On Middleton's wide dominions + Plied the stock-whip and shears; + Hadn't any opinions——— +</pre> + <p> + And he hadn't any “ideers”—at least, he said so himself—except + as regarded anything that looked to him like what he called “funny + business”, under which heading he catalogued tyranny, treachery, + interference with the liberty of the subject by the subject, “blanky” + lies, or swindles—all things, in short, that seemed to his slow + understanding dishonest, mean or paltry; most especially, and above all, + treachery to a mate. THAT he could never forget. Andy was uncomfortably + “straight”. His mind worked slowly and his decisions were, as a rule, + right and just; and when he once came to a conclusion concerning any man + or matter, or decided upon a course of action, nothing short of an + earthquake or a Nevertire cyclone could move him back an inch—unless + a conviction were severely shaken, and then he would require as much time + to “back” to his starting point as he did to come to the decision. + </p> + <p> + Andy had come to a conclusion with regard to a selector's daughter—name, + Lizzie Porter—who lived (and slaved) on her father's selection, near + the township corner of the run on which Andy was a general “hand”. He had + been in the habit for several years of calling casually at the selector's + house, as he rode to and fro between the station and the town, to get a + drink of water and exchange the time of day with old Porter and his + “missus”. The conversation concerned the drought, and the likelihood or + otherwise of their ever going to get a little rain; or about Porter's + cattle, with an occasional enquiry concerning, or reference to, a stray + cow belonging to the selection, but preferring the run; a little, plump, + saucy, white cow, by-the-way, practically pure white, but referred to by + Andy—who had eyes like a blackfellow—as “old Speckledy”. No + one else could detect a spot or speckle on her at a casual glance. Then + after a long bovine silence, which would have been painfully embarrassing + in any other society, and a tilting of his cabbage-tree hat forward, which + came of tickling and scratching the sun-blotched nape of his neck with his + little finger, Andy would slowly say: “Ah, well. I must be gettin'. + So-long, Mr. Porter. So-long, Mrs. Porter.” And, if SHE were in evidence—as + she generally was on such occasions—“So-long, Lizzie.” And they'd + shout: “So-long, Andy,” as he galloped off from the jump. Strange that + those shy, quiet, gentle-voiced bushmen seem the hardest and most reckless + riders. + </p> + <p> + But of late his horse had been seen hanging up outside Porter's for an + hour or so after sunset. He smoked, talked over the results of the last + drought (if it happened to rain), and the possibilities of the next one, + and played cards with old Porter; who took to winking, automatically, at + his “old woman”, and nudging, and jerking his thumb in the direction of + Lizzie when her back was turned, and Andy was scratching the nape of his + neck and staring at the cards. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie told a lady friend of mine, years afterwards, how Andy popped the + question; told it in her quiet way—you know Lizzie's quiet way + (something of the old, privileged house-cat about her); never a sign in + expression or tone to show whether she herself saw or appreciated the + humour of anything she was telling, no matter how comical it might be. She + had witnessed two tragedies, and had found a dead man in the bush, and + related the incidents as though they were common-place. + </p> + <p> + It happened one day—after Andy had been coming two or three times a + week for about a year—that she found herself sitting with him on a + log of the woodheap, in the cool of the evening, enjoying the sunset + breeze. Andy's arm had got round her—just as it might have gone + round a post he happened to be leaning against. They hadn't been talking + about anything in particular. Andy said he wouldn't be surprised if they + had a thunderstorm before mornin'—it had been so smotherin' hot all + day. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie said, “Very likely.” + </p> + <p> + Andy smoked a good while, then he said: “Ah, well! It's a weary world.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie didn't say anything. + </p> + <p> + By-and-bye Andy said: “Ah, well; it's a lonely world, Lizzie.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel lonely, Andy?” asked Lizzie, after a while. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Lizzie; I do.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie let herself settle, a little, against him, without either seeming + to notice it, and after another while she said, softly: “So do I, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + Andy knocked the ashes from his pipe very slowly and deliberately, and put + it away; then he seemed to brighten suddenly, and said briskly: “Well, + Lizzie! Are you satisfied!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Andy; I'm satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite sure, now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I'm quite sure, Andy. I'm perfectly satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, Lizzie—it's settled!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + But to-day—a couple of months after the proposal described above—Andy + had trouble on his mind, and the trouble was connected with Lizzie Porter. + He was putting up a two-rail fence along the old log-paddock on the + frontage, and working like a man in trouble, trying to work it off his + mind; and evidently not succeeding—for the last two panels were out + of line. He was ramming a post—Andy rammed honestly, from the bottom + of the hole, not the last few shovelfuls below the surface, as some do. He + was ramming the last layer of clay when a cloud of white dust came along + the road, paused, and drifted or poured off into the scrub, leaving long + Dave Bentley, the horse-breaker, on his last victim. + </p> + <p> + “'Ello, Andy! Graftin'?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to speak to you, Dave,” said Andy, in a strange voice. + </p> + <p> + “All—all right!” said Dave, rather puzzled. He got down, wondering + what was up, and hung his horse to the last post but one. + </p> + <p> + Dave was Andy's opposite in one respect: he jumped to conclusions, as + women do; but, unlike women, he was mostly wrong. He was an old chum and + mate of Andy's who had always liked, admired, and trusted him. But now, to + his helpless surprise, Andy went on scraping the earth from the surface + with his long-handled shovel, and heaping it conscientiously round the + butt of the post, his face like a block of wood, and his lips set grimly. + Dave broke out first (with bush oaths): + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with you? Spit it out! What have I been doin' to you? + What's yer got yer rag out about, anyway?” + </p> + <p> + Andy faced him suddenly, with hatred for “funny business” flashing in his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “What did you say to my sister Mary about Lizzie Porter?” + </p> + <p> + Dave started; then he whistled long and low. “Spit it all out, Andy!” he + advised. + </p> + <p> + “You said she was travellin' with a feller!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what's the harm in that? Everybody knows that—” + </p> + <p> + “If any crawler says a word about Lizzie Porter—look here, me and + you's got to fight, Dave Bentley!” Then, with still greater vehemence, as + though he had a share in the garment: “Take off that coat!” + </p> + <p> + “Not if I know it!” said Dave, with the sudden quietness that comes to + brave but headstrong and impulsive men at a critical moment: “Me and you + ain't goin' to fight, Andy; and” (with sudden energy) “if you try it on + I'll knock you into jim-rags!” + </p> + <p> + Then, stepping close to Andy and taking him by the arm: “Andy, this thing + will have to be fixed up. Come here; I want to talk to you.” And he led + him some paces aside, inside the boundary line, which seemed a ludicrously + unnecessary precaution, seeing that there was no one within sight or + hearing save Dave's horse. + </p> + <p> + “Now, look here, Andy; let's have it over. What's the matter with you and + Lizzie Porter?” + </p> + <p> + “I'M travellin' with her, that's all; and we're going to get married in + two years!” + </p> + <p> + Dave gave vent to another long, low whistle. He seemed to think and make + up his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Now, look here, Andy: we're old mates, ain't we?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I know that.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you think I'd tell you a blanky lie, or crawl behind your back? Do + you? Spit it out!” + </p> + <p> + “N—no, I don't!” + </p> + <p> + “I've always stuck up for you, Andy, and—why, I've fought for you + behind your back!” + </p> + <p> + “I know that, Dave.” + </p> + <p> + “There's my hand on it!” + </p> + <p> + Andy took his friend's hand mechanically, but gripped it hard. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Andy, I'll tell you straight: It's Gorstruth about Lizzie Porter!” + </p> + <p> + They stood as they were for a full minute, hands clasped; Andy with his + jaw dropped and staring in a dazed sort of way at Dave. He raised his + disengaged hand helplessly to his thatch, gulped suspiciously, and asked + in a broken voice: + </p> + <p> + “How—how do you know it, Dave?” + </p> + <p> + “Know it? Andy, I SEEN 'EM MESELF!” + </p> + <p> + “You did, Dave?” in a tone that suggested sorrow more than anger at Dave's + part in the seeing of them. + </p> + <p> + “Gorstruth, Andy!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “Tell me, Dave, who was the feller? That's all I want to know.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't tell you that. I only seen them when I was canterin' past in the + dusk.” + </p> + <p> + “Then how'd you know it was a man at all?” + </p> + <p> + “It wore trousers, anyway, and was as big as you; so it couldn't have been + a girl. I'm pretty safe to swear it was Mick Kelly. I saw his horse + hangin' up at Porter's once or twice. But I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll + find out for you, Andy. And, what's more, I'll job him for you if I catch + him!” + </p> + <p> + Andy said nothing; his hands clenched and his chest heaved. Dave laid a + friendly hand on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “It's red hot, Andy, I know. Anybody else but you and I wouldn't have + cared. But don't be a fool; there's any Gorsquantity of girls knockin' + round. You just give it to her straight and chuck her, and have done with + it. You must be bad off to bother about her. Gorstruth! she ain't much to + look at anyway! I've got to ride like blazes to catch the coach. Don't + knock off till I come back; I won't be above an hour. I'm goin' to give + you some points in case you've got to fight Mick; and I'll have to be + there to back you!” And, thus taking the right moment instinctively, he + jumped on his horse and galloped on towards the town. + </p> + <p> + His dust-cloud had scarcely disappeared round a corner of the paddocks + when Andy was aware of another one coming towards him. He had a dazed idea + that it was Dave coming back, but went on digging another post-hole, + mechanically, until a spring-cart rattled up, and stopped opposite him. + Then he lifted his head. It was Lizzie herself, driving home from town. + She turned towards him with her usual faint smile. Her small features were + “washed out” and rather haggard. + </p> + <p> + “'Ello, Andy!” + </p> + <p> + But, at the sight of her, all his hatred of “funny business”—intensified, + perhaps, by a sense of personal injury—came to a head, and he + exploded: + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Lizzie Porter! I know all about you. You needn't think you're + goin' to cotton on with me any more after this! I wouldn't be seen in a + paddock with yer! I'm satisfied about you! Get on out of this!” + </p> + <p> + The girl stared at him for a moment thunderstruck; then she lammed into + the old horse with a stick she carried in place of a whip. + </p> + <p> + She cried, and wondered what she'd done, and trembled so that she could + scarcely unharness the horse, and wondered if Andy had got a touch of the + sun, and went in and sat down and cried again; and pride came to her aid + and she hated Andy; thought of her big brother, away droving, and made a + cup of tea. She shed tears over the tea, and went through it all again. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Andy was suffering a reaction. He started to fill the hole + before he put the post in; then to ram the post before the rails were in + position. Dubbing off the ends of the rails, he was in danger of + amputating a toe or a foot with every stroke of the adze. And, at last, + trying to squint along the little lumps of clay which he had placed in the + centre of the top of each post for several panels back—to assist him + to take a line—he found that they swam and doubled, and ran off in + watery angles, for his eyes were too moist to see straight and single. + </p> + <p> + Then he threw down the tools hopelessly, and was standing helplessly + undecided whether to go home or go down to the creek and drown himself, + when Dave turned up again. + </p> + <p> + “Seen her?” asked Dave. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Andy. + </p> + <p> + “Did you chuck her?” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Dave; are you sure the feller was Mick Kelly?” + </p> + <p> + “I never said I was. How was I to know? It was dark. You don't expect I'd + 'fox' a feller I see doing a bit of a bear-up to a girl, do you? It might + have been you, for all I knowed. I suppose she's been talking you round?” + </p> + <p> + “No, she ain't,” said Andy. “But, look here, Dave; I was properly gone on + that girl, I was, and—and I want to be sure I'm right.” + </p> + <p> + The business was getting altogether too psychological for Dave Bentley. + “You might as well,” he rapped out, “call me a liar at once!” + </p> + <p> + “'Taint that at all, Dave. I want to get at who the feller is; that's what + I want to get at now. Where did you see them, and when?” + </p> + <p> + “I seen them Anniversary night, along the road, near Ross' farm; and I + seen 'em Sunday night afore that—in the trees near the old culvert—near + Porter's sliprails; and I seen 'em one night outside Porter's, on a log + near the woodheap. They was thick that time, and bearin' up proper, and no + mistake. So I can swear to her. Now, are you satisfied about her?” + </p> + <p> + But Andy was wildly pitchforking his thatch under his hat with all ten + fingers and staring at Dave, who began to regard him uneasily; then there + came to Andy's eyes an awful glare, which caused Dave to step back + hastily. + </p> + <p> + “Good God, Andy! Are yer goin' ratty?” + </p> + <p> + “No!” cried Andy, wildly. + </p> + <p> + “Then what the blazes is the matter with you? You'll have rats if you + don't look out!” + </p> + <p> + “JIMMINY FROTH!—It was ME all the time!” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “It was me that was with her all them nights. It was me that you seen. + WHY, I POPPED ON THE WOODHEAP!” + </p> + <p> + Dave was taken too suddenly to whistle this time. + </p> + <p> + “And you went for her just now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” yelled Andy. + </p> + <p> + “Well—you've done it!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Andy, hopelessly; “I've done it!” + </p> + <p> + Dave whistled now—a very long, low whistle. “Well, you're a bloomin' + goat, Andy, after this. But this thing'll have to be fixed up!” and he + cantered away. Poor Andy was too badly knocked to notice the abruptness of + Dave's departure, or to see that he turned through the sliprails on to the + track that led to Porter's. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + Half an hour later Andy appeared at Porter's back door, with an expression + on his face as though the funeral was to start in ten minutes. In a tone + befitting such an occasion, he wanted to see Lizzie. + </p> + <p> + Dave had been there with the laudable determination of fixing the business + up, and had, of course, succeeded in making it much worse than it was + before. But Andy made it all right. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Iron-Bark Chip + </h2> + <p> + Dave Regan and party—bush-fencers, tank-sinkers, rough carpenters, + &c.—were finishing the third and last culvert of their contract + on the last section of the new railway line, and had already sent in their + vouchers for the completed contract, so that there might be no excuse for + extra delay in connection with the cheque. + </p> + <p> + Now it had been expressly stipulated in the plans and specifications that + the timber for certain beams and girders was to be iron-bark and no other, + and Government inspectors were authorised to order the removal from the + ground of any timber or material they might deem inferior, or not in + accordance with the stipulations. The railway contractor's foreman and + inspector of sub-contractors was a practical man and a bushman, but he had + been a timber-getter himself; his sympathies were bushy, and he was on + winking terms with Dave Regan. Besides, extended time was expiring, and + the contractors were in a hurry to complete the line. But the Government + inspector was a reserved man who poked round on his independent own and + appeared in lonely spots at unexpected times—with apparently no + definite object in life—like a grey kangaroo bothered by a new wire + fence, but unsuspicious of the presence of humans. He wore a grey suit, + rode, or mostly led, an ashen-grey horse; the grass was long and grey, so + he was seldom spotted until he was well within the horizon and bearing + leisurely down on a party of sub-contractors, leading his horse. + </p> + <p> + Now iron-bark was scarce and distant on those ridges, and another timber, + similar in appearance, but much inferior in grain and “standing” quality, + was plentiful and close at hand. Dave and party were “about full of” the + job and place, and wanted to get their cheque and be gone to another + “spec” they had in view. So they came to reckon they'd get the last girder + from a handy tree, and have it squared, in place, and carefully and + conscientiously tarred before the inspector happened along, if he did. But + they didn't. They got it squared, and ready to be lifted into its place; + the kindly darkness of tar was ready to cover a fraud that took four + strong men with crowbars and levers to shift; and now (such is the regular + cussedness of things) as the fraudulent piece of timber lay its last hour + on the ground, looking and smelling, to their guilty imaginations like + anything but iron-bark, they were aware of the Government inspector + drifting down upon them obliquely, with something of the atmosphere of a + casual Bill or Jim who had dropped out of his easy-going track to see how + they were getting on, and borrow a match. They had more than half hoped + that, as he had visited them pretty frequently during the progress of the + work, and knew how near it was to completion, he wouldn't bother coming + any more. But it's the way with the Government. You might move heaven and + earth in vain endeavour to get the “Guvermunt” to flutter an eyelash over + something of the most momentous importance to yourself and mates and the + district—even to the country; but just when you are leaving + authority severely alone, and have strong reasons for not wanting to worry + or interrupt it, and not desiring it to worry about you, it will take a + fancy into its head to come along and bother. + </p> + <p> + “It's always the way!” muttered Dave to his mates. “I knew the beggar + would turn up!... And the only cronk log we've had, too!” he added, in an + injured tone. “If this had 'a' been the only blessed iron-bark in the + whole contract, it would have been all right.... Good-day, sir!” (to the + inspector). “It's hot?” + </p> + <p> + The inspector nodded. He was not of an impulsive nature. He got down from + his horse and looked at the girder in an abstracted way; and presently + there came into his eyes a dreamy, far-away, sad sort of expression, as if + there had been a very sad and painful occurrence in his family, way back + in the past, and that piece of timber in some way reminded him of it and + brought the old sorrow home to him. He blinked three times, and asked, in + a subdued tone: + </p> + <p> + “Is that iron-bark?” + </p> + <p> + Jack Bentley, the fluent liar of the party, caught his breath with a jerk + and coughed, to cover the gasp and gain time. “I—iron-bark? Of + course it is! I thought you would know iron-bark, mister.” (Mister was + silent.) “What else d'yer think it is?” + </p> + <p> + The dreamy, abstracted expression was back. The inspector, by-the-way, + didn't know much about timber, but he had a great deal of instinct, and + went by it when in doubt. + </p> + <p> + “L—look here, mister!” put in Dave Regan, in a tone of innocent + puzzlement and with a blank bucolic face. “B—but don't the plans and + specifications say iron-bark? Ours does, anyway. I—I'll git the + papers from the tent and show yer, if yer like.” + </p> + <p> + It was not necessary. The inspector admitted the fact slowly. He stooped, + and with an absent air picked up a chip. He looked at it abstractedly for + a moment, blinked his threefold blink; then, seeming to recollect an + appointment, he woke up suddenly and asked briskly: + </p> + <p> + “Did this chip come off that girder?” + </p> + <p> + Blank silence. The inspector blinked six times, divided in threes, + rapidly, mounted his horse, said “Day,” and rode off. + </p> + <p> + Regan and party stared at each other. + </p> + <p> + “Wha—what did he do that for?” asked Andy Page, the third in the + party. + </p> + <p> + “Do what for, you fool?” enquired Dave. + </p> + <p> + “Ta—take that chip for?” + </p> + <p> + “He's taking it to the office!” snarled Jack Bentley. + </p> + <p> + “What—what for? What does he want to do that for?” + </p> + <p> + “To get it blanky well analysed! You ass! Now are yer satisfied?” And Jack + sat down hard on the timber, jerked out his pipe, and said to Dave, in a + sharp, toothache tone: + </p> + <p> + “Gimmiamatch!” + </p> + <p> + “We—well! what are we to do now?” enquired Andy, who was the hardest + grafter, but altogether helpless, hopeless, and useless in a crisis like + this. + </p> + <p> + “Grain and varnish the bloomin' culvert!” snapped Bentley. + </p> + <p> + But Dave's eyes, that had been ruefully following the inspector, suddenly + dilated. The inspector had ridden a short distance along the line, + dismounted, thrown the bridle over a post, laid the chip (which was too + big to go in his pocket) on top of it, got through the fence, and was now + walking back at an angle across the line in the direction of the fencing + party, who had worked up on the other side, a little more than opposite + the culvert. + </p> + <p> + Dave took in the lay of the country at a glance and thought rapidly. + </p> + <p> + “Gimme an iron-bark chip!” he said suddenly. + </p> + <p> + Bentley, who was quick-witted when the track was shown him, as is a + kangaroo dog (Jack ran by sight, not scent), glanced in the line of Dave's + eyes, jumped up, and got a chip about the same size as that which the + inspector had taken. + </p> + <p> + Now the “lay of the country” sloped generally to the line from both sides, + and the angle between the inspector's horse, the fencing party, and the + culvert was well within a clear concave space; but a couple of hundred + yards back from the line and parallel to it (on the side on which Dave's + party worked their timber) a fringe of scrub ran to within a few yards of + a point which would be about in line with a single tree on the cleared + slope, the horse, and the fencing party. + </p> + <p> + Dave took the iron-bark chip, ran along the bed of the water-course into + the scrub, raced up the siding behind the bushes, got safely, though + without breathing, across the exposed space, and brought the tree into + line between him and the inspector, who was talking to the fencers. Then + he began to work quickly down the slope towards the tree (which was a thin + one), keeping it in line, his arms close to his sides, and working, as it + were, down the trunk of the tree, as if the fencing party were kangaroos + and Dave was trying to get a shot at them. The inspector, by-the-bye, had + a habit of glancing now and then in the direction of his horse, as though + under the impression that it was flighty and restless and inclined to bolt + on opportunity. It was an anxious moment for all parties concerned—except + the inspector. They didn't want HIM to be perturbed. And, just as Dave + reached the foot of the tree, the inspector finished what he had to say to + the fencers, turned, and started to walk briskly back to his horse. There + was a thunderstorm coming. Now was the critical moment—there were + certain prearranged signals between Dave's party and the fencers which + might have interested the inspector, but none to meet a case like this. + </p> + <p> + Jack Bentley gasped, and started forward with an idea of intercepting the + inspector and holding him for a few minutes in bogus conversation. + Inspirations come to one at a critical moment, and it flashed on Jack's + mind to send Andy instead. Andy looked as innocent and guileless as he + was, but was uncomfortable in the vicinity of “funny business”, and must + have an honest excuse. “Not that that mattered,” commented Jack + afterwards; “it would have taken the inspector ten minutes to get at what + Andy was driving at, whatever it was.” + </p> + <p> + “Run, Andy! Tell him there's a heavy thunderstorm coming and he'd better + stay in our humpy till it's over. Run! Don't stand staring like a blanky + fool. He'll be gone!” + </p> + <p> + Andy started. But just then, as luck would have it, one of the fencers + started after the inspector, hailing him as “Hi, mister!” He wanted to be + set right about the survey or something—or to pretend to want to be + set right—from motives of policy which I haven't time to explain + here. + </p> + <p> + That fencer explained afterwards to Dave's party that he “seen what you + coves was up to,” and that's why he called the inspector back. But he told + them that after they had told their yarn—which was a mistake. + </p> + <p> + “Come back, Andy!” cried Jack Bentley. + </p> + <p> + Dave Regan slipped round the tree, down on his hands and knees, and made + quick time through the grass which, luckily, grew pretty tall on the + thirty or forty yards of slope between the tree and the horse. Close to + the horse, a thought struck Dave that pulled him up, and sent a shiver + along his spine and a hungry feeling under it. The horse would break away + and bolt! But the case was desperate. Dave ventured an interrogatory + “Cope, cope, cope?” The horse turned its head wearily and regarded him + with a mild eye, as if he'd expected him to come, and come on all fours, + and wondered what had kept him so long; then he went on thinking. Dave + reached the foot of the post; the horse obligingly leaning over on the + other leg. Dave reared head and shoulders cautiously behind the post, like + a snake; his hand went up twice, swiftly—the first time he grabbed + the inspector's chip, and the second time he put the iron-bark one in its + place. He drew down and back, and scuttled off for the tree like a + gigantic tailless “goanna”. + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later he walked up to the culvert from along the creek, + smoking hard to settle his nerves. + </p> + <p> + The sky seemed to darken suddenly; the first great drops of the + thunderstorm came pelting down. The inspector hurried to his horse, and + cantered off along the line in the direction of the fettlers' camp. + </p> + <p> + He had forgotten all about the chip, and left it on top of the post! + </p> + <p> + Dave Regan sat down on the beam in the rain and swore comprehensively. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “Middleton's Peter” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + The First Born +</pre> + <p> + The struggling squatter is to be found in Australia as well as the + “struggling farmer”. The Australian squatter is not always the mighty wool + king that English and American authors and other uninformed people + apparently imagine him to be. Squatting, at the best, is but a game of + chance. It depends mainly on the weather, and that, in New South Wales at + least, depends on nothing. + </p> + <p> + Joe Middleton was a struggling squatter, with a station some distance to + the westward of the furthest line reached by the ordinary “new chum”. His + run, at the time of our story, was only about six miles square, and his + stock was limited in proportion. The hands on Joe's run consisted of his + brother Dave, a middle-aged man known only as “Middleton's Peter” (who had + been in the service of the Middleton family ever since Joe Middleton could + remember), and an old black shepherd, with his gin and two boys. + </p> + <p> + It was in the first year of Joe's marriage. He had married a very ordinary + girl, as far as Australian girls go, but in his eyes she was an angel. He + really worshipped her. + </p> + <p> + One sultry afternoon in midsummer all the station hands, with the + exception of Dave Middleton, were congregated about the homestead door, + and it was evident from their solemn faces that something unusual was the + matter. They appeared to be watching for something or someone across the + flat, and the old black shepherd, who had been listening intently with + bent head, suddenly straightened himself up and cried: + </p> + <p> + “I can hear the cart. I can see it!” + </p> + <p> + You must bear in mind that our blackfellows do not always talk the + gibberish with which they are credited by story writers. + </p> + <p> + It was not until some time after Black Bill had spoken that the white—or, + rather, the brown—portion of the party could see or even hear the + approaching vehicle. At last, far out through the trunks of the native + apple-trees, the cart was seen approaching; and as it came nearer it was + evident that it was being driven at a break-neck pace, the horses + cantering all the way, while the motion of the cart, as first one wheel + and then the other sprang from a root or a rut, bore a striking + resemblance to the Highland Fling. There were two persons in the cart. One + was Mother Palmer, a stout, middle-aged party (who sometimes did the + duties of a midwife), and the other was Dave Middleton, Joe's brother. + </p> + <p> + The cart was driven right up to the door with scarcely any abatement of + speed, and was stopped so suddenly that Mrs. Palmer was sent sprawling on + to the horse's rump. She was quickly helped down, and, as soon as she had + recovered sufficient breath, she followed Black Mary into the bedroom + where young Mrs. Middleton was lying, looking very pale and frightened. + The horse which had been driven so cruelly had not done blowing before + another cart appeared, also driven very fast. It contained old Mr. and + Mrs. Middleton, who lived comfortably on a small farm not far from + Palmer's place. + </p> + <p> + As soon as he had dumped Mrs. Palmer, Dave Middleton left the cart and, + mounting a fresh horse which stood ready saddled in the yard, galloped off + through the scrub in a different direction. + </p> + <p> + Half an hour afterwards Joe Middleton came home on a horse that had been + almost ridden to death. His mother came out at the sound of his arrival, + and he anxiously asked her: + </p> + <p> + “How is she?” + </p> + <p> + “Did you find Doc. Wild?” asked the mother. + </p> + <p> + “No, confound him!” exclaimed Joe bitterly. “He promised me faithfully to + come over on Wednesday and stay until Maggie was right again. Now he has + left Dean's and gone—Lord knows where. I suppose he is drinking + again. How is Maggie?” + </p> + <p> + “It's all over now—the child is born. It's a boy; but she is very + weak. Dave got Mrs. Palmer here just in time. I had better tell you at + once that Mrs. Palmer says if we don't get a doctor here to-night poor + Maggie won't live.” + </p> + <p> + “Good God! and what am I to do?” cried Joe desperately. + </p> + <p> + “Is there any other doctor within reach?” + </p> + <p> + “No; there is only the one at B——; that's forty miles away, + and he is laid up with the broken leg he got in the buggy accident. + Where's Dave?” + </p> + <p> + “Gone to Black's shanty. One of Mrs. Palmer's sons thought he remembered + someone saying that Doc. Wild was there last week. That's fifteen miles + away.” + </p> + <p> + “But it is our only hope,” said Joe dejectedly. “I wish to God that I had + taken Maggie to some civilised place a month ago.” + </p> + <p> + Doc. Wild was a well-known character among the bushmen of New South Wales, + and although the profession did not recognise him, and denounced him as an + empiric, his skill was undoubted. Bushmen had great faith in him, and + would often ride incredible distances in order to bring him to the bedside + of a sick friend. He drank fearfully, but was seldom incapable of treating + a patient; he would, however, sometimes be found in an obstinate mood and + refuse to travel to the side of a sick person, and then the devil himself + could not make the doctor budge. But for all this he was very generous—a + fact that could, no doubt, be testified to by many a grateful sojourner in + the lonely bush. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. + + The Only Hope +</pre> + <p> + Night came on, and still there was no change in the condition of the young + wife, and no sign of the doctor. Several stockmen from the neighbouring + stations, hearing that there was trouble at Joe Middleton's, had ridden + over, and had galloped off on long, hopeless rides in search of a doctor. + Being generally free from sickness themselves, these bushmen look upon it + as a serious business even in its mildest form; what is more, their + sympathy is always practical where it is possible for it to be so. One + day, while out on the run after an “outlaw”, Joe Middleton was badly + thrown from his horse, and the break-neck riding that was done on that + occasion from the time the horse came home with empty saddle until the + rider was safe in bed and attended by a doctor was something + extraordinary, even for the bush. + </p> + <p> + Before the time arrived when Dave Middleton might reasonably have been + expected to return, the station people were anxiously watching for him, + all except the old blackfellow and the two boys, who had gone to yard the + sheep. + </p> + <p> + The party had been increased by Jimmy Nowlett, the bullocky, who had just + arrived with a load of fencing wire and provisions for Middleton. Jimmy + was standing in the moonlight, whip in hand, looking as anxious as the + husband himself, and endeavouring to calculate by mental arithmetic the + exact time it ought to take Dave to complete his double journey, taking + into consideration the distance, the obstacles in the way, and the chances + of horse-flesh. + </p> + <p> + But the time which Jimmy fixed for the arrival came without Dave. + </p> + <p> + Old Peter (as he was generally called, though he was not really old) stood + aside in his usual sullen manner, his hat drawn down over his brow and + eyes, and nothing visible but a thick and very horizontal black beard, + from the depth of which emerged large clouds of very strong tobacco smoke, + the product of a short, black, clay pipe. + </p> + <p> + They had almost given up all hope of seeing Dave return that night, when + Peter slowly and deliberately removed his pipe and grunted: + </p> + <p> + “He's a-comin'.” + </p> + <p> + He then replaced the pipe, and smoked on as before. + </p> + <p> + All listened, but not one of them could hear a sound. + </p> + <p> + “Yer ears must be pretty sharp for yer age, Peter. We can't hear him,” + remarked Jimmy Nowlett. + </p> + <p> + “His dog ken,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + The pipe was again removed and its abbreviated stem pointed in the + direction of Dave's cattle dog, who had risen beside his kennel with + pointed ears, and was looking eagerly in the direction from which his + master was expected to come. + </p> + <p> + Presently the sound of horse's hoofs was distinctly heard. + </p> + <p> + “I can hear two horses,” cried Jimmy Nowlett excitedly. + </p> + <p> + “There's only one,” said old Peter quietly. + </p> + <p> + A few moments passed, and a single horseman appeared on the far side of + the flat. + </p> + <p> + “It's Doc. Wild on Dave's horse,” cried Jimmy Nowlett. “Dave don't ride + like that.” + </p> + <p> + “It's Dave,” said Peter, replacing his pipe and looking more unsociable + than ever. + </p> + <p> + Dave rode up and, throwing himself wearily from the saddle, stood + ominously silent by the side of his horse. + </p> + <p> + Joe Middleton said nothing, but stood aside with an expression of utter + hopelessness on his face. + </p> + <p> + “Not there?” asked Jimmy Nowlett at last, addressing Dave. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he's there,” answered Dave, impatiently. + </p> + <p> + This was not the answer they expected, but nobody seemed surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Drunk?” asked Jimmy. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Here old Peter removed his pipe, and pronounced the one word—“How?” + </p> + <p> + “What the hell do you mean by that?” muttered Dave, whose patience had + evidently been severely tried by the clever but intemperate bush doctor. + </p> + <p> + “How drunk?” explained Peter, with great equanimity. + </p> + <p> + “Stubborn drunk, blind drunk, beastly drunk, dead drunk, and damned well + drunk, if that's what you want to know!” + </p> + <p> + “What did Doc. say?” asked Jimmy. + </p> + <p> + “Said he was sick—had lumbago—wouldn't come for the Queen of + England; said he wanted a course of treatment himself. Curse him! I have + no patience to talk about him.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd give him a course of treatment,” muttered Jimmy viciously, trailing + the long lash of his bullock-whip through the grass and spitting + spitefully at the ground. + </p> + <p> + Dave turned away and joined Joe, who was talking earnestly to his mother + by the kitchen door. He told them that he had spent an hour trying to + persuade Doc. Wild to come, and, that before he had left the shanty, Black + had promised him faithfully to bring the doctor over as soon as his + obstinate mood wore off. + </p> + <p> + Just then a low moan was heard from the sick room, followed by the sound + of Mother Palmer's voice calling old Mrs. Middleton, who went inside + immediately. + </p> + <p> + No one had noticed the disappearance of Peter, and when he presently + returned from the stockyard, leading the only fresh horse that remained, + Jimmy Nowlett began to regard him with some interest. Peter transferred + the saddle from Dave's horse to the other, and then went into a small room + off the kitchen, which served him as a bedroom; from it he soon returned + with a formidable-looking revolver, the chambers of which he examined in + the moonlight in full view of all the company. They thought for a moment + the man had gone mad. Old Middleton leaped quickly behind Nowlett, and + Black Mary, who had come out to the cask at the corner for a dipper of + water, dropped the dipper and was inside like a shot. One of the black + boys came softly up at that moment; as soon as his sharp eye “spotted” the + weapon, he disappeared as though the earth had swallowed him. + </p> + <p> + “What the mischief are yer goin' ter do, Peter?” asked Jimmy. + </p> + <p> + “Goin' to fetch him,” said Peter, and, after carefully emptying his pipe + and replacing it in a leather pouch at his belt, he mounted and rode off + at an easy canter. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy watched the horse until it disappeared at the edge of the flat, and + then after coiling up the long lash of his bullock-whip in the dust until + it looked like a sleeping snake, he prodded the small end of the long pine + handle into the middle of the coil, as though driving home a point, and + said in a tone of intense conviction: + </p> + <p> + “He'll fetch him.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III. + + Doc. Wild +</pre> + <p> + Peter gradually increased his horse's speed along the rough bush track + until he was riding at a good pace. It was ten miles to the main road, and + five from there to the shanty kept by Black. + </p> + <p> + For some time before Peter started the atmosphere had been very close and + oppressive. The great black edge of a storm-cloud had risen in the east, + and everything indicated the approach of a thunderstorm. It was not long + coming. Before Peter had completed six miles of his journey, the clouds + rolled over, obscuring the moon, and an Australian thunderstorm came on + with its mighty downpour, its blinding lightning, and its earth-shaking + thunder. Peter rode steadily on, only pausing now and then until a flash + revealed the track in front of him. + </p> + <p> + Black's shanty—or, rather, as the sign had it, “Post Office and + General Store”—was, as we have said, five miles along the main road + from the point where Middleton's track joined it. The building was of the + usual style of bush architecture. About two hundred yards nearer the + creek, which crossed the road further on, stood a large bark and slab + stable, large enough to have met the requirements of a legitimate bush + “public”. + </p> + <p> + The reader may doubt that a “sly grog shop” could openly carry on business + on a main Government road along which mounted troopers were continually + passing. But then, you see, mounted troopers get thirsty like other men; + moreover, they could always get their thirst quenched 'gratis' at these + places; so the reader will be prepared to hear that on this very night two + troopers' horses were stowed snugly away in the stable, and two troopers + were stowed snugly away in the back room of the shanty, sleeping off the + effects of their cheap but strong potations. + </p> + <p> + There were two rooms, of a sort, attached to the stables—one at each + end. One was occupied by a man who was “generally useful”, and the other + was the surgery, office, and bedroom 'pro tem.' of Doc. Wild. + </p> + <p> + Doc. Wild was a tall man, of spare proportions. He had a cadaverous face, + black hair, bushy black eyebrows, eagle nose, and eagle eyes. He never + slept while he was drinking. On this occasion he sat in front of the fire + on a low three-legged stool. His knees were drawn up, his toes hooked + round the front legs of the stool, one hand resting on one knee, and one + elbow (the hand supporting the chin) resting on the other. He was staring + intently into the fire, on which an old black saucepan was boiling and + sending forth a pungent odour of herbs. There seemed something uncanny + about the doctor as the red light of the fire fell on his hawk-like face + and gleaming eyes. He might have been Mephistopheles watching some + infernal brew. + </p> + <p> + He had sat there some time without stirring a finger, when the door + suddenly burst open and Middleton's Peter stood within, dripping wet. The + doctor turned his black, piercing eyes upon the intruder (who regarded him + silently) for a moment, and then asked quietly: + </p> + <p> + “What the hell do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “I want you,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “And what do you want me for?” + </p> + <p> + “I want you to come to Joe Middleton's wife. She's bad,” said Peter + calmly. + </p> + <p> + “I won't come,” shouted the doctor. “I've brought enough horse-stealers + into the world already. If any more want to come they can go to blazes for + me. Now, you get out of this!” + </p> + <p> + “Don't get yer rag out,” said Peter quietly. “The hoss-stealer's come, an' + nearly killed his mother ter begin with; an' if yer don't get yer + physic-box an' come wi' me, by the great God I'll——” + </p> + <p> + Here the revolver was produced and pointed at Doc. Wild's head. The sight + of the weapon had a sobering effect upon the doctor. He rose, looked at + Peter critically for a moment, knocked the weapon out of his hand, and + said slowly and deliberately: + </p> + <p> + “Wall, ef the case es as serious as that, I (hic) reckon I'd better come.” + </p> + <p> + Peter was still of the same opinion, so Doc. Wild proceeded to get his + medicine chest ready. He explained afterwards, in one of his softer + moments, that the shooter didn't frighten him so much as it touched his + memory—“sorter put him in mind of the old days in California, and + made him think of the man he might have been,” he'd say,—“kinder + touched his heart and slid the durned old panorama in front of him like a + flash; made him think of the time when he slipped three leaden pills into + 'Blue Shirt' for winking at a new chum behind his (the Doc.'s) back when + he was telling a truthful yarn, and charged the said 'Blue Shirt' a + hundred dollars for extracting the said pills.” + </p> + <p> + Joe Middleton's wife is a grandmother now. + </p> + <p> + Peter passed after the manner of his sort; he was found dead in his bunk. + </p> + <p> + Poor Doc. Wild died in a shepherd's hut at the Dry Creeks. The shepherds + (white men) found him, “naked as he was born and with the hide half burned + off him with the sun,” rounding up imaginary snakes on a dusty clearing, + one blazing hot day. The hut-keeper had some “quare” (queer) experiences + with the doctor during the next three days and used, in after years, to + tell of them, between the puffs of his pipe, calmly and solemnly and as if + the story was rather to the doctor's credit than otherwise. The shepherds + sent for the police and a doctor, and sent word to Joe Middleton. Doc. + Wild was sensible towards the end. His interview with the other doctor was + characteristic. “And, now you see how far I am,” he said in conclusion—“have + you brought the brandy?” The other doctor had. Joe Middleton came with his + waggonette, and in it the softest mattress and pillows the station + afforded. He also, in his innocence, brought a dozen of soda-water. Doc. + Wild took Joe's hand feebly, and, a little later, he “passed out” (as he + would have said) murmuring “something that sounded like poetry”, in an + unknown tongue. Joe took the body to the home station. “Who's the boss + bringin'?” asked the shearers, seeing the waggonette coming very slowly + and the boss walking by the horses' heads. “Doc. Wild,” said a station + hand. “Take yer hats off.” + </p> + <p> + They buried him with bush honours, and chiselled his name on a slab of + bluegum—a wood that lasts. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Mystery of Dave Regan + </h2> + <p> + “And then there was Dave Regan,” said the traveller. “Dave used to die + oftener than any other bushman I knew. He was always being reported dead + and turnin' up again. He seemed to like it—except once, when his + brother drew his money and drank it all to drown his grief at what he + called Dave's 'untimely end'. Well, Dave went up to Queensland once with + cattle, and was away three years and reported dead, as usual. He was + drowned in the Bogan this time while tryin' to swim his horse acrost a + flood—and his sweetheart hurried up and got spliced to a worse man + before Dave got back. + </p> + <p> + “Well, one day I was out in the bush lookin' for timber, when the biggest + storm ever knowed in that place come on. There was hail in it, too, as big + as bullets, and if I hadn't got behind a stump and crouched down in time + I'd have been riddled like a—like a bushranger. As it was, I got + soakin' wet. The storm was over in a few minutes, the water run off down + the gullies, and the sun come out and the scrub steamed—and stunk + like a new pair of moleskin trousers. I went on along the track, and + presently I seen a long, lanky chap get on to a long, lanky horse and ride + out of a bush yard at the edge of a clearin'. I knowed it was Dave + d'reckly I set eyes on him. + </p> + <p> + “Dave used to ride a tall, holler-backed thoroughbred with a body and + limbs like a kangaroo dog, and it would circle around you and sidle away + as if it was frightened you was goin' to jab a knife into it. + </p> + <p> + “''Ello! Dave!' said I, as he came spurrin' up. 'How are yer!' + </p> + <p> + “''Ello, Jim!' says he. 'How are you?' + </p> + <p> + “'All right!' says I. 'How are yer gettin' on?' + </p> + <p> + “But, before we could say any more, that horse shied away and broke off + through the scrub to the right. I waited, because I knowed Dave would come + back again if I waited long enough; and in about ten minutes he came + sidlin' in from the scrub to the left. + </p> + <p> + “'Oh, I'm all right,' says he, spurrin' up sideways; 'How are you?' + </p> + <p> + “'Right!' says I. 'How's the old people?' + </p> + <p> + “'Oh, I ain't been home yet,' says he, holdin' out his hand; but, afore I + could grip it, the cussed horse sidled off to the south end of the + clearin' and broke away again through the scrub. + </p> + <p> + “I heard Dave swearin' about the country for twenty minutes or so, and + then he came spurrin' and cursin' in from the other end of the clearin'. + </p> + <p> + “'Where have you been all this time?' I said, as the horse came curvin' up + like a boomerang. + </p> + <p> + “'Gulf country,' said Dave. + </p> + <p> + “'That was a storm, Dave,' said I. + </p> + <p> + “'My oath!' says Dave. + </p> + <p> + “'Get caught in it?' + </p> + <p> + “'Yes.' + </p> + <p> + “'Got to shelter?' + </p> + <p> + “'No.' + </p> + <p> + “'But you're as dry's a bone, Dave!' + </p> + <p> + “Dave grinned. '———and———and———the————!' + he yelled. + </p> + <p> + “He said that to the horse as it boomeranged off again and broke away + through the scrub. I waited; but he didn't come back, and I reckoned he'd + got so far away before he could pull up that he didn't think it worth + while comin' back; so I went on. By-and-bye I got thinkin'. Dave was as + dry as a bone, and I knowed that he hadn't had time to get to shelter, for + there wasn't a shed within twelve miles. He wasn't only dry, but his coat + was creased and dusty too—same as if he'd been sleepin' in a holler + log; and when I come to think of it, his face seemed thinner and whiter + than it used ter, and so did his hands and wrists, which always stuck a + long way out of his coat-sleeves; and there was blood on his face—but + I thought he'd got scratched with a twig. (Dave used to wear a coat three + or four sizes too small for him, with sleeves that didn't come much below + his elbows and a tail that scarcely reached his waist behind.) And his + hair seemed dark and lank, instead of bein' sandy and stickin' out like an + old fibre brush, as it used ter. And then I thought his voice sounded + different, too. And, when I enquired next day, there was no one heard of + Dave, and the chaps reckoned I must have been drunk, or seen his ghost. + </p> + <p> + “It didn't seem all right at all—it worried me a lot. I couldn't + make out how Dave kept dry; and the horse and saddle and saddle-cloth was + wet. I told the chaps how he talked to me and what he said, and how he + swore at the horse; but they only said it was Dave's ghost and nobody + else's. I told 'em about him bein' dry as a bone after gettin' caught in + that storm; but they only laughed and said it was a dry place where Dave + went to. I talked and argued about it until the chaps began to tap their + foreheads and wink—then I left off talking. But I didn't leave off + thinkin'—I always hated a mystery. Even Dave's father told me that + Dave couldn't be alive or else his ghost wouldn't be round—he said + he knew Dave better than that. One or two fellers did turn up afterwards + that had seen Dave about the time that I did—and then the chaps said + they was sure that Dave was dead. + </p> + <p> + “But one fine day, as a lot of us chaps was playin' pitch and toss at the + shanty, one of the fellers yelled out: + </p> + <p> + “'By Gee! Here comes Dave Regan!' + </p> + <p> + “And I looked up and saw Dave himself, sidlin' out of a cloud of dust on a + long lanky horse. He rode into the stockyard, got down, hung his horse up + to a post, put up the rails, and then come slopin' towards us with a + half-acre grin on his face. Dave had long, thin bow-legs, and when he was + on the ground he moved as if he was on roller skates. + </p> + <p> + “''El-lo, Dave!' says I. 'How are yer?' + </p> + <p> + “''Ello, Jim!' said he. 'How the blazes are you?' + </p> + <p> + “'All right!' says I, shakin' hands. 'How are yer?' + </p> + <p> + “'Oh! I'm all right!' he says. 'How are yer poppin' up!' + </p> + <p> + “Well, when we'd got all that settled, and the other chaps had asked how + he was, he said: 'Ah, well! Let's have a drink.' + </p> + <p> + “And all the other chaps crawfished up and flung themselves round the + corner and sidled into the bar after Dave. We had a lot of talk, and he + told us that he'd been down before, but had gone away without seein' any + of us, except me, because he'd suddenly heard of a mob of cattle at a + station two hundred miles away; and after a while I took him aside and + said: + </p> + <p> + “'Look here, Dave! Do you remember the day I met you after the storm?' + </p> + <p> + “He scratched his head. + </p> + <p> + “'Why, yes,' he says. + </p> + <p> + “'Did you get under shelter that day?' + </p> + <p> + “'Why—no.' + </p> + <p> + “'Then how the blazes didn't yer get wet?' + </p> + <p> + “Dave grinned; then he says: + </p> + <p> + “'Why, when I seen the storm coming I took off me clothes and stuck 'em in + a holler log till the rain was over.' + </p> + <p> + “'Yes,' he says, after the other coves had done laughin', but before I'd + done thinking; 'I kept my clothes dry and got a good refreshin' + shower-bath into the bargain.' + </p> + <p> + “Then he scratched the back of his neck with his little finger, and + dropped his jaw, and thought a bit; then he rubbed the top of his head and + his shoulder, reflective-like, and then he said: + </p> + <p> + “'But I didn't reckon for them there blanky hailstones.'” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mitchell on Matrimony + </h2> + <p> + “I suppose your wife will be glad to see you,” said Mitchell to his mate + in their camp by the dam at Hungerford. They were overhauling their swags, + and throwing away the blankets, and calico, and old clothes, and rubbish + they didn't want—everything, in fact, except their pocket-books and + letters and portraits, things which men carry about with them always, that + are found on them when they die, and sent to their relations if possible. + Otherwise they are taken in charge by the constable who officiates at the + inquest, and forwarded to the Minister of Justice along with the + depositions. + </p> + <p> + It was the end of the shearing season. Mitchell and his mate had been + lucky enough to get two good sheds in succession, and were going to take + the coach from Hungerford to Bourke on their way to Sydney. The morning + stars were bright yet, and they sat down to a final billy of tea, two + dusty Johnny-cakes, and a scrag of salt mutton. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Mitchell's mate, “and I'll be glad to see her too.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you will,” said Mitchell. He placed his pint-pot between his + feet, rested his arm against his knee, and stirred the tea meditatively + with the handle of his pocket-knife. It was vaguely understood that + Mitchell had been married at one period of his chequered career. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think we ever understood women properly,” he said, as he took a + cautious sip to see if his tea was cool and sweet enough, for his lips + were sore; “I don't think we ever will—we never took the trouble to + try, and if we did it would be only wasted brain power that might just as + well be spent on the blackfellow's lingo; because by the time you've + learnt it they'll be extinct, and woman 'll be extinct before you've + learnt her.... The morning star looks bright, doesn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well,” said Mitchell after a while, “there's many little things we + might try to understand women in. I read in a piece of newspaper the other + day about how a man changes after he's married; how he gets short, and + impatient, and bored (which is only natural), and sticks up a wall of + newspaper between himself and his wife when he's at home; and how it comes + like a cold shock to her, and all her air-castles vanish, and in the end + she often thinks about taking the baby and the clothes she stands in, and + going home for sympathy and comfort to mother. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps she never got a word of sympathy from her mother in her life, nor + a day's comfort at home before she was married; but that doesn't make the + slightest difference. It doesn't make any difference in your case either, + if you haven't been acting like a dutiful son-in-law. + </p> + <p> + “Somebody wrote that a woman's love is her whole existence, while a man's + love is only part of his—which is true, and only natural and + reasonable, all things considered. But women never consider as a rule. A + man can't go on talking lovey-dovey talk for ever, and listening to his + young wife's prattle when he's got to think about making a living, and + nursing her and answering her childish questions and telling her he loves + his little ownest every minute in the day, while the bills are running up, + and rent mornings begin to fly round and hustle and crowd him. + </p> + <p> + “He's got her and he's satisfied; and if the truth is known he loves her + really more than he did when they were engaged, only she won't be + satisfied about it unless he tells her so every hour in the day. At least + that's how it is for the first few months. + </p> + <p> + “But a woman doesn't understand these things—she never will, she + can't—and it would be just as well for us to try and understand that + she doesn't and can't understand them.” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell knocked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin against his boot, and + reached for the billy. + </p> + <p> + “There's many little things we might do that seem mere trifles and + nonsense to us, but mean a lot to her; that wouldn't be any trouble or + sacrifice to us, but might help to make her life happy. It's just because + we never think about these little things—don't think them worth + thinking about, in fact—they never enter our intellectual foreheads. + </p> + <p> + “For instance, when you're going out in the morning you might put your + arms round her and give her a hug and a kiss, without her having to remind + you. You may forget about it and never think any more of it—but she + will. + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn't be any trouble to you, and would only take a couple of + seconds, and would give her something to be happy about when you're gone, + and make her sing to herself for hours while she bustles about her work + and thinks up what she'll get you for dinner.” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell's mate sighed, and shifted the sugar-bag over towards Mitchell. + He seemed touched and bothered over something. + </p> + <p> + “Then again,” said Mitchell, “it mightn't be convenient for you to go home + to dinner—something might turn up during the morning—you might + have some important business to do, or meet some chaps and get invited to + lunch and not be very well able to refuse, when it's too late, or you + haven't a chance to send a message to your wife. But then again, chaps and + business seem very big things to you, and only little things to the wife; + just as lovey-dovey talk is important to her and nonsense to you. And when + you come to analyse it, one is not so big, nor the other so small, after + all; especially when you come to think that chaps can always wait, and + business is only an inspiration in your mind, nine cases out of ten. + </p> + <p> + “Think of the trouble she takes to get you a good dinner, and how she + keeps it hot between two plates in the oven, and waits hour after hour + till the dinner gets dried up, and all her morning's work is wasted. Think + how it hurts her, and how anxious she'll be (especially if you're inclined + to booze) for fear that something has happened to you. You can't get it + out of the heads of some young wives that you're liable to get run over, + or knocked down, or assaulted, or robbed, or get into one of the fixes + that a woman is likely to get into. But about the dinner waiting. Try and + put yourself in her place. Wouldn't you get mad under the same + circumstances? I know I would. + </p> + <p> + “I remember once, only just after I was married, I was invited + unexpectedly to a kidney pudding and beans—which was my favourite + grub at the time—and I didn't resist, especially as it was washing + day and I told the wife not to bother about anything for dinner. I got + home an hour or so late, and had a good explanation thought out, when the + wife met me with a smile as if we had just been left a thousand pounds. + She'd got her washing finished without assistance, though I'd told her to + get somebody to help her, and she had a kidney pudding and beans, with a + lot of extras thrown in, as a pleasant surprise for me. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I kissed her, and sat down, and stuffed till I thought every + mouthful would choke me. I got through with it somehow, but I've never + cared for kidney pudding or beans since.” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell felt for his pipe with a fatherly smile in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “And then again,” he continued, as he cut up his tobacco, “your wife might + put on a new dress and fix herself up and look well, and you might think + so and be satisfied with her appearance and be proud to take her out; but + you want to tell her so, and tell her so as often as you think about it—and + try to think a little oftener than men usually do, too.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “You should have made a good husband, Jack,” said his mate, in a softened + tone. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well, perhaps I should,” said Mitchell, rubbing up his tobacco; then + he asked abstractedly: “What sort of a husband did you make, Joe?” + </p> + <p> + “I might have made a better one than I did,” said Joe seriously, and + rather bitterly, “but I know one thing, I'm going to try and make up for + it when I go back this time.” + </p> + <p> + “We all say that,” said Mitchell reflectively, filling his pipe. “She + loves you, Joe.” + </p> + <p> + “I know she does,” said Joe. + </p> + <p> + Mitchell lit up. + </p> + <p> + “And so would any man who knew her or had seen her letters to you,” he + said between the puffs. “She's happy and contented enough, I believe?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Joe, “at least while I was there. She's never easy when I'm + away. I might have made her a good deal more happy and contented without + hurting myself much.” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell smoked long, soft, measured puffs. + </p> + <p> + His mate shifted uneasily and glanced at him a couple of times, and seemed + to become impatient, and to make up his mind about something; or perhaps + he got an idea that Mitchell had been “having” him, and felt angry over + being betrayed into maudlin confidences; for he asked abruptly: + </p> + <p> + “How is your wife now, Mitchell?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” said Mitchell calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Don't know?” echoed the mate. “Didn't you treat her well?” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell removed his pipe and drew a long breath. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well, I tried to,” he said wearily. + </p> + <p> + “Well, did you put your theory into practice?” + </p> + <p> + “I did,” said Mitchell very deliberately. + </p> + <p> + Joe waited, but nothing came. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he asked impatiently, “How did it act? Did it work well?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” said Mitchell (puff); “she left me.” + </p> + <p> + “What!” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell jerked the half-smoked pipe from his mouth, and rapped the + burning tobacco out against the toe of his boot. + </p> + <p> + “She left me,” he said, standing up and stretching himself. Then, with a + vicious jerk of his arm, “She left me for—another kind of a fellow!” + </p> + <p> + He looked east towards the public-house, where they were taking the + coach-horses from the stable. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you finish your tea, Joe? The billy's getting cold.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mitchell on Women + </h2> + <p> + “All the same,” said Mitchell's mate, continuing an argument by the + camp-fire; “all the same, I think that a woman can stand cold water better + than a man. Why, when I was staying in a boarding-house in Dunedin, one + very cold winter, there was a lady lodger who went down to the shower-bath + first thing every morning; never missed one; sometimes went in freezing + weather when I wouldn't go into a cold bath for a fiver; and sometimes + she'd stay under the shower for ten minutes at a time.” + </p> + <p> + “How'd you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, my room was near the bath-room, and I could hear the shower and tap + going, and her floundering about.” + </p> + <p> + “Hear your grandmother!” exclaimed Mitchell, contemptuously. “You don't + know women yet. Was this woman married? Did she have a husband there?” + </p> + <p> + “No; she was a young widow.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! well, it would have been the same if she was a young girl—or an + old one. Were there some passable men-boarders there?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> was there.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes! But I mean, were there any there beside you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, there were three or four; there was—a clerk and a——” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, as long as there was something with trousers on. Did it ever + strike you that she never got into the bath at all?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, no! What would she want to go there at all for, in that case?” + </p> + <p> + “To make an impression on the men,” replied Mitchell promptly. “She wanted + to make out she was nice, and wholesome, and well-washed, and particular. + Made an impression on YOU, it seems, or you wouldn't remember it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, yes, I suppose so; and, now I come to think of it, the bath didn't + seem to injure her make-up or wet her hair; but I supposed she held her + head from under the shower somehow.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she make-up so early in the morning?” asked Mitchell. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I'm sure.” + </p> + <p> + “That's unusual; but it might have been so where there was a lot of + boarders. And about the hair—that didn't count for anything, because + washing-the-head ain't supposed to be always included in a lady's bath; + it's only supposed to be washed once a fortnight, and some don't do it + once a month. The hair takes so long to dry; it don't matter so much if + the woman's got short, scraggy hair; but if a girl's hair was down to her + waist it would take hours to dry.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, how do they manage it without wetting their heads?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's easy enough. They have a little oilskin cap that fits tight + over the forehead, and they put it on, and bunch their hair up in it when + they go under the shower. Did you ever see a woman sit in a sunny place + with her hair down after having a wash?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I used to see one do that regular where I was staying; but I thought + she only did it to show off.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all—she was drying her hair; though perhaps she was showing + off at the same time, for she wouldn't sit where you—or even a + Chinaman—could see her, if she didn't think she had a good head of + hair. Now, I'LL tell you a yarn about a woman's bath. I was stopping at a + shabby-genteel boarding-house in Melbourne once, and one very cold winter, + too; and there was a rather good-looking woman there, looking for a + husband. She used to go down to the bath every morning, no matter how cold + it was, and flounder and splash about as if she enjoyed it, till you'd + feel as though you'd like to go and catch hold of her and wrap her in a + rug and carry her in to the fire and nurse her till she was warm again.” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell's mate moved uneasily, and crossed the other leg; he seemed + greatly interested. + </p> + <p> + “But she never went into the water at all!” continued Mitchell. “As soon + as one or two of the men was up in the morning she'd come down from her + room in a dressing-gown. It was a toney dressing-gown, too, and set her + off properly. She knew how to dress, anyway; most of that sort of women + do. The gown was a kind of green colour, with pink and white flowers all + over it, and red lining, and a lot of coffee-coloured lace round the neck + and down the front. Well, she'd come tripping downstairs and along the + passage, holding up one side of the gown to show her little bare white + foot in a slipper; and in the other hand she carried her tooth-brush and + bath-brush, and soap—like this—so's we all could see 'em; + trying to make out she was too particular to use soap after anyone else. + She could afford to buy her own soap, anyhow; it was hardly ever wet. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she'd go into the bathroom and turn on the tap and shower; when she + got about three inches of water in the bath, she'd step in, holding up her + gown out of the water, and go slithering and kicking up and down the bath, + like this, making a tremendous splashing. Of course she'd turn off the + shower first, and screw it off very tight—wouldn't do to let that + leak, you know; she might get wet; but she'd leave the other tap on, so as + to make all the more noise.” + </p> + <p> + “But how did you come to know all about this?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the servant girl told me. One morning she twigged her through a + corner of the bathroom window that the curtain didn't cover.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to have been pretty thick with servant girls.” + </p> + <p> + “So do you with landladies! But never mind—let me finish the yarn. + When she thought she'd splashed enough, she'd get out, wipe her feet, wash + her face and hands, and carefully unbutton the two top buttons of her + gown; then throw a towel over her head and shoulders, and listen at the + door till she thought she heard some of the men moving about. Then she'd + start for her room, and, if she met one of the men-boarders in the passage + or on the stairs, she'd drop her eyes, and pretend to see for the first + time that the top of her dressing-gown wasn't buttoned—and she'd + give a little start and grab the gown and scurry off to her room buttoning + it up. + </p> + <p> + “And sometimes she'd come skipping into the breakfast-room late, looking + awfully sweet in her dressing-gown; and if she saw any of us there, she'd + pretend to be much startled, and say that she thought all the men had gone + out, and make as though she was going to clear; and someone 'd jump up and + give her a chair, while someone else said, 'Come in, Miss Brown! come in! + Don't let us frighten you. Come right in, and have your breakfast before + it gets cold.' So she'd flutter a bit in pretty confusion, and then make a + sweet little girly-girly dive for her chair, and tuck her feet away under + the table; and she'd blush, too, but I don't know how she managed that. + </p> + <p> + “I know another trick that women have; it's mostly played by private + barmaids. That is, to leave a stocking by accident in the bathroom for the + gentlemen to find. If the barmaid's got a nice foot and ankle, she uses + one of her own stockings; but if she hasn't she gets hold of a stocking + that belongs to a girl that has. Anyway, she'll have one readied up + somehow. The stocking must be worn and nicely darned; one that's been worn + will keep the shape of the leg and foot—at least till it's washed + again. Well, the barmaid generally knows what time the gentlemen go to + bath, and she'll make it a point of going down just as a gentleman's + going. Of course he'll give her the preference—let her go first, you + know—and she'll go in and accidentally leave the stocking in a place + where he's sure to see it, and when she comes out he'll go in and find it; + and very likely he'll be a jolly sort of fellow, and when they're all + sitting down to breakfast he'll come in and ask them to guess what he's + found, and then he'll hold up the stocking. The barmaid likes this sort of + thing; but she'll hold down her head, and pretend to be confused, and keep + her eyes on her plate, and there'll be much blushing and all that sort of + thing, and perhaps she'll gammon to be mad at him, and the landlady'll + say, 'Oh, Mr. Smith! how can yer? At the breakfast table, too!' and + they'll all laugh and look at the barmaid, and she'll get more embarrassed + than ever, and spill her tea, and make out as though the stocking didn't + belong to her.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + No Place for a Woman + </h2> + <p> + He had a selection on a long box-scrub siding of the ridges, about half a + mile back and up from the coach road. There were no neighbours that I ever + heard of, and the nearest “town” was thirty miles away. He grew wheat + among the stumps of his clearing, sold the crop standing to a Cockie who + lived ten miles away, and had some surplus sons; or, some seasons, he + reaped it by hand, had it thrashed by travelling “steamer” (portable steam + engine and machine), and carried the grain, a few bags at a time, into the + mill on his rickety dray. + </p> + <p> + He had lived alone for upwards of 15 years, and was known to those who + knew him as “Ratty Howlett”. + </p> + <p> + Trav'lers and strangers failed to see anything uncommonly ratty about him. + It was known, or, at least, it was believed, without question, that while + at work he kept his horse saddled and bridled, and hung up to the fence, + or grazing about, with the saddle on—or, anyway, close handy for a + moment's notice—and whenever he caught sight, over the scrub and + through the quarter-mile break in it, of a traveller on the road, he would + jump on his horse and make after him. If it was a horseman he usually + pulled him up inside of a mile. Stories were told of unsuccessful chases, + misunderstandings, and complications arising out of Howlett's mania for + running down and bailing up travellers. Sometimes he caught one every day + for a week, sometimes not one for weeks—it was a lonely track. + </p> + <p> + The explanation was simple, sufficient, and perfectly natural—from a + bushman's point of view. Ratty only wanted to have a yarn. He and the + traveller would camp in the shade for half an hour or so and yarn and + smoke. The old man would find out where the traveller came from, and how + long he'd been there, and where he was making for, and how long he + reckoned he'd be away; and ask if there had been any rain along the + traveller's back track, and how the country looked after the drought; and + he'd get the traveller's ideas on abstract questions—if he had any. + If it was a footman (swagman), and he was short of tobacco, old Howlett + always had half a stick ready for him. Sometimes, but very rarely, he'd + invite the swagman back to the hut for a pint of tea, or a bit of meat, + flour, tea, or sugar, to carry him along the track. + </p> + <p> + And, after the yarn by the road, they said, the old man would ride back, + refreshed, to his lonely selection, and work on into the night as long as + he could see his solitary old plough horse, or the scoop of his + long-handled shovel. + </p> + <p> + And so it was that I came to make his acquaintance—or, rather, that + he made mine. I was cantering easily along the track—I was making + for the north-west with a pack horse—when about a mile beyond the + track to the selection I heard, “Hi, Mister!” and saw a dust cloud + following me. I had heard of “Old Ratty Howlett” casually, and so was + prepared for him. + </p> + <p> + A tall gaunt man on a little horse. He was clean-shaven, except for a + frill beard round under his chin, and his long wavy, dark hair was turning + grey; a square, strong-faced man, and reminded me of one full-faced + portrait of Gladstone more than any other face I had seen. He had large + reddish-brown eyes, deep set under heavy eyebrows, and with something of + the blackfellow in them—the sort of eyes that will peer at something + on the horizon that no one else can see. He had a way of talking to the + horizon, too—more than to his companion; and he had a deep vertical + wrinkle in his forehead that no smile could lessen. + </p> + <p> + I got down and got out my pipe, and we sat on a log and yarned awhile on + bush subjects; and then, after a pause, he shifted uneasily, it seemed to + me, and asked rather abruptly, and in an altered tone, if I was married. A + queer question to ask a traveller; more especially in my case, as I was + little more than a boy then. + </p> + <p> + He talked on again of old things and places where we had both been, and + asked after men he knew, or had known—drovers and others—and + whether they were living yet. Most of his inquiries went back before my + time; but some of the drovers, one or two overlanders with whom he had + been mates in his time, had grown old into mine, and I knew them. I notice + now, though I didn't then—and if I had it would not have seemed + strange from a bush point of view—that he didn't ask for news, nor + seem interested in it. + </p> + <p> + Then after another uneasy pause, during which he scratched crosses in the + dust with a stick, he asked me, in the same queer tone and without looking + at me or looking up, if I happened to know anything about doctoring—if + I'd ever studied it. + </p> + <p> + I asked him if anyone was sick at his place. He hesitated, and said “No.” + Then I wanted to know why he had asked me that question, and he was so + long about answering that I began to think he was hard of hearing, when, + at last, he muttered something about my face reminding him of a young + fellow he knew of who'd gone to Sydney to “study for a doctor”. That might + have been, and looked natural enough; but why didn't he ask me straight + out if I was the chap he “knowed of”? Travellers do not like beating about + the bush in conversation. + </p> + <p> + He sat in silence for a good while, with his arms folded, and looking + absently away over the dead level of the great scrubs that spread from the + foot of the ridge we were on to where a blue peak or two of a distant + range showed above the bush on the horizon. + </p> + <p> + I stood up and put my pipe away and stretched. Then he seemed to wake up. + “Better come back to the hut and have a bit of dinner,” he said. “The + missus will about have it ready, and I'll spare you a handful of hay for + the horses.” + </p> + <p> + The hay decided it. It was a dry season. I was surprised to hear of a + wife, for I thought he was a hatter—I had always heard so; but + perhaps I had been mistaken, and he had married lately; or had got a + housekeeper. The farm was an irregularly-shaped clearing in the scrub, + with a good many stumps in it, with a broken-down two-rail fence along the + frontage, and logs and “dog-leg” the rest. It was about as lonely-looking + a place as I had seen, and I had seen some out-of-the-way, God-forgotten + holes where men lived alone. The hut was in the top corner, a two-roomed + slab hut, with a shingle roof, which must have been uncommon round there + in the days when that hut was built. I was used to bush carpentering, and + saw that the place had been put up by a man who had plenty of life and + hope in front of him, and for someone else beside himself. But there were + two unfinished skilling rooms built on to the back of the hut; the posts, + sleepers, and wall-plates had been well put up and fitted, and the slab + walls were up, but the roof had never been put on. There was nothing but + burrs and nettles inside those walls, and an old wooden bullock plough and + a couple of yokes were dry-rotting across the back doorway. The remains of + a straw-stack, some hay under a bark humpy, a small iron plough, and an + old stiff coffin-headed grey draught horse, were all that I saw about the + place. + </p> + <p> + But there was a bit of a surprise for me inside, in the shape of a clean + white tablecloth on the rough slab table which stood on stakes driven into + the ground. The cloth was coarse, but it was a tablecloth—not a + spare sheet put on in honour of unexpected visitors—and perfectly + clean. The tin plates, pannikins, and jam tins that served as sugar bowls + and salt cellars were polished brightly. The walls and fireplace were + whitewashed, the clay floor swept, and clean sheets of newspaper laid on + the slab mantleshelf under the row of biscuit tins that held the + groceries. I thought that his wife, or housekeeper, or whatever she was, + was a clean and tidy woman about a house. I saw no woman; but on the sofa—a + light, wooden, batten one, with runged arms at the ends—lay a + woman's dress on a lot of sheets of old stained and faded newspapers. He + looked at it in a puzzled way, knitting his forehead, then took it up + absently and folded it. I saw then that it was a riding skirt and jacket. + He bundled them into the newspapers and took them into the bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “The wife was going on a visit down the creek this afternoon,” he said + rapidly and without looking at me, but stooping as if to have another look + through the door at those distant peaks. “I suppose she got tired o' + waitin', and went and took the daughter with her. But, never mind, the + grub is ready.” There was a camp-oven with a leg of mutton and potatoes + sizzling in it on the hearth, and billies hanging over the fire. I noticed + the billies had been scraped, and the lids polished. + </p> + <p> + There seemed to be something queer about the whole business, but then he + and his wife might have had a “breeze” during the morning. I thought so + during the meal, when the subject of women came up, and he said one never + knew how to take a woman, etc.; but there was nothing in what he said that + need necessarily have referred to his wife or to any woman in particular. + For the rest he talked of old bush things, droving, digging, and old + bushranging—but never about live things and living men, unless any + of the old mates he talked about happened to be alive by accident. He was + very restless in the house, and never took his hat off. + </p> + <p> + There was a dress and a woman's old hat hanging on the wall near the door, + but they looked as if they might have been hanging there for a lifetime. + There seemed something queer about the whole place—something + wanting; but then all out-of-the-way bush homes are haunted by that + something wanting, or, more likely, by the spirits of the things that + should have been there, but never had been. + </p> + <p> + As I rode down the track to the road I looked back and saw old Howlett + hard at work in a hole round a big stump with his long-handled shovel. + </p> + <p> + I'd noticed that he moved and walked with a slight list to port, and put + his hand once or twice to the small of his back, and I set it down to + lumbago, or something of that sort. + </p> + <p> + Up in the Never Never I heard from a drover who had known Howlett that his + wife had died in the first year, and so this mysterious woman, if she was + his wife, was, of course, his second wife. The drover seemed surprised and + rather amused at the thought of old Howlett going in for matrimony again. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + I rode back that way five years later, from the Never Never. It was early + in the morning—I had ridden since midnight. I didn't think the old + man would be up and about; and, besides, I wanted to get on home, and have + a look at the old folk, and the mates I'd left behind—and the girl. + But I hadn't got far past the point where Howlett's track joined the road, + when I happened to look back, and saw him on horseback, stumbling down the + track. I waited till he came up. + </p> + <p> + He was riding the old grey draught horse this time, and it looked very + much broken down. I thought it would have come down every step, and fallen + like an old rotten humpy in a gust of wind. And the old man was not much + better off. I saw at once that he was a very sick man. His face was drawn, + and he bent forward as if he was hurt. He got down stiffly and awkwardly, + like a hurt man, and as soon as his feet touched the ground he grabbed my + arm, or he would have gone down like a man who steps off a train in + motion. He hung towards the bank of the road, feeling blindly, as it were, + for the ground, with his free hand, as I eased him down. I got my blanket + and calico from the pack saddle to make him comfortable. + </p> + <p> + “Help me with my back agen the tree,” he said. “I must sit up—it's + no use lyin' me down.” + </p> + <p> + He sat with his hand gripping his side, and breathed painfully. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I run up to the hut and get the wife?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “No.” He spoke painfully. “No!” Then, as if the words were jerked out of + him by a spasm: “She ain't there.” + </p> + <p> + I took it that she had left him. + </p> + <p> + “How long have you been bad? How long has this been coming on?” + </p> + <p> + He took no notice of the question. I thought it was a touch of rheumatic + fever, or something of that sort. “It's gone into my back and sides now—the + pain's worse in me back,” he said presently. + </p> + <p> + I had once been mates with a man who died suddenly of heart disease, while + at work. He was washing a dish of dirt in the creek near a claim we were + working; he let the dish slip into the water, fell back, crying, “O, my + back!” and was gone. And now I felt by instinct that it was poor old + Howlett's heart that was wrong. A man's heart is in his back as well as in + his arms and hands. + </p> + <p> + The old man had turned pale with the pallor of a man who turns faint in a + heat wave, and his arms fell loosely, and his hands rocked helplessly with + the knuckles in the dust. I felt myself turning white, too, and the sick, + cold, empty feeling in my stomach, for I knew the signs. Bushmen stand in + awe of sickness and death. + </p> + <p> + But after I'd fixed him comfortably and given him a drink from the water + bag the greyness left his face, and he pulled himself together a bit; he + drew up his arms and folded them across his chest. He let his head rest + back against the tree—his slouch hat had fallen off revealing a + broad, white brow, much higher than I expected. He seemed to gaze on the + azure fin of the range, showing above the dark blue-green bush on the + horizon. + </p> + <p> + Then he commenced to speak—taking no notice of me when I asked him + if he felt better now—to talk in that strange, absent, far-away tone + that awes one. He told his story mechanically, monotonously—in set + words, as I believe now, as he had often told it before; if not to others, + then to the loneliness of the bush. And he used the names of people and + places that I had never heard of—just as if I knew them as well as + he did. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't want to bring her up the first year. It was no place for a + woman. I wanted her to stay with her people and wait till I'd got the + place a little more ship-shape. The Phippses took a selection down the + creek. I wanted her to wait and come up with them so's she'd have some + company—a woman to talk to. They came afterwards, but they didn't + stop. It was no place for a woman. + </p> + <p> + “But Mary would come. She wouldn't stop with her people down country. She + wanted to be with me, and look after me, and work and help me.” + </p> + <p> + He repeated himself a great deal—said the same thing over and over + again sometimes. He was only mad on one track. He'd tail off and sit + silent for a while; then he'd become aware of me in a hurried, half-scared + way, and apologise for putting me to all that trouble, and thank me. “I'll + be all right d'reckly. Best take the horses up to the hut and have some + breakfast; you'll find it by the fire. I'll foller you, d'reckly. The + wife'll be waitin' an'——” He would drop off, and be going + again presently on the old track:— + </p> + <p> + “Her mother was coming up to stay awhile at the end of the year, but the + old man hurt his leg. Then her married sister was coming, but one of the + youngsters got sick and there was trouble at home. I saw the doctor in the + town—thirty miles from here—and fixed it up with him. He was a + boozer—I'd 'a shot him afterwards. I fixed up with a woman in the + town to come and stay. I thought Mary was wrong in her time. She must have + been a month or six weeks out. But I listened to her.... Don't argue with + a woman. Don't listen to a woman. Do the right thing. We should have had a + mother woman to talk to us. But it was no place for a woman!” + </p> + <p> + He rocked his head, as if from some old agony of mind, against the + tree-trunk. + </p> + <p> + “She was took bad suddenly one night, but it passed off. False alarm. I + was going to ride somewhere, but she said to wait till daylight. Someone + was sure to pass. She was a brave and sensible girl, but she had a terror + of being left alone. It was no place for a woman! + </p> + <p> + “There was a black shepherd three or four miles away. I rode over while + Mary was asleep, and started the black boy into town. I'd 'a shot him + afterwards if I'd 'a caught him. The old black gin was dead the week + before, or Mary would a' bin alright. She was tied up in a bunch with + strips of blanket and greenhide, and put in a hole. So there wasn't even a + gin near the place. It was no place for a woman! + </p> + <p> + “I was watchin' the road at daylight, and I was watchin' the road at dusk. + I went down in the hollow and stooped down to get the gap agen the sky, + so's I could see if anyone was comin' over.... I'd get on the horse and + gallop along towards the town for five miles, but something would drag me + back, and then I'd race for fear she'd die before I got to the hut. I + expected the doctor every five minutes. + </p> + <p> + “It come on about daylight next morning. I ran back'ards and for'ards + between the hut and the road like a madman. And no one come. I was running + amongst the logs and stumps, and fallin' over them, when I saw a cloud of + dust agen sunrise. It was her mother an' sister in the spring-cart, an' + just catchin' up to them was the doctor in his buggy with the woman I'd + arranged with in town. The mother and sister was staying at the town for + the night, when they heard of the black boy. It took him a day to ride + there. I'd 'a shot him if I'd 'a caught him ever after. The doctor'd been + on the drunk. If I'd had the gun and known she was gone I'd have shot him + in the buggy. They said she was dead. And the child was dead, too. + </p> + <p> + “They blamed me, but I didn't want her to come; it was no place for a + woman. I never saw them again after the funeral. I didn't want to see them + any more.” + </p> + <p> + He moved his head wearily against the tree, and presently drifted on again + in a softer tone—his eyes and voice were growing more absent and + dreamy and far away. + </p> + <p> + “About a month after—or a year, I lost count of the time long ago—she + came back to me. At first she'd come in the night, then sometimes when I + was at work—and she had the baby—it was a girl—in her + arms. And by-and-bye she came to stay altogether.... I didn't blame her + for going away that time—it was no place for a woman.... She was a + good wife to me. She was a jolly girl when I married her. The little girl + grew up like her. I was going to send her down country to be educated—it + was no place for a girl. + </p> + <p> + “But a month, or a year, ago, Mary left me, and took the daughter, and + never came back till last night—this morning, I think it was. I + thought at first it was the girl with her hair done up, and her mother's + skirt on, to surprise her old dad. But it was Mary, my wife—as she + was when I married her. She said she couldn't stay, but she'd wait for me + on the road; on—the road....” + </p> + <p> + His arms fell, and his face went white. I got the water-bag. “Another turn + like that and you'll be gone,” I thought, as he came to again. Then I + suddenly thought of a shanty that had been started, when I came that way + last, ten or twelve miles along the road, towards the town. There was + nothing for it but to leave him and ride on for help, and a cart of some + kind. + </p> + <p> + “You wait here till I come back,” I said. “I'm going for the doctor.” + </p> + <p> + He roused himself a little. “Best come up to the hut and get some grub. + The wife'll be waiting....” He was off the track again. + </p> + <p> + “Will you wait while I take the horse down to the creek?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I'll wait by the road.” + </p> + <p> + “Look!” I said, “I'll leave the water-bag handy. Don't move till I come + back.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't move—I'll wait by the road,” he said. + </p> + <p> + I took the packhorse, which was the freshest and best, threw the + pack-saddle and bags into a bush, left the other horse to take care of + itself, and started for the shanty, leaving the old man with his back to + the tree, his arms folded, and his eyes on the horizon. + </p> + <p> + One of the chaps at the shanty rode on for the doctor at once, while the + other came back with me in a spring-cart. He told me that old Howlett's + wife had died in child-birth the first year on the selection—“she + was a fine girl he'd heered!” He told me the story as the old man had told + it, and in pretty well the same words, even to giving it as his opinion + that it was no place for a woman. “And he 'hatted' and brooded over it + till he went ratty.” + </p> + <p> + I knew the rest. He not only thought that his wife, or the ghost of his + wife, had been with him all those years, but that the child had lived and + grown up, and that the wife did the housework; which, of course, he must + have done himself. + </p> + <p> + When we reached him his knotted hands had fallen for the last time, and + they were at rest. I only took one quick look at his face, but could have + sworn that he was gazing at the blue fin of the range on the horizon of + the bush. + </p> + <p> + Up at the hut the table was set as on the first day I saw it, and + breakfast in the camp-oven by the fire. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mitchell's Jobs + </h2> + <p> + “I'm going to knock off work and try to make some money,” said Mitchell, + as he jerked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin and reached for the billy. + “It's been the great mistake of my life—if I hadn't wasted all my + time and energy working and looking for work I might have been an + independent man to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Joe!” he added in a louder voice, condescendingly adapting his language + to my bushed comprehension. “I'm going to sling graft and try and get some + stuff together.” + </p> + <p> + I didn't feel in a responsive humour, but I lit up and settled back + comfortably against the tree, and Jack folded his arms on his knees and + presently continued, reflectively: + </p> + <p> + “I remember the first time I went to work. I was a youngster then. Mother + used to go round looking for jobs for me. She reckoned, perhaps, that I + was too shy to go in where there was a boy wanted and barrack for myself + properly, and she used to help me and see me through to the best of her + ability. I'm afraid I didn't always feel as grateful to her as I should + have felt. I was a thankless kid at the best of times—most kids are—but + otherwise I was a straight enough little chap as nippers go. Sometimes I + almost wish I hadn't been. My relations would have thought a good deal + more of me and treated me better—and, besides, it's a comfort, at + times, to sit and watch the sun going down in the bed of the bush, and + think of your wicked childhood and wasted life, and the way you treated + your parents and broke their hearts, and feel just properly repentant and + bitter and remorseful and low-spirited about it when it's too late. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well!... I generally did feel a bit backward in going in when I came + to the door of an office or shop where there was a 'Strong Lad', or a + 'Willing Youth', wanted inside to make himself generally useful. I was a + strong lad and a willing youth enough, in some things, for that matter; + but I didn't like to see it written up on a card in a shop window, and I + didn't want to make myself generally useful in a close shop in a hot dusty + street on mornings when the weather was fine and the great sunny rollers + were coming in grand on the Bondi Beach and down at Coogee, and I could + swim.... I'd give something to be down along there now.” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell looked away out over the sultry sandy plain that we were to + tackle next day, and sighed. + </p> + <p> + “The first job I got was in a jam factory. They only had 'Boy Wanted' on + the card in the window, and I thought it would suit me. They set me to + work to peel peaches, and, as soon as the foreman's back was turned, I + picked out a likely-looking peach and tried it. They soaked those peaches + in salt or acid or something—it was part of the process—and I + had to spit it out. Then I got an orange from a boy who was slicing them, + but it was bitter, and I couldn't eat it. I saw that I'd been had + properly. I was in a fix, and had to get out of it the best way I could. + I'd left my coat down in the front shop, and the foreman and boss were + there, so I had to work in that place for two mortal hours. It was about + the longest two hours I'd ever spent in my life. At last the foreman came + up, and I told him I wanted to go down to the back for a minute. I slipped + down, watched my chance till the boss' back was turned, got my coat, and + cleared. + </p> + <p> + “The next job I got was in a mat factory; at least, Aunt got that for me. + I didn't want to have anything to do with mats or carpets. The worst of it + was the boss didn't seem to want me to go, and I had a job to get him to + sack me, and when he did he saw some of my people and took me back again + next week. He sacked me finally the next Saturday. + </p> + <p> + “I got the next job myself. I didn't hurry; I took my time and picked out + a good one. It was in a lolly factory. I thought it would suit me—and + it did, for a while. They put me on stirring up and mixing stuff in the + jujube department; but I got so sick of the smell of it and so full of + jujube and other lollies that I soon wanted a change; so I had a row with + the chief of the jujube department and the boss gave me the sack. + </p> + <p> + “I got a job in a grocery then. I thought I'd have more variety there. But + one day the boss was away, sick or something, all the afternoon, and I + sold a lot of things too cheap. I didn't know. When a customer came in and + asked for something I'd just look round in the window till I saw a card + with the price written up on it, and sell the best quality according to + that price; and once or twice I made a mistake the other way about and + lost a couple of good customers. It was a hot, drowsy afternoon, and + by-and-bye I began to feel dull and sleepy. So I looked round the corner + and saw a Chinaman coming. I got a big tin garden syringe and filled it + full of brine from the butter keg, and, when he came opposite the door, I + let him have the full force of it in the ear. + </p> + <p> + “That Chinaman put down his baskets and came for me. I was strong for my + age, and thought I could fight, but he gave me a proper mauling. + </p> + <p> + “It was like running up against a thrashing machine, and it wouldn't have + been well for me if the boss of the shop next door hadn't interfered. He + told my boss, and my boss gave me the sack at once. + </p> + <p> + “I took a spell of eighteen months or so after that, and was growing up + happy and contented when a married sister of mine must needs come to live + in town and interfere. I didn't like married sisters, though I always got + on grand with my brothers-in-law, and wished there were more of them. The + married sister comes round and cleans up the place and pulls your things + about and finds your pipe and tobacco and things, and cigarette portraits, + and “Deadwood Dicks”, that you've got put away all right, so's your mother + and aunt wouldn't find them in a generation of cats, and says: + </p> + <p> + “'Mother, why don't you make that boy go to work. It's a scandalous shame + to see a big boy like that growing up idle. He's going to the bad before + your eyes.' And she's always trying to make out that you're a liar, and + trying to make mother believe it, too. My married sister got me a job with + a chemist, whose missus she knew. + </p> + <p> + “I got on pretty well there, and by-and-bye I was put upstairs in the + grinding and mixing department; but, after a while, they put another boy + that I was chummy with up there with me, and that was a mistake. I didn't + think so at the time, but I can see it now. We got up to all sorts of + tricks. We'd get mixing together chemicals that weren't related to see how + they'd agree, and we nearly blew up the shop several times, and set it on + fire once. But all the chaps liked us, and fixed things up for us. One day + we got a big black dog—that we meant to take home that evening—and + sneaked him upstairs and put him on a flat roof outside the laboratory. He + had a touch of the mange and didn't look well, so we gave him a dose of + something; and he scrambled over the parapet and slipped down a steep iron + roof in front, and fell on a respected townsman that knew my people. We + were awfully frightened, and didn't say anything. Nobody saw it but us. + The dog had the presence of mind to leave at once, and the respected + townsman was picked up and taken home in a cab; and he got it hot from his + wife, too, I believe, for being in that drunken, beastly state in the main + street in the middle of the day. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think he was ever quite sure that he hadn't been drunk or what + had happened, for he had had one or two that morning; so it didn't matter + much. Only we lost the dog. + </p> + <p> + “One day I went downstairs to the packing-room and saw a lot of phosphorus + in jars of water. I wanted to fix up a ghost for Billy, my mate, so I + nicked a bit and slipped it into my trouser pocket. + </p> + <p> + “I stood under the tap and let it pour on me. The phosphorus burnt clean + through my pocket and fell on the ground. I was sent home that night with + my leg dressed with lime-water and oil, and a pair of the boss's pants on + that were about half a yard too long for me, and I felt miserable enough, + too. They said it would stop my tricks for a while, and so it did. I'll + carry the mark to my dying day—and for two or three days after, for + that matter.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + I fell asleep at this point, and left Mitchell's cattle pup to hear it + out. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster + </h2> + <p> + “When we were up country on the selection, we had a rooster at our place, + named Bill,” said Mitchell; “a big mongrel of no particular breed, though + the old lady said he was a 'brammer'—and many an argument she had + with the old man about it too; she was just as stubborn and obstinate in + her opinion as the governor was in his. But, anyway, we called him Bill, + and didn't take any particular notice of him till a cousin of some of us + came from Sydney on a visit to the country, and stayed at our place + because it was cheaper than stopping at a pub. Well, somehow this chap got + interested in Bill, and studied him for two or three days, and at last he + says: + </p> + <p> + “'Why, that rooster's a ventriloquist!' + </p> + <p> + “'A what?' + </p> + <p> + “'A ventriloquist!' + </p> + <p> + “'Go along with yer!' + </p> + <p> + “'But he is. I've heard of cases like this before; but this is the first + I've come across. Bill's a ventriloquist right enough.' + </p> + <p> + “Then we remembered that there wasn't another rooster within five miles—our + only neighbour, an Irishman named Page, didn't have one at the time—and + we'd often heard another cock crow, but didn't think to take any notice of + it. We watched Bill, and sure enough he WAS a ventriloquist. The + 'ka-cocka' would come all right, but the 'co-ka-koo-oi-oo' seemed to come + from a distance. And sometimes the whole crow would go wrong, and come + back like an echo that had been lost for a year. Bill would stand on + tiptoe, and hold his elbows out, and curve his neck, and go two or three + times as if he was swallowing nest-eggs, and nearly break his neck and + burst his gizzard; and then there'd be no sound at all where he was—only + a cock crowing in the distance. + </p> + <p> + “And pretty soon we could see that Bill was in great trouble about it + himself. You see, he didn't know it was himself—thought it was + another rooster challenging him, and he wanted badly to find that other + bird. He would get up on the wood-heap, and crow and listen—crow and + listen again—crow and listen, and then he'd go up to the top of the + paddock, and get up on the stack, and crow and listen there. Then down to + the other end of the paddock, and get up on a mullock-heap, and crow and + listen there. Then across to the other side and up on a log among the + saplings, and crow 'n' listen some more. He searched all over the place + for that other rooster, but, of course, couldn't find him. Sometimes he'd + be out all day crowing and listening all over the country, and then come + home dead tired, and rest and cool off in a hole that the hens had + scratched for him in a damp place under the water-cask sledge. + </p> + <p> + “Well, one day Page brought home a big white rooster, and when he let it + go it climbed up on Page's stack and crowed, to see if there was any more + roosters round there. Bill had come home tired; it was a hot day, and he'd + rooted out the hens, and was having a spell-oh under the cask when the + white rooster crowed. Bill didn't lose any time getting out and on to the + wood-heap, and then he waited till he heard the crow again; then he + crowed, and the other rooster crowed again, and they crowed at each other + for three days, and called each other all the wretches they could lay + their tongues to, and after that they implored each other to come out and + be made into chicken soup and feather pillows. But neither'd come. You + see, there were THREE crows—there was Bill's crow, and the + ventriloquist crow, and the white rooster's crow—and each rooster + thought that there was TWO roosters in the opposition camp, and that he + mightn't get fair play, and, consequently, both were afraid to put up + their hands. + </p> + <p> + “But at last Bill couldn't stand it any longer. He made up his mind to go + and have it out, even if there was a whole agricultural show of prize and + honourable-mention fighting-cocks in Page's yard. He got down from the + wood-heap and started off across the ploughed field, his head down, his + elbows out, and his thick awkward legs prodding away at the furrows behind + for all they were worth. + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to go down badly and see the fight, and barrack for Bill. But I + daren't, because I'd been coming up the road late the night before with my + brother Joe, and there was about three panels of turkeys roosting along on + the top rail of Page's front fence; and we brushed 'em with a bough, and + they got up such a blessed gobbling fuss about it that Page came out in + his shirt and saw us running away; and I knew he was laying for us with a + bullock whip. Besides, there was friction between the two families on + account of a thoroughbred bull that Page borrowed and wouldn't lend to us, + and that got into our paddock on account of me mending a panel in the + party fence, and carelessly leaving the top rail down after sundown while + our cows was moving round there in the saplings. + </p> + <p> + “So there was too much friction for me to go down, but I climbed a tree as + near the fence as I could and watched. Bill reckoned he'd found that + rooster at last. The white rooster wouldn't come down from the stack, so + Bill went up to him, and they fought there till they tumbled down the + other side, and I couldn't see any more. Wasn't I wild? I'd have given my + dog to have seen the rest of the fight. I went down to the far side of + Page's fence and climbed a tree there, but, of course, I couldn't see + anything, so I came home the back way. Just as I got home Page came round + to the front and sung out, 'Insoid there!' And me and Jim went under the + house like snakes and looked out round a pile. But Page was all right—he + had a broad grin on his face, and Bill safe under his arm. He put Bill + down on the ground very carefully, and says he to the old folks: + </p> + <p> + “'Yer rooster knocked the stuffin' out of my rooster, but I bear no + malice. 'Twas a grand foight.' + </p> + <p> + “And then the old man and Page had a yarn, and got pretty friendly after + that. And Bill didn't seem to bother about any more ventriloquism; but the + white rooster spent a lot of time looking for that other rooster. Perhaps + he thought he'd have better luck with him. But Page was on the look-out + all the time to get a rooster that would lick ours. He did nothing else + for a month but ride round and enquire about roosters; and at last he + borrowed a game-bird in town, left five pounds deposit on him, and brought + him home. And Page and the old man agreed to have a match—about the + only thing they'd agreed about for five years. And they fixed it up for a + Sunday when the old lady and the girls and kids were going on a visit to + some relations, about fifteen miles away—to stop all night. The + guv'nor made me go with them on horseback; but I knew what was up, and so + my pony went lame about a mile along the road, and I had to come back and + turn him out in the top paddock, and hide the saddle and bridle in a + hollow log, and sneak home and climb up on the roof of the shed. It was a + awful hot day, and I had to keep climbing backward and forward over the + ridge-pole all the morning to keep out of sight of the old man, for he was + moving about a good deal. + </p> + <p> + “Well, after dinner, the fellows from roundabout began to ride in and hang + up their horses round the place till it looked as if there was going to be + a funeral. Some of the chaps saw me, of course, but I tipped them the + wink, and they gave me the office whenever the old man happened around. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Page came along with his game-rooster. Its name was Jim. It wasn't + much to look at, and it seemed a good deal smaller and weaker than Bill. + Some of the chaps were disgusted, and said it wasn't a game-rooster at + all; Bill'd settle it in one lick, and they wouldn't have any fun. + </p> + <p> + “Well, they brought the game one out and put him down near the wood-heap, + and rousted Bill out from under his cask. He got interested at once. He + looked at Jim, and got up on the wood-heap and crowed and looked at Jim + again. He reckoned THIS at last was the fowl that had been humbugging him + all along. Presently his trouble caught him, and then he'd crow and take a + squint at the game 'un, and crow again, and have another squint at gamey, + and try to crow and keep his eye on the game-rooster at the same time. But + Jim never committed himself, until at last he happened to gape just after + Bill's whole crow went wrong, and Bill spotted him. He reckoned he'd + caught him this time, and he got down off that wood-heap and went for the + foe. But Jim ran away—and Bill ran after him. + </p> + <p> + “Round and round the wood-heap they went, and round the shed, and round + the house and under it, and back again, and round the wood-heap and over + it and round the other way, and kept it up for close on an hour. Bill's + bill was just within an inch or so of the game-rooster's tail feathers + most of the time, but he couldn't get any nearer, do how he liked. And all + the time the fellers kept chyackin Page and singing out, 'What price yer + game 'un, Page! Go it, Bill! Go it, old cock!' and all that sort of thing. + Well, the game-rooster went as if it was a go-as-you-please, and he didn't + care if it lasted a year. He didn't seem to take any interest in the + business, but Bill got excited, and by-and-by he got mad. He held his head + lower and lower and his wings further and further out from his sides, and + prodded away harder and harder at the ground behind, but it wasn't any + use. Jim seemed to keep ahead without trying. They stuck to the wood-heap + towards the last. They went round first one way for a while, and then the + other for a change, and now and then they'd go over the top to break the + monotony; and the chaps got more interested in the race than they would + have been in the fight—and bet on it, too. But Bill was handicapped + with his weight. He was done up at last; he slowed down till he couldn't + waddle, and then, when he was thoroughly knocked up, that game-rooster + turned on him, and gave him the father of a hiding. + </p> + <p> + “And my father caught me when I'd got down in the excitement, and wasn't + thinking, and HE gave ME the step-father of a hiding. But he had a lively + time with the old lady afterwards, over the cock-fight. + </p> + <p> + “Bill was so disgusted with himself that he went under the cask and died.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Bush Cats + </h2> + <p> + “Domestic cats” we mean—the descendants of cats who came from the + northern world during the last hundred odd years. We do not know the name + of the vessel in which the first Thomas and his Maria came out to + Australia, but we suppose that it was one of the ships of the First Fleet. + Most likely Maria had kittens on the voyage—two lots, perhaps—the + majority of which were buried at sea; and no doubt the disembarkation + caused her much maternal anxiety. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + The feline race has not altered much in Australia, from a physical point + of view—not yet. The rabbit has developed into something like a + cross between a kangaroo and a possum, but the bush has not begun to + develop the common cat. She is just as sedate and motherly as the mummy + cats of Egypt were, but she takes longer strolls of nights, climbs + gum-trees instead of roofs, and hunts stranger vermin than ever came under + the observation of her northern ancestors. Her views have widened. She is + mostly thinner than the English farm cat—which is, they say, on + account of eating lizards. + </p> + <p> + English rats and English mice—we say “English” because everything + which isn't Australian in Australia, IS English (or British)—English + rats and English mice are either rare or non-existent in the bush; but the + hut cat has a wider range for game. She is always dragging in things which + are unknown in the halls of zoology; ugly, loathsome, crawling abortions + which have not been classified yet—and perhaps could not be. + </p> + <p> + The Australian zoologist ought to rake up some more dead languages, and + then go Out Back with a few bush cats. + </p> + <p> + The Australian bush cat has a nasty, unpleasant habit of dragging a long, + wriggling, horrid, black snake—she seems to prefer black snakes—into + a room where there are ladies, proudly laying it down in a conspicuous + place (usually in front of the exit), and then looking up for approbation. + She wonders, perhaps, why the visitors are in such a hurry to leave. + </p> + <p> + Pussy doesn't approve of live snakes round the place, especially if she + has kittens; and if she finds a snake in the vicinity of her progeny—well, + it is bad for that particular serpent. + </p> + <p> + This brings recollections of a neighbour's cat who went out in the scrub, + one midsummer's day, and found a brown snake. Her name—the cat's + name—was Mary Ann. She got hold of the snake all right, just within + an inch of its head; but it got the rest of its length wound round her + body and squeezed about eight lives out of her. She had the presence of + mind to keep her hold; but it struck her that she was in a fix, and that + if she wanted to save her ninth life, it wouldn't be a bad idea to go home + for help. So she started home, snake and all. + </p> + <p> + The family were at dinner when Mary Ann came in, and, although she stood + on an open part of the floor, no one noticed her for a while. She couldn't + ask for help, for her mouth was too full of snake. By-and-bye one of the + girls glanced round, and then went over the table, with a shriek, and out + of the back door. The room was cleared very quickly. The eldest boy got a + long-handled shovel, and in another second would have killed more cat than + snake; but his father interfered. The father was a shearer, and Mary Ann + was a favourite cat with him. He got a pair of shears from the shelf and + deftly shore off the snake's head, and one side of Mary Ann's whiskers. + She didn't think it safe to let go yet. She kept her teeth in the neck + until the selector snipped the rest of the snake off her. The bits were + carried out on a shovel to die at sundown. Mary Ann had a good drink of + milk, and then got her tongue out and licked herself back into the proper + shape for a cat; after which she went out to look for that snake's mate. + She found it, too, and dragged it home the same evening. + </p> + <p> + Cats will kill rabbits and drag them home. We knew a fossicker whose cat + used to bring him a bunny nearly every night. The fossicker had rabbits + for breakfast until he got sick of them, and then he used to swap them + with a butcher for meat. The cat was named Ingersoll, which indicates his + sex and gives an inkling to his master's religious and political opinions. + Ingersoll used to prospect round in the gloaming until he found some + rabbit holes which showed encouraging indications. He would shepherd one + hole for an hour or so every evening until he found it was a duffer, or + worked it out; then he would shift to another. One day he prospected a big + hollow log with a lot of holes in it, and more going down underneath. The + indications were very good, but Ingersoll had no luck. The game had too + many ways of getting out and in. He found that he could not work that + claim by himself, so he floated it into a company. He persuaded several + cats from a neighbouring selection to take shares, and they watched the + holes together, or in turns—they worked shifts. The dividends more + than realised even their wildest expectations, for each cat took home at + least one rabbit every night for a week. + </p> + <p> + A selector started a vegetable garden about the time when rabbits were + beginning to get troublesome up country. The hare had not shown itself + yet. The farmer kept quite a regiment of cats to protect his garden—and + they protected it. He would shut the cats up all day with nothing to eat, + and let them out about sundown; then they would mooch off to the turnip + patch like farm-labourers going to work. They would drag the rabbits home + to the back door, and sit there and watch them until the farmer opened the + door and served out the ration of milk. Then the cats would turn in. He + nearly always found a semi-circle of dead rabbits and watchful cats round + the door in the morning. They sold the product of their labour direct to + the farmer for milk. It didn't matter if one cat had been unlucky—had + not got a rabbit—each had an equal share in the general result. They + were true socialists, those cats. + </p> + <p> + One of those cats was a mighty big Tom, named Jack. He was death on + rabbits; he would work hard all night, laying for them and dragging them + home. Some weeks he would graft every night, and at other times every + other night, but he was generally pretty regular. When he reckoned he had + done an extra night's work, he would take the next night off and go three + miles to the nearest neighbour's to see his Maria and take her out for a + stroll. Well, one evening Jack went into the garden and chose a place + where there was good cover, and lay low. He was a bit earlier than usual, + so he thought he would have a doze till rabbit time. By-and-bye he heard a + noise, and slowly, cautiously opening one eye, he saw two big ears + sticking out of the leaves in front of him. He judged that it was an extra + big bunny, so he put some extra style into his manoeuvres. In about five + minutes he made his spring. He must have thought (if cats think) that it + was a whopping, old-man rabbit, for it was a pioneer hare—not an + ordinary English hare, but one of those great coarse, lanky things which + the bush is breeding. The selector was attracted by an unusual commotion + and a cloud of dust among his cabbages, and came along with his gun in + time to witness the fight. First Jack would drag the hare, and then the + hare would drag Jack; sometimes they would be down together, and then Jack + would use his hind claws with effect; finally he got his teeth in the + right place, and triumphed. Then he started to drag the corpse home, but + he had to give it best and ask his master to lend a hand. The selector + took up the hare, and Jack followed home, much to the family's surprise. + He did not go back to work that night; he took a spell. He had a drink of + milk, licked the dust off himself, washed it down with another drink, and + sat in front of the fire and thought for a goodish while. Then he got up, + walked over to the corner where the hare was lying, had a good look at it, + came back to the fire, sat down again, and thought hard. He was still + thinking when the family retired. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Meeting Old Mates + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + Tom Smith +</pre> + <p> + You are getting well on in the thirties, and haven't left off being a fool + yet. You have been away in another colony or country for a year or so, and + have now come back again. Most of your chums have gone away or got + married, or, worse still, signed the pledge—settled down and got + steady; and you feel lonely and desolate and left-behind enough for + anything. While drifting aimlessly round town with an eye out for some + chance acquaintance to have a knock round with, you run against an old + chum whom you never dreamt of meeting, or whom you thought to be in some + other part of the country—or perhaps you knock up against someone + who knows the old chum in question, and he says: + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you know Tom Smith's in Sydney?” + </p> + <p> + “Tom Smith! Why, I thought he was in Queensland! I haven't seen him for + more than three years. Where's the old joker hanging out at all? Why, + except you, there's no one in Australia I'd sooner see than Tom Smith. + Here I've been mooning round like an unemployed for three weeks, looking + for someone to have a knock round with, and Tom in Sydney all the time. I + wish I'd known before. Where'll I run against him—where does he + live?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he's living at home.” + </p> + <p> + “But where's his home? I was never there.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll give you his address.... There, I think that's it. I'm not sure + about the number, but you'll soon find out in that street—most of + 'em'll know Tom Smith.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks! I rather think they will. I'm glad I met you. I'll hunt Tom up + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + So you put a few shillings in your pocket, tell your landlady that you're + going to visit an old aunt of yours or a sick friend, and mayn't be home + that night; and then you start out to hunt up Tom Smith and have at least + one more good night, if you die for it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + This is the first time you have seen Tom at home; you knew of his home and + people in the old days, but only in a vague, indefinite sort of way. Tom + has changed! He is stouter and older-looking; he seems solemn and settled + down. You intended to give him a surprise and have a good old jolly laugh + with him, but somehow things get suddenly damped at the beginning. He + grins and grips your hand right enough, but there seems something wanting. + You can't help staring at him, and he seems to look at you in a strange, + disappointing way; it doesn't strike you that you also have changed, and + perhaps more in his eyes than he in yours. He introduces you to his mother + and sisters and brothers, and the rest of the family; or to his wife, as + the case may be; and you have to suppress your feelings and be polite and + talk common-place. You hate to be polite and talk common-place. You aren't + built that way—and Tom wasn't either, in the old days. The wife (or + the mother and sisters) receives you kindly, for Tom's sake, and makes + much of you; but they don't know you yet. You want to get Tom outside, and + have a yarn and a drink and a laugh with him—you are bursting to + tell him all about yourself, and get him to tell you all about himself, + and ask him if he remembers things; and you wonder if he is bursting the + same way, and hope he is. The old lady and sisters (or the wife) bore you + pretty soon, and you wonder if they bore Tom; you almost fancy, from his + looks, that they do. You wonder whether Tom is coming out to-night, + whether he wants to get out, and if he wants to and wants to get out by + himself, whether he'll be able to manage it; but you daren't broach the + subject, it wouldn't be polite. You've got to be polite. Then you get + worried by the thought that Tom is bursting to get out with you and only + wants an excuse; is waiting, in fact, and hoping for you to ask him in an + off-hand sort of way to come out for a stroll. But you're not quite sure; + and besides, if you were, you wouldn't have the courage. By-and-bye you + get tired of it all, thirsty, and want to get out in the open air. You get + tired of saying, “Do you really, Mrs. Smith?” or “Do you think so, Miss + Smith?” or “You were quite right, Mrs. Smith,” and “Well, I think so too, + Mrs. Smith,” or, to the brother, “That's just what I thought, Mr. Smith.” + You don't want to “talk pretty” to them, and listen to their wishy-washy + nonsense; you want to get out and have a roaring spree with Tom, as you + had in the old days; you want to make another night of it with your old + mate, Tom Smith; and pretty soon you get the blues badly, and feel nearly + smothered in there, and you've got to get out and have a beer anyway—Tom + or no Tom; and you begin to feel wild with Tom himself; and at last you + make a bold dash for it and chance Tom. You get up, look at your hat, and + say: “Ah, well, I must be going, Tom; I've got to meet someone down the + street at seven o'clock. Where'll I meet you in town next week?” + </p> + <p> + But Tom says: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dash it; you ain't going yet. Stay to tea, Joe, stay to tea. It'll be + on the table in a minute. Sit down—sit down, man! Here, gimme your + hat.” + </p> + <p> + And Tom's sister, or wife, or mother comes in with an apron on and her + hands all over flour, and says: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you're not going yet, Mr. Brown? Tea'll be ready in a minute. Do stay + for tea.” And if you make excuses, she cross-examines you about the time + you've got to keep that appointment down the street, and tells you that + their clock is twenty minutes fast, and that you have got plenty of time, + and so you have to give in. But you are mightily encouraged by a winksome + expression which you see, or fancy you see, on your side of Tom's face; + also by the fact of his having accidentally knocked his foot against your + shins. So you stay. + </p> + <p> + One of the females tells you to “Sit there, Mr. Brown,” and you take your + place at the table, and the polite business goes on. You've got to hold + your knife and fork properly, and mind your p's and q's, and when she + says, “Do you take milk and sugar, Mr. Brown?” you've got to say, “Yes, + please, Miss Smith—thanks—that's plenty.” And when they press + you, as they will, to have more, you've got to keep on saying, “No, + thanks, Mrs. Smith; no, thanks, Miss Smith; I really couldn't; I've done + very well, thank you; I had a very late dinner, and so on”—bother + such tommy-rot. And you don't seem to have any appetite, anyway. And you + think of the days out on the track when you and Tom sat on your swags + under a mulga at mid-day, and ate mutton and johnny-cake with + clasp-knives, and drank by turns out of the old, battered, leaky billy. + </p> + <p> + And after tea you have to sit still while the precious minutes are wasted, + and listen and sympathize, while all the time you are on the fidget to get + out with Tom, and go down to a private bar where you know some girls. + </p> + <p> + And perhaps by-and-bye the old lady gets confidential, and seizes an + opportunity to tell you what a good steady young fellow Tom is now that he + never touches drink, and belongs to a temperance society (or the + Y.M.C.A.), and never stays out of nights. + </p> + <p> + Consequently you feel worse than ever, and lonelier, and sorrier that you + wasted your time coming. You are encouraged again by a glimpse of Tom + putting on a clean collar and fixing himself up a bit; but when you are + ready to go, and ask him if he's coming a bit down the street with you, he + says he thinks he will in such a disinterested, don't-mind-if-I-do sort of + tone, that he makes you mad. + </p> + <p> + At last, after promising to “drop in again, Mr. Brown, whenever you're + passing,” and to “don't forget to call,” and thanking them for their + assurance that they'll “be always glad to see you,” and telling them that + you've spent a very pleasant evening and enjoyed yourself, and are awfully + sorry you couldn't stay—you get away with Tom. + </p> + <p> + You don't say much to each other till you get round the corner and down + the street a bit, and then for a while your conversation is mostly + common-place, such as, “Well, how have you been getting on all this time, + Tom?” “Oh, all right. How have you been getting on?” and so on. + </p> + <p> + But presently, and perhaps just as you have made up your mind to chance + the alleged temperance business and ask Tom in to have a drink, he throws + a glance up and down the street, nudges your shoulder, says “Come on,” and + disappears sideways into a pub. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “What's yours, Tom?” “What's yours, Joe?” “The same for me.” “Well, here's + luck, old man.” “Here's luck.” You take a drink, and look over your glass + at Tom. Then the old smile spreads over his face, and it makes you glad—you + could swear to Tom's grin in a hundred years. Then something tickles him—your + expression, perhaps, or a recollection of the past—and he sets down + his glass on the bar and laughs. Then you laugh. Oh, there's no smile like + the smile that old mates favour each other with over the tops of their + glasses when they meet again after years. It is eloquent, because of the + memories that give it birth. + </p> + <p> + “Here's another. Do you remember——? Do you remember——?” + Oh, it all comes back again like a flash. Tom hasn't changed a bit; just + the same good-hearted, jolly idiot he always was. Old times back again! + “It's just like old times,” says Tom, after three or four more drinks. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + And so you make a night of it and get uproariously jolly. You get as + “glorious” as Bobby Burns did in the part of Tam O'Shanter, and have a + better “time” than any of the times you had in the old days. And you see + Tom as nearly home in the morning as you dare, and he reckons he'll get it + hot from his people—which no doubt he will—and he explains + that they are very particular up at home—church people, you know—and, + of course, especially if he's married, it's understood between you that + you'd better not call for him up at home after this—at least, not + till things have cooled down a bit. It's always the way. The friend of the + husband always gets the blame in cases like this. But Tom fixes up a yarn + to tell them, and you aren't to “say anything different” in case you run + against any of them. And he fixes up an appointment with you for next + Saturday night, and he'll get there if he gets divorced for it. But he + MIGHT have to take the wife out shopping, or one of the girls somewhere; + and if you see her with him you've got to lay low, and be careful, and + wait—at another hour and place, perhaps, all of which is arranged—for + if she sees you she'll smell a rat at once, and he won't be able to get + off at all. + </p> + <p> + And so, as far as you and Tom are concerned, the “old times” have come + back once more. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + But, of course (and we almost forgot it), you might chance to fall in love + with one of Tom's sisters, in which case there would be another and a + totally different story to tell. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. + + Jack Ellis +</pre> + <p> + Things are going well with you. You have escaped from “the track”, so to + speak, and are in a snug, comfortable little billet in the city. Well, + while doing the block you run against an old mate of other days—VERY + other days—call him Jack Ellis. Things have gone hard with Jack. He + knows you at once, but makes no advance towards a greeting; he acts as + though he thinks you might cut him—which, of course, if you are a + true mate, you have not the slightest intention of doing. His coat is + yellow and frayed, his hat is battered and green, his trousers “gone” in + various places, his linen very cloudy, and his boots burst and innocent of + polish. You try not to notice these things—or rather, not to seem to + notice them—but you cannot help doing so, and you are afraid he'll + notice that you see these things, and put a wrong construction on it. How + men will misunderstand each other! You greet him with more than the + necessary enthusiasm. In your anxiety to set him at his ease and make him + believe that nothing—not even money—can make a difference in + your friendship, you over-act the business; and presently you are afraid + that he'll notice that too, and put a wrong construction on it. You wish + that your collar was not so clean, nor your clothes so new. Had you known + you would meet him, you would have put on some old clothes for the + occasion. + </p> + <p> + You are both embarrassed, but it is YOU who feel ashamed—you are + almost afraid to look at him lest he'll think you are looking at his + shabbiness. You ask him in to have a drink, but he doesn't respond so + heartily as you wish, as he did in the old days; he doesn't like drinking + with anybody when he isn't “fixed”, as he calls it—when he can't + shout. + </p> + <p> + It didn't matter in the old days who held the money so long as there was + plenty of “stuff” in the camp. You think of the days when Jack stuck to + you through thick and thin. You would like to give him money now, but he + is so proud; he always was; he makes you mad with his beastly pride. There + wasn't any pride of that sort on the track or in the camp in those days; + but times have changed—your lives have drifted too widely apart—you + have taken different tracks since then; and Jack, without intending to, + makes you feel that it is so. + </p> + <p> + You have a drink, but it isn't a success; it falls flat, as far as Jack is + concerned; he won't have another; he doesn't “feel on”, and presently he + escapes under plea of an engagement, and promises to see you again. + </p> + <p> + And you wish that the time was come when no one could have more or less to + spend than another. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + P.S.—I met an old mate of that description once, and so successfully + persuaded him out of his beastly pride that he borrowed two pounds off me + till Monday. I never got it back since, and I want it badly at the present + time. In future I'll leave old mates with their pride unimpaired. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Two Larrikins + </h2> + <p> + “Y'orter do something, Ernie. Yer know how I am. YOU don't seem to care. + Y'orter to do something.” + </p> + <p> + Stowsher slouched at a greater angle to the greasy door-post, and scowled + under his hat-brim. It was a little, low, frowsy room opening into Jones' + Alley. She sat at the table, sewing—a thin, sallow girl with weak, + colourless eyes. She looked as frowsy as her surroundings. + </p> + <p> + “Well, why don't you go to some of them women, and get fixed up?” + </p> + <p> + She flicked the end of the table-cloth over some tiny, unfinished articles + of clothing, and bent to her work. + </p> + <p> + “But you know very well I haven't got a shilling, Ernie,” she said, + quietly. “Where am I to get the money from?” + </p> + <p> + “Who asked yer to get it?” + </p> + <p> + She was silent, with the exasperating silence of a woman who has + determined to do a thing in spite of all reasons and arguments that may be + brought against it. + </p> + <p> + “Well, wot more do yer want?” demanded Stowsher, impatiently. + </p> + <p> + She bent lower. “Couldn't we keep it, Ernie?” + </p> + <p> + “Wot next?” asked Stowsher, sulkily—he had half suspected what was + coming. Then, with an impatient oath, “You must be gettin' ratty.” + </p> + <p> + She brushed the corner of the cloth further over the little clothes. + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn't cost anything, Ernie. I'd take a pride in him, and keep him + clean, and dress him like a little lord. He'll be different from all the + other youngsters. He wouldn't be like those dirty, sickly little brats out + there. He'd be just like you, Ernie; I know he would. I'll look after him + night and day, and bring him up well and strong. We'd train his little + muscles from the first, Ernie, and he'd be able to knock 'em all out when + he grew up. It wouldn't cost much, and I'd work hard and be careful if + you'd help me. And you'd be proud of him, too, Ernie—I know you + would.” + </p> + <p> + Stowsher scraped the doorstep with his foot; but whether he was “touched”, + or feared hysterics and was wisely silent, was not apparent. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember the first day I met you, Ernie?” she asked, presently. + </p> + <p> + Stowsher regarded her with an uneasy scowl: “Well—wot o' that?” + </p> + <p> + “You came into the bar-parlour at the 'Cricketers' Arms' and caught a push + of 'em chyacking your old man.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I altered that.” + </p> + <p> + “I know you did. You done for three of them, one after another, and two + was bigger than you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! and when the push come up we done for the rest,” said Stowsher, + softening at the recollection. + </p> + <p> + “And the day you come home and caught the landlord bullying your old + mother like a dog——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I got three months for that job. But it was worth it!” he reflected. + “Only,” he added, “the old woman might have had the knocker to keep away + from the lush while I was in quod.... But wot's all this got to do with + it?” + </p> + <p> + “HE might barrack and fight for you, some day, Ernie,” she said softly, + “when you're old and out of form and ain't got no push to back you.” + </p> + <p> + The thing was becoming decidedly embarrassing to Stowsher; not that he + felt any delicacy on the subject, but because he hated to be drawn into a + conversation that might be considered “soft”. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, stow that!” he said, comfortingly. “Git on yer hat, and I'll take yer + for a trot.” + </p> + <p> + She rose quickly, but restrained herself, recollecting that it was not + good policy to betray eagerness in response to an invitation from Ernie. + </p> + <p> + “But—you know—I don't like to go out like this. You can't—you + wouldn't like to take me out the way I am, Ernie!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? Wot rot!” + </p> + <p> + “The fellows would see me, and—and——” + </p> + <p> + “And... wot?” + </p> + <p> + “They might notice——” + </p> + <p> + “Well, wot o' that? I want 'em to. Are yer comin' or are yer ain't? Fling + round now. I can't hang on here all day.” + </p> + <p> + They walked towards Flagstaff Hill. + </p> + <p> + One or two, slouching round a pub. corner, saluted with “Wotcher, + Stowsher!” + </p> + <p> + “Not too stinkin',” replied Stowsher. “Soak yer heads.” + </p> + <p> + “Stowsher's goin' to stick,” said one privately. + </p> + <p> + “An' so he orter,” said another. “Wish I had the chanst.” + </p> + <p> + The two turned up a steep lane. + </p> + <p> + “Don't walk so fast up hill, Ernie; I can't, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Liz. I forgot that. Why didn't yer say so before?” + </p> + <p> + She was contentedly silent most of the way, warned by instinct, after the + manner of women when they have gained their point by words. + </p> + <p> + Once he glanced over his shoulder with a short laugh. “Gorblime!” he said, + “I nearly thought the little beggar was a-follerin' along behind!” + </p> + <p> + When he left her at the door he said: “Look here, Liz. 'Ere's half a quid. + Git what yer want. Let her go. I'm goin' to graft again in the mornin', + and I'll come round and see yer to-morrer night.” + </p> + <p> + Still she seemed troubled and uneasy. + </p> + <p> + “Ernie.” + </p> + <p> + “Well. Wot now?” + </p> + <p> + “S'posin' it's a girl, Ernie.” + </p> + <p> + Stowsher flung himself round impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, for God's sake, stow that! Yer always singin' out before yer hurt.... + There's somethin' else, ain't there—while the bloomin' shop's open?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Ernie. Ain't you going to kiss me?... I'm satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “Satisfied! Yer don't want the kid to be arst 'oo 'is father was, do yer? + Yer'd better come along with me some day this week and git spliced. Yer + don't want to go frettin' or any of that funny business while it's on.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Ernie! do you really mean it?”—and she threw her arms round his + neck, and broke down at last. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “So-long, Liz. No more funny business now—I've had enough of it. + Keep yer pecker up, old girl. To-morrer night, mind.” Then he added + suddenly: “Yer might have known I ain't that sort of a bloke”—and + left abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Liz was very happy. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mr. Smellingscheck + </h2> + <p> + I met him in a sixpenny restaurant—“All meals, 6d.—Good beds, + 1s.” That was before sixpenny restaurants rose to a third-class position, + and became possibly respectable places to live in, through the + establishment, beneath them, of fourpenny hash-houses (good beds, 6d.), + and, beneath THEM again, of THREE-penny “dining-rooms—CLEAN beds, + 4d.” + </p> + <p> + There were five beds in our apartment, the head of one against the foot of + the next, and so on round the room, with a space where the door and + washstand were. I chose the bed the head of which was near the foot of + his, because he looked like a man who took his bath regularly. I should + like, in the interests of sentiment, to describe the place as a miserable, + filthy, evil-smelling garret; but I can't—because it wasn't. The + room was large and airy; the floor was scrubbed and the windows cleaned at + least once a week, and the beds kept fresh and neat, which is more—a + good deal more—than can be said of many genteel private + boarding-houses. The lodgers were mostly respectable unemployed, and one + or two—fortunate men!—in work; it was the casual boozer, the + professional loafer, and the occasional spieler—the + one-shilling-bed-men—who made the place objectionable, not the + hard-working people who paid ten pounds a week for the house; and, but for + the one-night lodgers and the big gilt black-and-red bordered and “shaded” + “6d.” in the window—which made me glance guiltily up and down the + street, like a burglar about to do a job, before I went in—I was + pretty comfortable there. + </p> + <p> + They called him “Mr. Smellingscheck”, and treated him with a peculiar kind + of deference, the reason for which they themselves were doubtless unable + to explain or even understand. The haggard woman who made the beds called + him “Mr. Smell-'is-check”. Poor fellow! I didn't think, by the look of + him, that he'd smelt his cheque, or anyone else's, or that anyone else had + smelt his, for many a long day. He was a fat man, slow and placid. He + looked like a typical monopolist who had unaccountably got into a suit of + clothes belonging to a Domain unemployed, and hadn't noticed, or had + entirely forgotten, the circumstance in his business cares—if such a + word as care could be connected with such a calm, self-contained nature. + He wore a suit of cheap slops of some kind of shoddy “tweed”. The coat was + too small and the trousers too short, and they were drawn up to meet the + waistcoat—which they did with painful difficulty, now and then + showing, by way of protest, two pairs of brass buttons and the ends of the + brace-straps; and they seemed to blame the irresponsive waistcoat or the + wearer for it all. Yet he never gave way to assist them. A pair of burst + elastic-sides were in full evidence, and a rim of cloudy sock, with a hole + in it, showed at every step. + </p> + <p> + But he put on his clothes and wore them like—like a gentleman. He + had two white shirts, and they were both dirty. He'd lay them out on the + bed, turn them over, regard them thoughtfully, choose that which appeared + to his calm understanding to be the cleaner, and put it on, and wear it + until it was unmistakably dirtier than the other; then he'd wear the other + till it was dirtier than the first. He managed his three collars the same + way. His handkerchiefs were washed in the bathroom, and dried, without the + slightest disguise, in the bedroom. He never hurried in anything. The way + he cleaned his teeth, shaved, and made his toilet almost transformed the + place, in my imagination, into a gentleman's dressing-room. + </p> + <p> + He talked politics and such things in the abstract—always in the + abstract—calmly in the abstract. He was an old-fashioned + Conservative of the Sir Leicester Deadlock style. When he was moved by an + extra shower of aggressive democratic cant—which was seldom—he + defended Capital, but only as if it needed no defence, and as if its + opponents were merely thoughtless, ignorant children whom he condescended + to set right because of their inexperience and for their own good. He + stuck calmly to his own order—the order which had dropped him like a + foul thing when the bottom dropped out of his boom, whatever that was. He + never talked of his misfortunes. + </p> + <p> + He took his meals at the little greasy table in the dark corner + downstairs, just as if he were dining at the Exchange. He had a chop—rather + well-done—and a sheet of the 'Herald' for breakfast. He carried two + handkerchiefs; he used one for a handkerchief and the other for a + table-napkin, and sometimes folded it absently and laid it on the table. + He rose slowly, putting his chair back, took down his battered old green + hat, and regarded it thoughtfully—as though it had just occurred to + him in a calm, casual way that he'd drop into his hatter's, if he had + time, on his way down town, and get it blocked, or else send the messenger + round with it during business hours. He'd draw his stick out from behind + the next chair, plant it, and, if you hadn't quite finished your side of + the conversation, stand politely waiting until you were done. Then he'd + look for a suitable reply into his hat, put it on, give it a twitch to + settle it on his head—as gentlemen do a “chimney-pot”—step out + into the gangway, turn his face to the door, and walk slowly out on to the + middle of the pavement—looking more placidly well-to-do than ever. + The saying is that clothes make a man, but HE made his almost respectable + just by wearing them. Then he'd consult his watch—(he stuck to the + watch all through, and it seemed a good one—I often wondered why he + didn't pawn it); then he'd turn slowly, right turn, and look down the + street. Then slowly back, left-about turn, and take a cool survey in that + direction, as if calmly undecided whether to take a cab and drive to the + Exchange, or (as it was a very fine morning, and he had half an hour to + spare) walk there and drop in at his club on the way. He'd conclude to + walk. I never saw him go anywhere in particular, but he walked and stood + as if he could. + </p> + <p> + Coming quietly into the room one day, I surprised him sitting at the table + with his arms lying on it and his face resting on them. I heard something + like a sob. He rose hastily, and gathered up some papers which were on the + table; then he turned round, rubbing his forehead and eyes with his + forefinger and thumb, and told me that he suffered from—something, I + forget the name of it, but it was a well-to-do ailment. His manner seemed + a bit jolted and hurried for a minute or so, and then he was himself + again. He told me he was leaving for Melbourne next day. He left while I + was out, and left an envelope downstairs for me. There was nothing in it + except a pound note. + </p> + <p> + I saw him in Brisbane afterwards, well-dressed, getting out of a cab at + the entrance of one of the leading hotels. But his manner was no more + self-contained and well-to-do than it had been in the old sixpenny days—because + it couldn't be. We had a well-to-do whisky together, and he talked of + things in the abstract. He seemed just as if he'd met me in the Australia. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “A Rough Shed” + </h2> + <p> + A hot, breathless, blinding sunrise—the sun having appeared suddenly + above the ragged edge of the barren scrub like a great disc of molten + steel. No hint of a morning breeze before it, no sign on earth or sky to + show that it is morning—save the position of the sun. + </p> + <p> + A clearing in the scrub—bare as though the surface of the earth were + ploughed and harrowed, and dusty as the road. Two oblong huts—one + for the shearers and one for the rouseabouts—in about the centre of + the clearing (as if even the mongrel scrub had shrunk away from them) + built end-to-end, of weatherboards, and roofed with galvanised iron. + Little ventilation; no verandah; no attempt to create, artificially, a + breath of air through the buildings. Unpainted, sordid—hideous. + Outside, heaps of ashes still hot and smoking. Close at hand, “butcher's + shop”—a bush and bag breakwind in the dust, under a couple of sheets + of iron, with offal, grease and clotted blood blackening the surface of + the ground about it. Greasy, stinking sheepskins hanging everywhere with + blood-blotched sides out. Grease inches deep in great black patches about + the fireplace ends of the huts, where wash-up and “boiling” water is + thrown. + </p> + <p> + Inside, a rough table on supports driven into the black, greasy ground + floor, and formed of flooring boards, running on uneven lines the length + of the hut from within about 6ft. of the fire-place. Lengths of single + six-inch boards or slabs on each side, supported by the projecting ends of + short pieces of timber nailed across the legs of the table to serve as + seats. + </p> + <p> + On each side of the hut runs a rough framework, like the partitions in a + stable; each compartment battened off to about the size of a manger, and + containing four bunks, one above the other, on each side—their ends, + of course, to the table. Scarcely breathing space anywhere between. + Fireplace, the full width of the hut in one end, where all the cooking and + baking for forty or fifty men is done, and where flour, sugar, etc., are + kept in open bags. Fire, like a very furnace. Buckets of tea and coffee on + roasting beds of coals and ashes on the hearth. Pile of “brownie” on the + bare black boards at the end of the table. Unspeakable aroma of forty or + fifty men who have little inclination and less opportunity to wash their + skins, and who soak some of the grease out of their clothes—in + buckets of hot water—on Saturday afternoons or Sundays. And clinging + to all, and over all, the smell of the dried, stale yolk of wool—the + stink of rams! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “I am a rouseabout of the rouseabouts. I have fallen so far that it is + beneath me to try to climb to the proud position of 'ringer' of the shed. + I had that ambition once, when I was the softest of green hands; but then + I thought I could work out my salvation and go home. I've got used to hell + since then. I only get twenty-five shillings a week (less station store + charges) and tucker here. I have been seven years west of the Darling and + never shore a sheep. Why don't I learn to shear, and so make money? What + should I do with more money? Get out of this and go home? I would never go + home unless I had enough money to keep me for the rest of my life, and + I'll never make that Out Back. Otherwise, what should I do at home? And + how should I account for the seven years, if I were to go home? Could I + describe shed life to them and explain how I lived. They think shearing + only takes a few days of the year—at the beginning of summer. They'd + want to know how I lived the rest of the year. Could I explain that I + 'jabbed trotters' and was a 'tea-and-sugar burglar' between sheds. They'd + think I'd been a tramp and a beggar all the time. Could I explain ANYTHING + so that they'd understand? I'd have to be lying all the time and would + soon be tripped up and found out. For, whatever else I have been I was + never much of a liar. No, I'll never go home. + </p> + <p> + “I become momentarily conscious about daylight. The flies on the track got + me into that habit, I think; they start at day-break—when the + mosquitoes give over. + </p> + <p> + “The cook rings a bullock bell. + </p> + <p> + “The cook is fire-proof. He is as a fiend from the nethermost sheol and + needs to be. No man sees him sleep, for he makes bread—or worse, + brownie—at night, and he rings a bullock bell loudly at half-past + five in the morning to rouse us from our animal torpors. Others, the + sheep-ho's or the engine-drivers at the shed or wool-wash, call him, if he + does sleep. They manage it in shifts, somehow, and sleep somewhere, + sometime. We haven't time to know. The cook rings the bullock bell and + yells the time. It was the same time five minutes ago—or a year ago. + No time to decide which. I dash water over my head and face and slap + handfuls on my eyelids—gummed over aching eyes—still blighted + by the yolk o' wool—grey, greasy-feeling water from a cut-down + kerosene tin which I sneaked from the cook and hid under my bunk and had + the foresight to refill from the cask last night, under cover of warm, + still, suffocating darkness. Or was it the night before last? Anyhow, it + will be sneaked from me to-day, and from the crawler who will collar it + to-morrow, and 'touched' and 'lifted' and 'collared' and recovered by the + cook, and sneaked back again, and cause foul language, and fights, maybe, + till we 'cut-out'. + </p> + <p> + “No; we didn't have sweet dreams of home and mother, gentle poet—nor + yet of babbling brooks and sweethearts, and love's young dream. We are too + dirty and dog-tired when we tumble down, and have too little time to sleep + it off. We don't want to dream those dreams out here—they'd only be + nightmares for us, and we'd wake to remember. We MUSTN'T remember here. + </p> + <p> + “At the edge of the timber a great galvanised-iron shed, nearly all roof, + coming down to within 6ft. 6in. of the 'board' over the 'shoots'. Cloud of + red dust in the dead timber behind, going up—noon-day dust. Fence + covered with skins; carcases being burned; blue smoke going straight up as + in noonday. Great glossy (greasy-glossy) black crows 'flopping' around. + </p> + <p> + “The first syren has gone. We hurry in single files from opposite ends of + rouseabouts' and shearers' huts (as the paths happen to run to the shed) + gulping hot tea or coffee from a pint-pot in one hand and biting at a junk + of brownie in the other. + </p> + <p> + “Shed of forty hands. Shearers rush the pens and yank out sheep and throw + them like demons; grip them with their knees, take up machines, jerk the + strings; and with a rattling whirring roar the great machine-shed starts + for the day. + </p> + <p> + “'Go it, you——tigers!' yells a tar-boy. 'Wool away!' 'Tar!' + 'Sheep Ho!' We rush through with a whirring roar till breakfast time. + </p> + <p> + “We seize our tin plate from the pile, knife and fork from the candle-box, + and crowd round the camp-oven to jab out lean chops, dry as chips, boiled + in fat. Chops or curry-and-rice. There is some growling and cursing. We + slip into our places without removing our hats. There's no time to hunt + for mislaid hats when the whistle goes. Row of hat brims, level, drawn + over eyes, or thrust back—according to characters or temperaments. + Thrust back denotes a lucky absence of brains, I fancy. Row of forks going + up, or jabbing, or poised, loaded, waiting for last mouthful to be bolted. + </p> + <p> + “We pick up, sweep, tar, sew wounds, catch sheep that break from the pens, + jump down and pick up those that can't rise at the bottom of the shoots, + 'bring-my-combs-from-the-grinder-will-yer,' laugh at dirty jokes, and + swear—and, in short, are the 'will-yer' slaves, body and soul, of + seven, six, five, or four shearers, according to the distance from the + rolling tables. + </p> + <p> + “The shearer on the board at the shed is a demon. He gets so much a + hundred; we, 25s. a week. He is not supposed, by the rules of the shed, + the Union, and humanity, to take a sheep out of the pen AFTER the bell + goes (smoke-ho, meals, or knock-off), but his watch is hanging on the + post, and he times himself to get so many sheep out of the pen BEFORE the + bell goes, and ONE MORE—the 'bell-sheep'—as it is ringing. We + have to take the last fleece to the table and leave our board clean. We go + through the day of eight hours in runs of about an hour and 20 minutes + between smoke-ho's—from 6 to 6. If the shearers shore 200 instead of + 100, they'd get 2 Pounds a day instead of 1 Pound, and we'd have twice as + much work to do for our 25s. per week. But the shearers are racing each + other for tallies. And it's no use kicking. There is no God here and no + Unionism (though we all have tickets). But what am I growling about? I've + worked from 6 to 6 with no smoke-ho's for half the wages, and food we + wouldn't give the sheep-ho dog. It's the bush growl, born of heat, flies, + and dust. I'd growl now if I had a thousand a year. We MUST growl, swear, + and some of us drink to d.t.'s, or go mad sober. + </p> + <p> + “Pants and shirts stiff with grease as though a couple of pounds of soft + black putty were spread on with a painter's knife. + </p> + <p> + “No, gentle bard!—we don't sing at our work. Over the whirr and roar + and hum all day long, and with iteration that is childish and irritating + to the intelligent greenhand, float unthinkable adjectives and adverbs, + addressed to jumbucks, jackaroos, and mates indiscriminately. And worse + words for the boss over the board—behind his back. + </p> + <p> + “I came of a Good Christian Family—perhaps that's why I went to the + Devil. When I came out here I'd shrink from the man who used foul + language. In a short time I used it with the worst. I couldn't help it. + </p> + <p> + “That's the way of it. If I went back to a woman's country again I + wouldn't swear. I'd forget this as I would a nightmare. That's the way of + it. There's something of the larrikin about us. We don't exist + individually. Off the board, away from the shed (and each other) we are + quiet—even gentle. + </p> + <p> + “A great-horned ram, in poor condition, but shorn of a heavy fleece, picks + himself up at the foot of the 'shoot', and hesitates, as if ashamed to go + down to the other end where the ewes are. The most ridiculous object under + Heaven. + </p> + <p> + “A tar-boy of fifteen, of the bush, with a mouth so vile that a + street-boy, same age (up with a shearing uncle), kicks him behind—having + proved his superiority with his fists before the shed started. Of which + unspeakable little fiend the roughest shearer of a rough shed was heard to + say, in effect, that if he thought there was the slightest possibility of + his becoming the father of such a boy he'd——take drastic + measures to prevent the possibility of his becoming a proud parent at all. + </p> + <p> + “Twice a day the cooks and their familiars carry buckets of oatmeal-water + and tea to the shed, two each on a yoke. We cry, 'Where are you coming to, + my pretty maids?' + </p> + <p> + “In ten minutes the surfaces of the buckets are black with flies. We have + given over trying to keep them clear. We stir the living cream aside with + the bottoms of the pints, and guzzle gallons, and sweat it out again. + Occasionally a shearer pauses and throws the perspiration from his + forehead in a rain. + </p> + <p> + “Shearers live in such a greedy rush of excitement that often a strong man + will, at a prick of the shears, fall in a death-like faint on the board. + </p> + <p> + “We hate the Boss-of-the-Board as the shearers' 'slushy' hates the + shearers' cook. I don't know why. He's a very fair boss. + </p> + <p> + “He refused to put on a traveller yesterday, and the traveller knocked him + down. He walked into the shed this morning with his hat back and thumbs in + waistcoat—a tribute to man's weakness. He threatened to dismiss the + traveller's mate, a bigger man, for rough shearing—a tribute to + man's strength. The shearer said nothing. We hate the boss because he IS + boss, but we respect him because he is a strong man. He is as hard up as + any of us, I hear, and has a sick wife and a large, small family in + Melbourne. God judge us all! + </p> + <p> + “There is a gambling-school here, headed by the shearers' cook. After tea + they head-'em, and advance cheques are passed from hand to hand, and + thrown in the dust until they are black. When it's too dark to see with + nose to the ground, they go inside and gamble with cards. Sometimes they + start on Saturday afternoon, heading 'em till dark, play cards all night, + start again heading 'em Sunday afternoon, play cards all Sunday night, and + sleep themselves sane on Monday, or go to work ghastly—like dead + men. + </p> + <p> + “Cry of 'Fight'; we all rush out. But there isn't much fighting. Afraid of + murdering each other. I'm beginning to think that most bush crime is due + to irritation born of dust, heat, and flies. + </p> + <p> + “The smothering atmosphere shudders when the sun goes down. We call it the + sunset breeze. + </p> + <p> + “Saturday night or Sunday we're invited into the shearers' hut. There are + songs that are not hymns and recitations and speeches that are not + prayers. + </p> + <p> + “Last Sunday night: Slush lamps at long intervals on table. Men playing + cards, sewing on patches—(nearly all smoking)—some writing, + and the rest reading Deadwood Dick. At one end of the table a Christian + Endeavourer endeavouring; at the other a cockney Jew, from the hawker's + boat, trying to sell rotten clothes. In response to complaints, direct and + not chosen generally for Sunday, the shearers' rep. requests both apostles + to shut up or leave. + </p> + <p> + “He couldn't be expected to take the Christian and leave the Jew, any more + than he could take the Jew and leave the Christian. We are just amongst + ourselves in our hell. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “Fiddle at the end of rouseabouts' hut. Voice of Jackeroo, from upper bunk + with apologetic oaths: 'For God's sake chuck that up; it makes a man think + of blanky old things!' + </p> + <p> + “A lost soul laughs (mine) and dreadful night smothers us.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Payable Gold + </h2> + <p> + Among the crowds who left the Victorian side for New South Wales about the + time Gulgong broke out was an old Ballarat digger named Peter McKenzie. He + had married and retired from the mining some years previously and had made + a home for himself and family at the village of St. Kilda, near Melbourne; + but, as was often the case with old diggers, the gold fever never left + him, and when the fields of New South Wales began to blaze he mortgaged + his little property in order to raise funds for another campaign, leaving + sufficient behind him to keep his wife and family in comfort for a year or + so. + </p> + <p> + As he often remarked, his position was now very different from what it had + been in the old days when he first arrived from Scotland, in the height of + the excitement following on the great discovery. He was a young man then + with only himself to look out for, but now that he was getting old and had + a family to provide for he had staked too much on this venture to lose. + His position did certainly look like a forlorn hope, but he never seemed + to think so. + </p> + <p> + Peter must have been very lonely and low-spirited at times. A young or + unmarried man can form new ties, and even make new sweethearts if + necessary, but Peter's heart was with his wife and little ones at home, + and they were mortgaged, as it were, to Dame Fortune. Peter had to lift + this mortgage off. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless he was always cheerful, even at the worst of times, and his + straight grey beard and scrubby brown hair encircled a smile which + appeared to be a fixture. He had to make an effort in order to look grave, + such as some men do when they want to force a smile. + </p> + <p> + It was rumoured that Peter had made a vow never to return home until he + could take sufficient wealth to make his all-important family comfortable, + or, at least, to raise the mortgage from the property, for the sacrifice + of which to his mad gold fever he never forgave himself. But this was one + of the few things which Peter kept to himself. + </p> + <p> + The fact that he had a wife and children at St. Kilda was well known to + all the diggers. They had to know it, and if they did not know the age, + complexion, history and peculiarities of every child and of the “old + woman” it was not Peter's fault. + </p> + <p> + He would cross over to our place and talk to the mother for hours about + his wife and children. And nothing pleased him better than to discover + peculiarities in us children wherein we resembled his own. It pleased us + also for mercenary reasons. “It's just the same with my old woman,” or + “It's just the same with my youngsters,” Peter would exclaim boisterously, + for he looked upon any little similarity between the two families as a + remarkable coincidence. He liked us all, and was always very kind to us, + often standing between our backs and the rod that spoils the child—that + is, I mean, if it isn't used. I was very short-tempered, but this failing + was more than condoned by the fact that Peter's “eldest” was given that + way also. Mother's second son was very good-natured; so was Peter's third. + Her “third” had a great aversion for any duty that threatened to increase + his muscles; so had Peter's “second”. Our baby was very fat and heavy and + was given to sucking her own thumb vigorously, and, according to the + latest bulletins from home, it was just the same with Peter's “last”. + </p> + <p> + I think we knew more about Peter's family than we did about our own. + Although we had never seen them, we were as familiar with their features + as the photographer's art could make us, and always knew their domestic + history up to the date of the last mail. + </p> + <p> + We became interested in the McKenzie family. Instead of getting bored by + them as some people were, we were always as much pleased when Peter got a + letter from home as he was himself, and if a mail were missed, which + seldom happened—we almost shared his disappointment and anxiety. + Should one of the youngsters be ill, we would be quite uneasy, on Peter's + account, until the arrival of a later bulletin removed his anxiety, and + ours. + </p> + <p> + It must have been the glorious power of a big true heart that gained for + Peter the goodwill and sympathy of all who knew him. + </p> + <p> + Peter's smile had a peculiar fascination for us children. We would stand + by his pointing forge when he'd be sharpening picks in the early morning, + and watch his face for five minutes at a time, wondering sometimes whether + he was always SMILING INSIDE, or whether the smile went on externally + irrespective of any variation in Peter's condition of mind. + </p> + <p> + I think it was the latter case, for often when he had received bad news + from home we have heard his voice quaver with anxiety, while the old smile + played on his round, brown features just the same. + </p> + <p> + Little Nelse (one of those queer old-man children who seem to come into + the world by mistake, and who seldom stay long) used to say that Peter + “cried inside”. + </p> + <p> + Once, on Gulgong, when he attended the funeral of an old Ballarat mate, a + stranger who had been watching his face curiously remarked that McKenzie + seemed as pleased as though the dead digger had bequeathed him a fortune. + But the stranger had soon reason to alter his opinion, for when another + old mate began in a tremulous voice to repeat the words “Ashes to ashes, + an' dust to dust,” two big tears suddenly burst from Peter's eyes, and + hurried down to get entrapped in his beard. + </p> + <p> + Peter's goldmining ventures were not successful. He sank three duffers in + succession on Gulgong, and the fourth shaft, after paying expenses, left a + little over a hundred to each party, and Peter had to send the bulk of his + share home. He lived in a tent (or in a hut when he could get one) after + the manner of diggers, and he “did for himself”, even to washing his own + clothes. He never drank nor “played”, and he took little enjoyment of any + kind, yet there was not a digger on the field who would dream of calling + old Peter McKenzie “a mean man”. He lived, as we know from our own + observations, in a most frugal manner. He always tried to hide this, and + took care to have plenty of good things for us when he invited us to his + hut; but children's eyes are sharp. Some said that Peter half-starved + himself, but I don't think his family ever knew, unless he told them so + afterwards. + </p> + <p> + Ah, well! the years go over. Peter was now three years from home, and he + and Fortune were enemies still. Letters came by the mail, full of little + home troubles and prayers for Peter's return, and letters went back by the + mail, always hopeful, always cheerful. Peter never gave up. When + everything else failed he would work by the day (a sad thing for a + digger), and he was even known to do a job of fencing until such time as + he could get a few pounds and a small party together to sink another + shaft. + </p> + <p> + Talk about the heroic struggles of early explorers in a hostile country; + but for dogged determination and courage in the face of poverty, illness, + and distance, commend me to the old-time digger—the truest soldier + Hope ever had! + </p> + <p> + In the fourth year of his struggle Peter met with a terrible + disappointment. His party put down a shaft called the Forlorn Hope near + Happy Valley, and after a few weeks' fruitless driving his mates jibbed on + it. Peter had his own opinion about the ground—an old digger's + opinion, and he used every argument in his power to induce his mates to + put a few days' more work in the claim. In vain he pointed out that the + quality of the wash and the dip of the bottom exactly resembled that of + the “Brown Snake”, a rich Victorian claim. In vain he argued that in the + case of the abovementioned claim, not a colour could be got until the + payable gold was actually reached. Home Rule and The Canadian and that + cluster of fields were going ahead, and his party were eager to shift. + They remained obstinate, and at last, half-convinced against his opinion, + Peter left with them to sink the “Iawatha”, in Log Paddock, which turned + out a rank duffer—not even paying its own expenses. + </p> + <p> + A party of Italians entered the old claim and, after driving it a few feet + further, made their fortune. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + We all noticed the change in Peter McKenzie when he came to “Log Paddock”, + whither we had shifted before him. The old smile still flickered, but he + had learned to “look” grave for an hour at a time without much effort. He + was never quite the same after the affair of Forlorn Hope, and I often + think how he must have “cried” sometimes “inside”. + </p> + <p> + However, he still read us letters from home, and came and smoked in the + evening by our kitchen-fire. He showed us some new portraits of his family + which he had received by a late mail, but something gave me the impression + that the portraits made him uneasy. He had them in his possession for + nearly a week before showing them to us, and to the best of our knowledge + he never showed them to anybody else. Perhaps they reminded him of the + flight of time—perhaps he would have preferred his children to + remain just as he left them until he returned. + </p> + <p> + But stay! there was one portrait that seemed to give Peter infinite + pleasure. It was the picture of a chubby infant of about three years or + more. It was a fine-looking child taken in a sitting position on a + cushion, and arrayed in a very short shirt. On its fat, soft, white face, + which was only a few inches above the ten very podgy toes, was a smile + something like Peter's. Peter was never tired of looking at and showing + the picture of his child—the child he had never seen. Perhaps he + cherished a wild dream of making his fortune and returning home before + THAT child grew up. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + McKenzie and party were sinking a shaft at the upper end of Log Paddock, + generally called “The other end”. We were at the lower end. + </p> + <p> + One day Peter came down from “the other end” and told us that his party + expected to “bottom” during the following week, and if they got no + encouragement from the wash they intended to go prospecting at the “Happy + Thought”, near Specimen Flat. + </p> + <p> + The shaft in Log Paddock was christened “Nil Desperandum”. Towards the end + of the week we heard that the wash in the “Nil” was showing good colours. + </p> + <p> + Later came the news that “McKenzie and party” had bottomed on payable + gold, and the red flag floated over the shaft. Long before the first load + of dirt reached the puddling machine on the creek, the news was all round + the diggings. The “Nil Desperandum” was a “Golden Hole”! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + We will not forget the day when Peter went home. He hurried down in the + morning to have an hour or so with us before Cobb and Co. went by. He told + us all about his little cottage by the bay at St. Kilda. He had never + spoken of it before, probably because of the mortgage. He told us how it + faced the bay—how many rooms it had, how much flower garden, and how + on a clear day he could see from the window all the ships that came up to + the Yarra, and how with a good telescope he could even distinguish the + faces of the passengers on the big ocean liners. + </p> + <p> + And then, when the mother's back was turned, he hustled us children round + the corner, and surreptitiously slipped a sovereign into each of our dirty + hands, making great pantomimic show for silence, for the mother was very + independent. + </p> + <p> + And when we saw the last of Peter's face setting like a good-humoured sun + on the top of Cobb and Co.'s, a great feeling of discontent and loneliness + came over all our hearts. Little Nelse, who had been Peter's favourite, + went round behind the pig-stye, where none might disturb him, and sat down + on the projecting end of a trough to “have a cry”, in his usual methodical + manner. But old “Alligator Desolation”, the dog, had suspicions of what + was up, and, hearing the sobs, went round to offer whatever consolation + appertained to a damp and dirty nose and a pair of ludicrously doleful + yellow eyes. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + An Oversight of Steelman's + </h2> + <p> + Steelman and Smith—professional wanderers—were making back for + Wellington, down through the wide and rather dreary-looking Hutt Valley. + They were broke. They carried their few remaining belongings in two + skimpy, amateurish-looking swags. Steelman had fourpence left. They were + very tired and very thirsty—at least Steelman was, and he answered + for both. It was Smith's policy to feel and think just exactly as Steelman + did. Said Steelman: + </p> + <p> + “The landlord of the next pub. is not a bad sort. I won't go in—he + might remember me. You'd best go in. You've been tramping round in the + Wairarapa district for the last six months, looking for work. You're going + back to Wellington now, to try and get on the new corporation works just + being started there—the sewage works. You think you've got a show. + You've got some mates in Wellington, and they're looking out for a chance + for you. You did get a job last week on a sawmill at Silverstream, and the + boss sacked you after three days and wouldn't pay you a penny. That's just + his way. I know him—at least a mate of mine does. I've heard of him + often enough. His name's Cowman. Don't forget the name, whatever you do. + The landlord here hates him like poison; he'll sympathize with you. Tell + him you've got a mate with you; he's gone ahead—took a short cut + across the paddocks. Tell him you've got only fourpence left, and see if + he'll give you a drop in a bottle. Says you: 'Well, boss, the fact is + we've only got fourpence, but you might let us have a drop in a bottle'; + and very likely he'll stand you a couple of pints in a gin-bottle. You can + fling the coppers on the counter, but the chances are he won't take them. + He's not a bad sort. Beer's fourpence a pint out here, same's in + Wellington. See that gin-bottle lying there by the stump; get it and we'll + take it down to the river with us and rinse it out.” + </p> + <p> + They reached the river bank. + </p> + <p> + “You'd better take my swag—it looks more decent,” said Steelman. + “No, I'll tell you what we'll do: we'll undo both swags and make them into + one—one decent swag, and I'll cut round through the lanes and wait + for you on the road ahead of the pub.” + </p> + <p> + He rolled up the swag with much care and deliberation and considerable + judgment. He fastened Smith's belt round one end of it, and the + handkerchiefs round the other, and made a towel serve as a shoulder-strap. + </p> + <p> + “I wish we had a canvas bag to put it in,” he said, “or a cover of some + sort. But never mind. The landlord's an old Australian bushman, now I come + to think of it; the swag looks Australian enough, and it might appeal to + his feelings, you know—bring up old recollections. But you'd best + not say you come from Australia, because he's been there, and he'd soon + trip you up. He might have been where you've been, you know, so don't try + to do too much. You always do mug-up the business when you try to do more + than I tell you. You might tell him your mate came from Australia—but + no, he might want you to bring me in. Better stick to Maoriland. I don't + believe in too much ornamentation. Plain lies are the best.” + </p> + <p> + “What's the landlord's name?” asked Smith. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind that. You don't want to know that. You are not supposed to + know him at all. It might look suspicious if you called him by his name, + and lead to awkward questions; then you'd be sure to put your foot into + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I could say I read it over the door.” + </p> + <p> + “Bosh. Travellers don't read the names over the doors, when they go into + pubs. You're an entire stranger to him. Call him 'Boss'. Say 'Good-day, + Boss,' when you go in, and swing down your swag as if you're used to it. + Ease it down like this. Then straighten yourself up, stick your hat back, + and wipe your forehead, and try to look as hearty and independent and + cheerful as you possibly can. Curse the Government, and say the country's + done. It don't matter what Government it is, for he's always against it. I + never knew a real Australian that wasn't. Say that you're thinking about + trying to get over to Australia, and then listen to him talking about it—and + try to look interested, too! Get that damned stone-deaf expression off + your face!... He'll run Australia down most likely (I never knew an + Other-sider that had settled down over here who didn't). But don't you + make any mistake and agree with him, because, although successful + Australians over here like to run their own country down, there's very few + of them that care to hear anybody else do it.... Don't come away as soon + as you get your beer. Stay and listen to him for a while, as if you're + interested in his yarning, and give him time to put you on to a job, or + offer you one. Give him a chance to ask how you and your mate are off for + tobacco or tucker. Like as not he'll sling you half a crown when you come + away—that is, if you work it all right. Now try to think of + something to say to him, and make yourself a bit interesting—if you + possibly can. Tell him about the fight we saw back at the pub. the other + day. He might know some of the chaps. This is a sleepy hole, and there + ain't much news knocking round.... I wish I could go in myself, but he's + sure to remember ME. I'm afraid he got left the last time I stayed there + (so did one or two others); and, besides, I came away without saying + good-bye to him, and he might feel a bit sore about it. That's the worst + of travelling on the old road. Come on now, wake up!” + </p> + <p> + “Bet I'll get a quart,” said Smith, brightening up, “and some tucker for + it to wash down.” + </p> + <p> + “If you don't,” said Steelman, “I'll stoush you. Never mind the bottle; + fling it away. It doesn't look well for a traveller to go into a pub. with + an empty bottle in his hand. A real swagman never does. It looks much + better to come out with a couple of full ones. That's what you've got to + do. Now, come along.” + </p> + <p> + Steelman turned off into a lane, cut across the paddocks to the road + again, and waited for Smith. He hadn't long to wait. + </p> + <p> + Smith went on towards the public-house, rehearsing his part as he walked—repeating + his “lines” to himself, so as to be sure of remembering all that Steelman + had told him to say to the landlord, and adding, with what he considered + appropriate gestures, some fancy touches of his own, which he determined + to throw in in spite of Steelman's advice and warning. “I'll tell him + (this)—I'll tell him (that). Well, look here, boss, I'll say you're + pretty right and I quite agree with you as far as that's concerned, but,” + &c. And so, murmuring and mumbling to himself, Smith reached the + hotel. The day was late, and the bar was small, and low, and dark. Smith + walked in with all the assurance he could muster, eased down his swag in a + corner in what he no doubt considered the true professional style, and, + swinging round to the bar, said in a loud voice which he intended to be + cheerful, independent, and hearty: + </p> + <p> + “Good-day, boss!” + </p> + <p> + But it wasn't a “boss”. It was about the hardest-faced old woman that + Smith had ever seen. The pub. had changed hands. + </p> + <p> + “I—I beg your pardon, missus,” stammered poor Smith. + </p> + <p> + It was a knock-down blow for Smith. He couldn't come to time. He and + Steelman had had a landlord in their minds all the time, and laid their + plans accordingly; the possibility of having a she—and one like this—to + deal with never entered into their calculations. Smith had no time to + reorganise, even if he had had the brains to do so, without the assistance + of his mate's knowledge of human nature. + </p> + <p> + “I—I beg your pardon, missus,” he stammered. + </p> + <p> + Painful pause. She sized him up. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, missus—I—the fact is—will you give me a bottle of + beer for fourpence?” + </p> + <p> + “Wha—what?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean——. The fact is, we've only got fourpence left, and—I've + got a mate outside, and you might let us have a quart or so, in a bottle, + for that. I mean—anyway, you might let us have a pint. I'm very + sorry to bother you, missus.” + </p> + <p> + But she couldn't do it. No. Certainly not. Decidedly not! All her drinks + were sixpence. She had her license to pay, and the rent, and a family to + keep. It wouldn't pay out there—it wasn't worth her while. It + wouldn't pay the cost of carting the liquor out, &c., &c. + </p> + <p> + “Well, missus,” poor Smith blurted out at last, in sheer desperation, + “give me what you can in a bottle for this. I've—I've got a mate + outside.” And he put the four coppers on the bar. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got a bottle?” + </p> + <p> + “No—but——” + </p> + <p> + “If I give you one, will you bring it back? You can't expect me to give + you a bottle as well as a drink.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, mum; I'll bring it back directly.” + </p> + <p> + She reached out a bottle from under the bar, and very deliberately + measured out a little over a pint and poured it into the bottle, which she + handed to Smith without a cork. + </p> + <p> + Smith went his way without rejoicing. It struck him forcibly that he + should have saved the money until they reached Petone, or the city, where + Steelman would be sure to get a decent drink. But how was he to know? He + had chanced it, and lost; Steelman might have done the same. What troubled + Smith most was the thought of what Steelman would say; he already heard + him, in imagination, saying: “You're a mug, Smith—Smith, you ARE a + mug.” + </p> + <p> + But Steelman didn't say much. He was prepared for the worst by seeing + Smith come along so soon. He listened to his story with an air of gentle + sadness, even as a stern father might listen to the voluntary confession + of a wayward child; then he held the bottle up to the fading light of + departing day, looked through it (the bottle), and said: + </p> + <p> + “Well—it ain't worth while dividing it.” + </p> + <p> + Smith's heart shot right down through a hole in the sole of his left boot + into the hard road. + </p> + <p> + “Here, Smith,” said Steelman, handing him the bottle, “drink it, old man; + you want it. It wasn't altogether your fault; it was an oversight of mine. + I didn't bargain for a woman of that kind, and, of course, YOU couldn't be + expected to think of it. Drink it! Drink it down, Smith. I'll manage to + work the oracle before this night is out.” + </p> + <p> + Smith was forced to believe his ears, and, recovering from his surprise, + drank. + </p> + <p> + “I promised to take back the bottle,” he said, with the ghost of a smile. + </p> + <p> + Steelman took the bottle by the neck and broke it on the fence. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, Smith; I'll carry the swag for a while.” + </p> + <p> + And they tramped on in the gathering starlight. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + How Steelman told his Story + </h2> + <p> + It was Steelman's humour, in some of his moods, to take Smith into his + confidence, as some old bushmen do their dogs. + </p> + <p> + “You're nearly as good as an intelligent sheep-dog to talk to, Smith—when + a man gets tired of thinking to himself and wants a relief. You're a bit + of a mug and a good deal of an idiot, and the chances are that you don't + know what I'm driving at half the time—that's the main reason why I + don't mind talking to you. You ought to consider yourself honoured; it + ain't every man I take into my confidence, even that far.” + </p> + <p> + Smith rubbed his head. + </p> + <p> + “I'd sooner talk to you—or a stump—any day than to one of + those silent, suspicious, self-contained, worldly-wise chaps that listen + to everything you say—sense and rubbish alike—as if you were + trying to get them to take shares in a mine. I drop the man who listens to + me all the time and doesn't seem to get bored. He isn't safe. He isn't to + be trusted. He mostly wants to grind his axe against yours, and there's + too little profit for me where there are two axes to grind, and no stone—though + I'd manage it once, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “How'd you do it?” asked Smith. + </p> + <p> + “There are several ways. Either you join forces, for instance, and find a + grindstone—or make one of the other man's axe. But the last way is + too slow, and, as I said, takes too much brain-work—besides, it + doesn't pay. It might satisfy your vanity or pride, but I've got none. I + had once, when I was younger, but it—well, it nearly killed me, so I + dropped it. + </p> + <p> + “You can mostly trust the man who wants to talk more than you do; he'll + make a safe mate—or a good grindstone.” + </p> + <p> + Smith scratched the nape of his neck and sat blinking at the fire, with + the puzzled expression of a woman pondering over a life-question or the + trimming of a hat. Steelman took his chin in his hand and watched Smith + thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “I—I say, Steely,” exclaimed Smith, suddenly, sitting up and + scratching his head and blinking harder than ever—“wha—what am + I?” + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Am I the axe or the grindstone?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! your brain seems in extra good working order to-night, Smith. Well, + you turn the grindstone and I grind.” Smith settled. “If you could grind + better than I, I'd turn the stone and let YOU grind, I'd never go against + the interests of the firm—that's fair enough, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es,” admitted Smith; “I suppose so.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I. Now, Smith, we've got along all right together for years, off + and on, but you never know what might happen. I might stop breathing, for + instance—and so might you.” + </p> + <p> + Smith began to look alarmed. + </p> + <p> + “Poetical justice might overtake one or both of us—such things have + happened before, though not often. Or, say, misfortune or death might + mistake us for honest, hard-working mugs with big families to keep, and + cut us off in the bloom of all our wisdom. You might get into trouble, + and, in that case, I'd be bound to leave you there, on principle; or I + might get into trouble, and you wouldn't have the brains to get me out—though + I know you'd be mug enough to try. I might make a rise and cut you, or you + might be misled into showing some spirit, and clear out after I'd stoushed + you for it. You might get tired of me calling you a mug, and bossing you + and making a tool or convenience of you, you know. You might go in for + honest graft (you were always a bit weak-minded) and then I'd have to wash + my hands of you (unless you agreed to keep me) for an irreclaimable mug. + Or it might suit me to become a respected and worthy fellow townsman, and + then, if you came within ten miles of me or hinted that you ever knew me, + I'd have you up for vagrancy, or soliciting alms, or attempting to levy + blackmail. I'd have to fix you—so I give you fair warning. Or we + might get into some desperate fix (and it needn't be very desperate, + either) when I'd be obliged to sacrifice you for my own personal safety, + comfort, and convenience. Hundreds of things might happen. + </p> + <p> + “Well, as I said, we've been at large together for some years, and I've + found you sober, trustworthy, and honest; so, in case we do part—as + we will sooner or later—and you survive, I'll give you some advice + from my own experience. + </p> + <p> + “In the first place: If you ever happen to get born again—and it + wouldn't do you much harm—get born with the strength of a bullock + and the hide of one as well, and a swelled head, and no brains—at + least no more brains than you've got now. I was born with a skin like + tissue-paper, and brains; also a heart. + </p> + <p> + “Get born without relatives, if you can: if you can't help it, clear out + on your own just as soon after you're born as you possibly can. I hung on. + </p> + <p> + “If you have relations, and feel inclined to help them any time when + you're flush (and there's no telling what a weak-minded man like you might + take it into his head to do)—don't do it. They'll get a down on you + if you do. It only causes family troubles and bitterness. There's no + dislike like that of a dependant. You'll get neither gratitude nor + civility in the end, and be lucky if you escape with a character. (You've + got NO character, Smith; I'm only just supposing you have.) There's no + hatred too bitter for, and nothing too bad to be said of, the mug who + turns. The worst yarns about a man are generally started by his own tribe, + and the world believes them at once on that very account. Well, the first + thing to do in life is to escape from your friends. + </p> + <p> + “If you ever go to work—and miracles have happened before—no + matter what your wages are, or how you are treated, you can take it for + granted that you're sweated; act on that to the best of your ability, or + you'll never rise in the world. If you go to see a show on the nod you'll + be found a comfortable seat in a good place; but if you pay the chances + are the ticket clerk will tell you a lie, and you'll have to hustle for + standing room. The man that doesn't ante gets the best of this world; + anything he'll stand is good enough for the man that pays. If you try to + be too sharp you'll get into gaol sooner or later; if you try to be too + honest the chances are that the bailiff will get into your house—if + you have one—and make a holy show of you before the neighbours. The + honest softy is more often mistaken for a swindler, and accused of being + one, than the out-and-out scamp; and the man that tells the truth too much + is set down as an irreclaimable liar. But most of the time crow low and + roost high, for it's a funny world, and you never know what might happen. + </p> + <p> + “And if you get married (and there's no accounting for a woman's taste) be + as bad as you like, and then moderately good, and your wife will love you. + If you're bad all the time she can't stand it for ever, and if you're good + all the time she'll naturally treat you with contempt. Never explain what + you're going to do, and don't explain afterwards, if you can help it. If + you find yourself between two stools, strike hard for your own self, Smith—strike + hard, and you'll be respected more than if you fought for all the world. + Generosity isn't understood nowadays, and what the people don't understand + is either 'mad' or 'cronk'. Failure has no case, and you can't build one + for it.... I started out in life very young—and very soft.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + “I thought you were going to tell me your story, Steely,” remarked Smith. + </p> + <p> + Steelman smiled sadly. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <div class="mynote"> + <h2> + About the author: + </h2> + <p> + Henry Lawson was born near Grenfell, New South Wales, Australia on 17 + June 1867. Although he has since become Australia's most acclaimed + writer, in his own lifetime his writing was often “on the side”—his + “real” work being whatever he could find. His writing was frequently + 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 at + Sydney, 2 September 1922. He is most famous for his short stories. + </p> + <p> + “On the Track” and “Over the Sliprails” were both published at Sydney in + 1900, the prefaces being dated March and June respectively—and so, + though printed separately, a combined edition was printed the same year + (the two separate, complete works were simply put together in one + binding); hence they are sometimes referred to as “On the Track and Over + the Sliprails”. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + An incomplete Glossary of Australian terms and concepts which may prove + helpful to understanding this book: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Anniversary Day: Alluded to 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. + + Billy: A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil water for + tea. + + Cabbage-tree/Cabbage-tree hat: A wide-brimmed hat made with the + leaves of the cabbage tree palm (Livistona australis). It was a + common hat in early colonial days, and later became associated with + patriotism. + + Gin: An aboriginal woman; use of the term is analogous to “squaw” + in N. America. May be considered derogatory in modern usage. + + Graft: Work; hard work. + + Humpy: (Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in the bush, + especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. A gunyah, + wurley, or mia-mia. + + Jackeroo/Jackaroo: At the time Lawson wrote, a Jackeroo 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. + + Jumbuck: A sheep. + + Larrikin: A hoodlum. + + Lollies: Candy, sweets. + + 'Possum/Possum: In Australia, a class of marsupials that were + originally mistaken for the American animal of the same name. They + are not especially related to the possums of North and South + America, other than 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. + + Push: A group of people sharing something in common; Lawson uses the + word in an older and more particular sense, as a gang of violent + city hoodlums. + + Ratty: Shabby, dilapidated; somewhat eccentric, perhaps even + slightly mad. + + Selector: A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled land + by lease or license from the government. + + Shout: To buy a round of drinks. + + Sliprails/slip-rails: movable rails, forming a section of fence, + which can be taken down in lieu of a gate. + + Sly grog shop or shanty: An unlicensed bar or liquor-store, + especially one selling cheap or poor-quality liquor. + + Squatter: A person who first settled on land without government + permission, and later continued by lease or license, generally to + raise stock; a wealthy rural landowner. + + Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + + Stoush: Violence; to do violence to. + + 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. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + (Alan Light, Monroe, North Carolina, March 1998.) + </p> + <br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of On the Track, by Henry Lawson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON THE TRACK *** + +***** This file should be named 1231-h.htm or 1231-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/3/1231/ + +Produced by Alan R. Light, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: On the Track + +Author: Henry Lawson + +Posting Date: August 26, 2008 [EBook #1231] +Release Date: March, 1998 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON THE TRACK *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light + + + + + +ON THE TRACK + +by Henry Lawson + + +Author of "While the Billy Boils", and "When the World was Wide" + + +[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are CAPITALISED. Some obvious +errors have been corrected after being confirmed.] + + + + +Preface + + Of the stories in this volume many have already appeared + in (various periodicals), while several now appear in print + for the first time. + + H. L. + Sydney, March 17th, 1900. + + + + + +Contents + + The Songs They used to Sing + A Vision of Sandy Blight + Andy Page's Rival + The Iron-Bark Chip + "Middleton's Peter" + The Mystery of Dave Regan + Mitchell on Matrimony + Mitchell on Women + No Place for a Woman + Mitchell's Jobs + Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster + Bush Cats + Meeting Old Mates + Two Larrikins + Mr. Smellingscheck + "A Rough Shed" + Payable Gold + An Oversight of Steelman's + How Steelman told his Story + + + + + +ON THE TRACK + + + + +The Songs They used to Sing + + + +On the diggings up to twenty odd years ago--and as far back as I can +remember--on Lambing Flat, the Pipe Clays, Gulgong, Home Rule, and so +through the roaring list; in bark huts, tents, public-houses, sly grog +shanties, and--well, the most glorious voice of all belonged to a bad +girl. We were only children and didn't know why she was bad, but we +weren't allowed to play near or go near the hut she lived in, and we +were trained to believe firmly that something awful would happen to us +if we stayed to answer a word, and didn't run away as fast as our legs +could carry us, if she attempted to speak to us. We had before us the +dread example of one urchin, who got an awful hiding and went on bread +and water for twenty-four hours for allowing her to kiss him and give +him lollies. She didn't look bad--she looked to us like a grand and +beautiful lady-girl--but we got instilled into us the idea that she was +an awful bad woman, something more terrible even than a drunken man, and +one whose presence was to be feared and fled from. There were two other +girls in the hut with her, also a pretty little girl, who called her +"Auntie", and with whom we were not allowed to play--for they were all +bad; which puzzled us as much as child-minds can be puzzled. We couldn't +make out how everybody in one house could be bad. We used to wonder why +these bad people weren't hunted away or put in gaol if they were so +bad. And another thing puzzled us. Slipping out after dark, when the bad +girls happened to be singing in their house, we'd sometimes run against +men hanging round the hut by ones and twos and threes, listening. They +seemed mysterious. They were mostly good men, and we concluded they were +listening and watching the bad women's house to see that they didn't +kill anyone, or steal and run away with any bad little boys--ourselves, +for instance--who ran out after dark; which, as we were informed, those +bad people were always on the lookout for a chance to do. + +We were told in after years that old Peter McKenzie (a respectable, +married, hard-working digger) would sometimes steal up opposite the bad +door in the dark, and throw in money done up in a piece of paper, and +listen round until the bad girl had sung the "Bonnie Hills of Scotland" +two or three times. Then he'd go and get drunk, and stay drunk two or +three days at a time. And his wife caught him throwing the money in one +night, and there was a terrible row, and she left him; and people always +said it was all a mistake. But we couldn't see the mistake then. + +But I can hear that girl's voice through the night, twenty years ago: + + Oh! the bloomin' heath, and the pale blue bell, + In my bonnet then I wore; + And memory knows no brighter theme + Than those happy days of yore. + Scotland! Land of chief and song! + Oh, what charms to thee belong! + +And I am old enough to understand why poor Peter McKenzie--who was +married to a Saxon, and a Tartar--went and got drunk when the bad girl +sang "The Bonnie Hills of Scotland." + + His anxious eye might look in vain + For some loved form it knew! + + . . . . . + +And yet another thing puzzled us greatly at the time. Next door to the +bad girl's house there lived a very respectable family--a family of good +girls with whom we were allowed to play, and from whom we got lollies +(those hard old red-and-white "fish lollies" that grocers sent home with +parcels of groceries and receipted bills). Now one washing day, they +being as glad to get rid of us at home as we were to get out, we went +over to the good house and found no one at home except the grown-up +daughter, who used to sing for us, and read "Robinson Crusoe" of nights, +"out loud", and give us more lollies than any of the rest--and with +whom we were passionately in love, notwithstanding the fact that she was +engaged to a "grown-up man"--(we reckoned he'd be dead and out of the +way by the time we were old enough to marry her). She was washing. +She had carried the stool and tub over against the stick fence which +separated her house from the bad house; and, to our astonishment and +dismay, the bad girl had brought HER tub over against her side of the +fence. They stood and worked with their shoulders to the fence between +them, and heads bent down close to it. The bad girl would sing a few +words, and the good girl after her, over and over again. They sang very +low, we thought. Presently the good grown-up girl turned her head and +caught sight of us. She jumped, and her face went flaming red; she laid +hold of the stool and carried it, tub and all, away from that fence in +a hurry. And the bad grown-up girl took her tub back to her house. The +good grown-up girl made us promise never to tell what we saw--that she'd +been talking to a bad girl--else she would never, never marry us. + +She told me, in after years, when she'd grown up to be a grandmother, +that the bad girl was surreptitiously teaching her to sing "Madeline" +that day. + +I remember a dreadful story of a digger who went and shot himself +one night after hearing that bad girl sing. We thought then what a +frightfully bad woman she must be. The incident terrified us; and +thereafter we kept carefully and fearfully out of reach of her voice, +lest we should go and do what the digger did. + + . . . . . + +I have a dreamy recollection of a circus on Gulgong in the roaring days, +more than twenty years ago, and a woman (to my child-fancy a being from +another world) standing in the middle of the ring, singing: + + Out in the cold world--out in the street-- + Asking a penny from each one I meet; + Cheerless I wander about all the day, + Wearing my young life in sorrow away! + +That last line haunted me for many years. I remember being frightened by +women sobbing (and one or two great grown-up diggers also) that night in +that circus. + +"Father, Dear Father, Come Home with Me Now", was a sacred song then, +not a peg for vulgar parodies and more vulgar "business" for fourth-rate +clowns and corner-men. Then there was "The Prairie Flower". "Out on the +Prairie, in an Early Day"--I can hear the digger's wife yet: she was the +prettiest girl on the field. They married on the sly and crept into +camp after dark; but the diggers got wind of it and rolled up with +gold-dishes, shovels, &c., &c., and gave them a real good tinkettling in +the old-fashioned style, and a nugget or two to start housekeeping on. +She had a very sweet voice. + + Fair as a lily, joyous and free, + Light of the prairie home was she. + +She's a "granny" now, no doubt--or dead. + +And I remember a poor, brutally ill-used little wife, wearing a black +eye mostly, and singing "Love Amongst the Roses" at her work. And they +sang the "Blue Tail Fly", and all the first and best coon songs--in the +days when old John Brown sank a duffer on the hill. + + . . . . . + +The great bark kitchen of Granny Mathews' "Redclay Inn". A fresh +back-log thrown behind the fire, which lights the room fitfully. Company +settled down to pipes, subdued yarning, and reverie. + +Flash Jack--red sash, cabbage-tree hat on back of head with nothing +in it, glossy black curls bunched up in front of brim. Flash Jack +volunteers, without invitation, preparation, or warning, and through his +nose: + + Hoh!-- + There was a wild kerlonial youth, + John Dowlin was his name! + He bountied on his parients, + Who lived in Castlemaine! + +and so on to-- + + He took a pistol from his breast + And waved that lit--tle toy-- + +"Little toy" with an enthusiastic flourish and great unction on Flash +Jack's part-- + + "I'll fight, but I won't surrender!" said + The wild Kerlonial Boy. + +Even this fails to rouse the company's enthusiasm. "Give us a song, Abe! +Give us the 'Lowlands'!" Abe Mathews, bearded and grizzled, is lying +on the broad of his back on a bench, with his hands clasped under his +head--his favourite position for smoking, reverie, yarning, or singing. +He had a strong, deep voice, which used to thrill me through and +through, from hair to toenails, as a child. + +They bother Abe till he takes his pipe out of his mouth and puts it +behind his head on the end of the stool: + + The ship was built in Glasgow; + 'Twas the "Golden Vanitee"-- +Lines have dropped out of my memory during the thirty years gone +between-- + + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low! + +The public-house people and more diggers drop into the kitchen, as all +do within hearing, when Abe sings. + +"Now then, boys: + + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low! + +"Now, all together! + + The Low Lands! The Low Lands! + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!" + +Toe and heel and flat of foot begin to stamp the clay floor, and horny +hands to slap patched knees in accompaniment. + + "Oh! save me, lads!" he cried, + "I'm drifting with the current, + And I'm drifting with the tide! + And I'm sinking in the Low Lands, Low! + + The Low Lands! The Low Lands!"-- + +The old bark kitchen is a-going now. Heels drumming on gin-cases under +stools; hands, knuckles, pipe-bowls, and pannikins keeping time on the +table. + + And we sewed him in his hammock, + And we slipped him o'er the side, + And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low! + The Low Lands! The Low Lands! + And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low! + +Old Boozer Smith--a dirty gin-sodden bundle of rags on the floor in the +corner with its head on a candle box, and covered by a horse rug--old +Boozer Smith is supposed to have been dead to the universe for hours +past, but the chorus must have disturbed his torpor; for, with a +suddenness and unexpectedness that makes the next man jump, there comes +a bellow from under the horse rug: + + Wot though!--I wear!--a rag!--ged coat! + I'll wear it like a man! + +and ceases as suddenly as it commenced. He struggles to bring his ruined +head and bloated face above the surface, glares round; then, no one +questioning his manhood, he sinks back and dies to creation; and +subsequent proceedings are only interrupted by a snore, as far as he is +concerned. + +Little Jimmy Nowlett, the bullock-driver, is inspired. "Go on, Jimmy! +Give us a song!" + + In the days when we were hard up + For want of wood and wire-- +Jimmy always blunders; it should have been "food and fire"-- + + We used to tie our boots up + With lit--tle bits--er wire; + +and-- + + I'm sitting in my lit--tle room, + It measures six by six; + The work-house wall is opposite, + I've counted all the bricks! + +"Give us a chorus, Jimmy!" + +Jimmy does, giving his head a short, jerky nod for nearly every word, +and describing a circle round his crown--as if he were stirring a pint +of hot tea--with his forefinger, at the end of every line: + + Hall!--Round!--Me--Hat! + I wore a weepin' willer! + +Jimmy is a Cockney. + +"Now then, boys!" + + Hall--round--me hat! + +How many old diggers remember it? + +And: + + A butcher, and a baker, and a quiet-looking quaker, + All a-courting pretty Jessie at the Railway Bar. + +I used to wonder as a child what the "railway bar" meant. + +And: + + I would, I would, I would in vain + That I were single once again! + But ah, alas, that will not be + Till apples grow on the willow tree. + +A drunken gambler's young wife used to sing that song--to herself. + +A stir at the kitchen door, and a cry of "Pinter," and old Poynton, +Ballarat digger, appears and is shoved in; he has several drinks aboard, +and they proceed to "git Pinter on the singin' lay," and at last talk +him round. He has a good voice, but no "theory", and blunders worse than +Jimmy Nowlett with the words. He starts with a howl-- + + Hoh! + Way down in Covent Gar-ar-r-dings + A-strolling I did go, + To see the sweetest flow-ow-wers + That e'er in gardings grow. + +He saw the rose and lily--the red and white and blue--and he saw the +sweetest flow-ow-ers that e'er in gardings grew; for he saw two lovely +maidens (Pinter calls 'em "virgings") underneath (he must have meant on +top of) "a garding chair", sings Pinter. + + And one was lovely Jessie, + With the jet black eyes and hair, + +roars Pinter, + + And the other was a vir-ir-ging, + I solemn-lye declare! + +"Maiden, Pinter!" interjects Mr. Nowlett. + +"Well, it's all the same," retorts Pinter. "A maiden IS a virging, +Jimmy. If you're singing, Jimmy, and not me, I'll leave off!" Chorus of +"Order! Shut up, Jimmy!" + + I quicklye step-ped up to her, + And unto her did sa-a-y: + Do you belong to any young man, + Hoh, tell me that, I pra-a-y? + +Her answer, according to Pinter, was surprisingly prompt and +unconventional; also full and concise: + + No; I belong to no young man-- + I solemnlye declare! + I mean to live a virging + And still my laurels wear! + +Jimmy Nowlett attempts to move an amendment in favour of "maiden", +but is promptly suppressed. It seems that Pinter's suit has a happy +termination, for he is supposed to sing in the character of a "Sailor +Bold", and as he turns to pursue his stroll in "Covent Gar-ar-dings": + + "Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!" she cried, + "I love a Sailor Bold!" + +"Hong-kore, Pinter! Give us the 'Golden Glove', Pinter!" + +Thus warmed up, Pinter starts with an explanatory "spoken" to the effect +that the song he is about to sing illustrates some of the little ways of +woman, and how, no matter what you say or do, she is bound to have her +own way in the end; also how, in one instance, she set about getting it. + +Hoh! + + Now, it's of a young squoire near Timworth did dwell, + Who courted a nobleman's daughter so well-- + +The song has little or nothing to do with the "squire", except so far as +"all friends and relations had given consent," and-- + + The troo-soo was ordered--appointed the day, + And a farmer were appointed for to give her away-- + +which last seemed a most unusual proceeding, considering the wedding was +a toney affair; but perhaps there were personal interests--the nobleman +might have been hard up, and the farmer backing him. But there was an +extraordinary scene in the church, and things got mixed. + + For as soon as this maiding this farmer espied: + "Hoh, my heart! Hoh, my heart! + Hoh, my heart!" then she cried. + +Hysterics? Anyway, instead of being wed-- + + This maiden took sick and she went to her bed. + +(N.B.--Pinter sticks to 'virging'.) + +Whereupon friends and relations and guests left the house in a body (a +strange but perhaps a wise proceeding, after all--maybe they smelt a +rat) and left her to recover alone, which she did promptly. And then: + + Shirt, breeches, and waistcoat this maiding put on, + And a-hunting she went with her dog and her gun; + She hunted all round where this farmier did dwell, + Because in her own heart she love-ed him well. + +The cat's out of the bag now: + + And often she fired, but no game she killed-- + +which was not surprising-- + + Till at last the young farmier came into the field-- + +No wonder. She put it to him straight: + + "Oh, why are you not at the wedding?" she cried, + "For to wait on the squoire, and to give him his bride." + +He was as prompt and as delightfully unconventional in his reply as the +young lady in Covent Gardings: + + "Oh, no! and oh, no! For the truth I must sa-a-y, + I love her too well for to give her a-w-a-a-y!" + +which was satisfactory to the disguised "virging". + + ".... and I'd take sword in hand, + And by honour I'd win her if she would command." + +Which was still more satisfactory. + + Now this virging, being-- +(Jimmy Nowlett: "Maiden, Pinter--" Jim is thrown on a stool and sat on +by several diggers.) + + Now this maiding, being please-ed to see him so bold, + She gave him her glove that was flowered with gold, + +and explained that she found it in his field while hunting around with +her dog and her gun. It is understood that he promised to look up +the owner. Then she went home and put an advertisement in the local +'Herald'; and that ad. must have caused considerable sensation. She +stated that she had lost her golden glove, and + + The young man that finds it and brings it to me, + Hoh! that very young man my husband shall be! + +She had a saving clause in case the young farmer mislaid the glove +before he saw the ad., and an OLD bloke got holt of it and fetched it +along. But everything went all right. The young farmer turned up with +the glove. He was a very respectable young farmer, and expressed his +gratitude to her for having "honour-ed him with her love." They were +married, and the song ends with a picture of the young farmeress milking +the cow, and the young farmer going whistling to plough. The fact that +they lived and grafted on the selection proves that I hit the right nail +on the head when I guessed, in the first place, that the old nobleman +was "stony". + +In after years, + + ... she told him of the fun, + How she hunted him up with her dog and her gun. + +But whether he was pleased or otherwise to hear it, after years of +matrimonial experiences, the old song doesn't say, for it ends there. + +Flash Jack is more successful with "Saint Patrick's Day". + + I come to the river, I jumped it quite clever! + Me wife tumbled in, and I lost her for ever, + St. Patrick's own day in the mornin'! + +This is greatly appreciated by Jimmy Nowlett, who is suspected, +especially by his wife, of being more cheerful when on the roads than +when at home. + + . . . . . + +"Sam Holt" was a great favourite with Jimmy Nowlett in after years. + + Oh, do you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt? + Black Alice so dirty and dark-- + Who'd a nose on her face--I forget how it goes-- + And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark. + +Sam Holt must have been very hard up for tucker as well as beauty then, +for + + Do you remember the 'possums and grubs + She baked for you down by the creek? + +Sam Holt was, apparently, a hardened flash Jack. + + You were not quite the cleanly potato, Sam Holt. + +Reference is made to his "manner of holding a flush", and he is asked +to remember several things which he, no doubt, would rather forget, +including + + ... the hiding you got from the boys. + +The song is decidedly personal. + +But Sam Holt makes a pile and goes home, leaving many a better and worse +man to pad the hoof Out Back. And--Jim Nowlett sang this with so much +feeling as to make it appear a personal affair between him and the +absent Holt-- + + And, don't you remember the fiver, Sam Holt, + You borrowed so careless and free? + I reckon I'll whistle a good many tunes + +(with increasing feeling) + + Ere you think of that fiver and me. + +For the chances will be that Sam Holt's old mate + + Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden Road + To the end of the chapter of fate. + + . . . . . + +An echo from "The Old Bark Hut", sung in the opposition camp across the +gully: + + You may leave the door ajar, but if you keep it shut, + There's no need of suffocation in the Ould Barrk Hut. + + . . . . . + + The tucker's in the gin-case, but you'd better keep it shut-- + For the flies will canther round it in the Ould Bark Hut. + +However: + + What's out of sight is out of mind, in the Ould Bark Hut. + + . . . . . + + We washed our greasy moleskins + On the banks of the Condamine.-- + +Somebody tackling the "Old Bullock Dray"; it must be over fifty verses +now. I saw a bushman at a country dance start to sing that song; he'd +get up to ten or fifteen verses, break down, and start afresh. At last +he sat down on his heel to it, in the centre of the clear floor, resting +his wrist on his knee, and keeping time with an index finger. It was +very funny, but the thing was taken seriously all through. + +Irreverent echo from the old Lambing Flat trouble, from camp across the +gully: + + Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! + No more Chinamen will enter Noo South Wales! + +and + + Yankee Doodle came to town + On a little pony-- + Stick a feather in his cap, + And call him Maccaroni! + +All the camps seem to be singing to-night: + + Ring the bell, watchman! + Ring! Ring! Ring! + Ring, for the good news + Is now on the wing! + +Good lines, the introduction: + + High on the belfry the old sexton stands, + Grasping the rope with his thin bony hands!... + Bon-fires are blazing throughout the land... + Glorious and blessed tidings! Ring! Ring the bell! + + . . . . . + +Granny Mathews fails to coax her niece into the kitchen, but persuades +her to sing inside. She is the girl who learnt 'sub rosa' from the bad +girl who sang "Madeline". Such as have them on instinctively take their +hats off. Diggers, &c., strolling past, halt at the first notes of the +girl's voice, and stand like statues in the moonlight: + + Shall we gather at the river, + Where bright angel feet have trod? + The beautiful--the beautiful river + That flows by the throne of God!-- + +Diggers wanted to send that girl "Home", but Granny Mathews had the +old-fashioned horror of any of her children becoming "public"-- + + Gather with the saints at the river, + That flows by the throne of God! + + . . . . . + +But it grows late, or rather, early. The "Eyetalians" go by in the +frosty moonlight, from their last shift in the claim (for it is Saturday +night), singing a litany. + +"Get up on one end, Abe!--stand up all!" Hands are clasped across the +kitchen table. Redclay, one of the last of the alluvial fields, has +petered out, and the Roaring Days are dying.... The grand old song that +is known all over the world; yet how many in ten thousand know more than +one verse and the chorus? Let Peter McKenzie lead: + + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And never brought to min'? + +And hearts echo from far back in the past and across wide, wide seas: + + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And days o' lang syne? + +Now boys! all together! + + For auld lang syne, my dear, + For auld lang syne, + We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + + We twa hae run about the braes, + And pu'd the gowans fine; + But we've wandered mony a weary foot, + Sin' auld lang syne. + +The world was wide then. + + We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, + Frae mornin' sun till dine: + +the log fire seems to grow watery, for in wide, lonely Australia-- + But seas between us braid hae roar'd, + Sin' auld lang syne. + +The kitchen grows dimmer, and the forms of the digger-singers seemed +suddenly vague and unsubstantial, fading back rapidly through a misty +veil. But the words ring strong and defiant through hard years: + + And here's a hand, my trusty frien', + And gie's a grup o' thine; + And we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + + . . . . . + +And the nettles have been growing for over twenty years on the spot +where Granny Mathews' big bark kitchen stood. + + + + +A Vision of Sandy Blight + + +I'd been humping my back, and crouching and groaning for an hour or so +in the darkest corner of the travellers' hut, tortured by the demon +of sandy blight. It was too hot to travel, and there was no one there +except ourselves and Mitchell's cattle pup. We were waiting till after +sundown, for I couldn't have travelled in the daylight, anyway. Mitchell +had tied a wet towel round my eyes, and led me for the last mile or two +by another towel--one end fastened to his belt behind, and the other in +my hand as I walked in his tracks. And oh! but this was a relief! It was +out of the dust and glare, and the flies didn't come into the dark hut, +and I could hump and stick my knees in my eyes and groan in comfort. I +didn't want a thousand a year, or anything; I only wanted relief for my +eyes--that was all I prayed for in this world. When the sun got down a +bit, Mitchell started poking round, and presently he found amongst the +rubbish a dirty-looking medicine bottle, corked tight; when he rubbed +the dirt off a piece of notepaper that was pasted on, he saw "eye-water" +written on it. He drew the cork with his teeth, smelt the water, stuck +his little finger in, turned the bottle upside down, tasted the top of +his finger, and reckoned the stuff was all right. + +"Here! Wake up, Joe!" he shouted. "Here's a bottle of tears." + +"A bottler wot?" I groaned. + +"Eye-water," said Mitchell. + +"Are you sure it's all right?" I didn't want to be poisoned or have my +eyes burnt out by mistake; perhaps some burning acid had got into +that bottle, or the label had been put on, or left on, in mistake or +carelessness. + +"I dunno," said Mitchell, "but there's no harm in tryin'." + +I chanced it. I lay down on my back in a bunk, and Mitchell dragged my +lids up and spilt half a bottle of eye-water over my eye-balls. + +The relief was almost instantaneous. I never experienced such a quick +cure in my life. I carried the bottle in my swag for a long time +afterwards, with an idea of getting it analysed, but left it behind at +last in a camp. + +Mitchell scratched his head thoughtfully, and watched me for a while. + +"I think I'll wait a bit longer," he said at last, "and if it doesn't +blind you I'll put some in my eyes. I'm getting a touch of blight myself +now. That's the fault of travelling with a mate who's always catching +something that's no good to him." + +As it grew dark outside we talked of sandy-blight and fly-bite, and +sand-flies up north, and ordinary flies, and branched off to Barcoo rot, +and struck the track again at bees and bee stings. When we got to bees, +Mitchell sat smoking for a while and looking dreamily backwards +along tracks and branch tracks, and round corners and circles he had +travelled, right back to the short, narrow, innocent bit of track that +ends in a vague, misty point--like the end of a long, straight, cleared +road in the moonlight--as far back as we can remember. + + . . . . . + +"I had about fourteen hives," said Mitchell--"we used to call them +'swarms', no matter whether they were flying or in the box--when I left +home first time. I kept them behind the shed, in the shade, on tables +of galvanised iron cases turned down on stakes; but I had to make legs +later on, and stand them in pans of water, on account of the ants. When +the bees swarmed--and some hives sent out the Lord knows how many swarms +in a year, it seemed to me--we'd tin-kettle 'em, and throw water on 'em, +to make 'em believe the biggest thunderstorm was coming to drown the +oldest inhabitant; and, if they didn't get the start of us and rise, +they'd settle on a branch--generally on one of the scraggy fruit trees. +It was rough on the bees--come to think of it; their instinct told +them it was going to be fine, and the noise and water told them it was +raining. They must have thought that nature was mad, drunk, or gone +ratty, or the end of the world had come. We'd rig up a table, with a box +upside down, under the branch, cover our face with a piece of mosquito +net, have rags burning round, and then give the branch a sudden jerk, +turn the box down, and run. If we got most of the bees in, the rest +that were hanging to the bough or flying round would follow, and then +we reckoned we'd shook the queen in. If the bees in the box came out and +joined the others, we'd reckon we hadn't shook the queen in, and go for +them again. When a hive was full of honey we'd turn the box upside down, +turn the empty box mouth down on top of it, and drum and hammer on the +lower box with a stick till all the bees went up into the top box. I +suppose it made their heads ache, and they went up on that account. + +"I suppose things are done differently on proper bee-farms. I've heard +that a bee-farmer will part a hanging swarm with his fingers, take out +the queen bee and arrange matters with her; but our ways suited us, +and there was a lot of expectation and running and excitement in +it, especially when a swarm took us by surprise. The yell of 'Bees +swarmin'!' was as good to us as the yell of 'Fight!' is now, or 'Bolt!' +in town, or 'Fire' or 'Man overboard!' at sea. + +"There was tons of honey. The bees used to go to the vineyards at +wine-making and get honey from the heaps of crushed grape-skins thrown +out in the sun, and get so drunk sometimes that they wobbled in their +bee-lines home. They'd fill all the boxes, and then build in between and +under the bark, and board, and tin covers. They never seemed to get the +idea out of their heads that this wasn't an evergreen country, and it +wasn't going to snow all winter. My younger brother Joe used to put +pieces of meat on the tables near the boxes, and in front of the holes +where the bees went in and out, for the dogs to grab at. But one old +dog, 'Black Bill', was a match for him; if it was worth Bill's while, +he'd camp there, and keep Joe and the other dogs from touching the +meat--once it was put down--till the bees turned in for the night. And +Joe would get the other kids round there, and when they weren't looking +or thinking, he'd brush the bees with a stick and run. I'd lam him when +I caught him at it. He was an awful young devil, was Joe, and he grew up +steady, and respectable, and respected--and I went to the bad. I never +trust a good boy now.... Ah, well! + +"I remember the first swarm we got. We'd been talking of getting a few +swarms for a long time. That was what was the matter with us English +and Irish and English-Irish Australian farmers: we used to talk so much +about doing things while the Germans and Scotch did them. And we even +talked in a lazy, easy-going sort of way. + +"Well, one blazing hot day I saw father coming along the road, home +to dinner (we had it in the middle of the day), with his axe over his +shoulder. I noticed the axe particularly because father was bringing it +home to grind, and Joe and I had to turn the stone; but, when I noticed +Joe dragging along home in the dust about fifty yards behind father, I +felt easier in my mind. Suddenly father dropped the axe and started +to run back along the road towards Joe, who, as soon as he saw father +coming, shied for the fence and got through. He thought he was going to +catch it for something he'd done--or hadn't done. Joe used to do so many +things and leave so many things not done that he could never be sure +of father. Besides, father had a way of starting to hammer us +unexpectedly--when the idea struck him. But father pulled himself up in +about thirty yards and started to grab up handfuls of dust and sand and +throw them into the air. My idea, in the first flash, was to get hold of +the axe, for I thought it was sun-stroke, and father might take it into +his head to start chopping up the family before I could persuade him +to put it (his head, I mean) in a bucket of water. But Joe came running +like mad, yelling: + +"'Swarmer--bees! Swawmmer--bee--ee--es! +Bring--a--tin--dish--and--a--dippera--wa-a-ter!' + +"I ran with a bucket of water and an old frying-pan, and pretty soon +the rest of the family were on the spot, throwing dust and water, +and banging everything, tin or iron, they could get hold of. The only +bullock bell in the district (if it was in the district) was on the old +poley cow, and she'd been lost for a fortnight. Mother brought up the +rear--but soon worked to the front--with a baking-dish and a big spoon. +The old lady--she wasn't old then--had a deep-rooted prejudice that she +could do everything better than anybody else, and that the selection +and all on it would go to the dogs if she wasn't there to look after it. +There was no jolting that idea out of her. She not only believed that +she could do anything better than anybody, and hers was the only right +or possible way, and that we'd do everything upside down if she wasn't +there to do it or show us how--but she'd try to do things herself or +insist on making us do them her way, and that led to messes and rows. +She was excited now, and took command at once. She wasn't tongue-tied, +and had no impediment in her speech. + +"'Don't throw up dust!--Stop throwing up dust!--Do you want to smother +'em?--Don't throw up so much water!--Only throw up a pannikin at a +time!--D'yer want to drown 'em? Bang! Keep on banging, Joe!--Look at +that child! Run, someone!--run! you, Jack!--D'yer want the child to be +stung to death?--Take her inside!... Dy' hear me?... Stop throwing up +dust, Tom! (To father.) You're scaring 'em away! Can't you see they want +to settle?' [Father was getting mad and yelping: 'For Godsake shettup +and go inside.'] 'Throw up water, Jack! Throw up--Tom! Take that bucket +from him and don't make such a fool of yourself before the children! +Throw up water! Throw--keep on banging, children! Keep on banging!' +[Mother put her faith in banging.] 'There!--they're off! You've lost +'em! I knew you would! I told yer--keep on bang--!' + +"A bee struck her in the eye, and she grabbed at it! + +"Mother went home--and inside. + +"Father was good at bees--could manage them like sheep when he got to +know their ideas. When the swarm settled, he sent us for the old washing +stool, boxes, bags, and so on; and the whole time he was fixing the bees +I noticed that whenever his back was turned to us his shoulders would +jerk up as if he was cold, and he seemed to shudder from inside, and now +and then I'd hear a grunting sort of whimper like a boy that was +just starting to blubber. But father wasn't weeping, and bees weren't +stinging him; it was the bee that stung mother that was tickling father. +When he went into the house, mother's other eye had bunged for sympathy. +Father was always gentle and kind in sickness, and he bathed mother's +eyes and rubbed mud on, but every now and then he'd catch inside, and +jerk and shudder, and grunt and cough. Mother got wild, but presently +the humour of it struck her, and she had to laugh, and a rum laugh it +was, with both eyes bunged up. Then she got hysterical, and started to +cry, and father put his arm round her shoulder and ordered us out of the +house. + +"They were very fond of each other, the old people were, under it +all--right up to the end.... Ah, well!" + +Mitchell pulled the swags out of a bunk, and started to fasten the +nose-bags on. + + + + +Andy Page's Rival + + + + Tall and freckled and sandy, + Face of a country lout; + That was the picture of Andy-- + Middleton's rouseabout. + On Middleton's wide dominions + Plied the stock-whip and shears; + Hadn't any opinions------ + +And he hadn't any "ideers"--at least, he said so himself--except +as regarded anything that looked to him like what he called "funny +business", under which heading he catalogued tyranny, treachery, +interference with the liberty of the subject by the subject, "blanky" +lies, or swindles--all things, in short, that seemed to his slow +understanding dishonest, mean or paltry; most especially, and above all, +treachery to a mate. THAT he could never forget. Andy was uncomfortably +"straight". His mind worked slowly and his decisions were, as a rule, +right and just; and when he once came to a conclusion concerning any +man or matter, or decided upon a course of action, nothing short of an +earthquake or a Nevertire cyclone could move him back an inch--unless a +conviction were severely shaken, and then he would require as much time +to "back" to his starting point as he did to come to the decision. + +Andy had come to a conclusion with regard to a selector's +daughter--name, Lizzie Porter--who lived (and slaved) on her father's +selection, near the township corner of the run on which Andy was a +general "hand". He had been in the habit for several years of calling +casually at the selector's house, as he rode to and fro between the +station and the town, to get a drink of water and exchange the time of +day with old Porter and his "missus". The conversation concerned the +drought, and the likelihood or otherwise of their ever going to get +a little rain; or about Porter's cattle, with an occasional enquiry +concerning, or reference to, a stray cow belonging to the selection, +but preferring the run; a little, plump, saucy, white cow, by-the-way, +practically pure white, but referred to by Andy--who had eyes like a +blackfellow--as "old Speckledy". No one else could detect a spot or +speckle on her at a casual glance. Then after a long bovine silence, +which would have been painfully embarrassing in any other society, and +a tilting of his cabbage-tree hat forward, which came of tickling and +scratching the sun-blotched nape of his neck with his little finger, +Andy would slowly say: "Ah, well. I must be gettin'. So-long, Mr. +Porter. So-long, Mrs. Porter." And, if SHE were in evidence--as she +generally was on such occasions--"So-long, Lizzie." And they'd shout: +"So-long, Andy," as he galloped off from the jump. Strange that those +shy, quiet, gentle-voiced bushmen seem the hardest and most reckless +riders. + +But of late his horse had been seen hanging up outside Porter's for an +hour or so after sunset. He smoked, talked over the results of the last +drought (if it happened to rain), and the possibilities of the next one, +and played cards with old Porter; who took to winking, automatically, at +his "old woman", and nudging, and jerking his thumb in the direction of +Lizzie when her back was turned, and Andy was scratching the nape of his +neck and staring at the cards. + +Lizzie told a lady friend of mine, years afterwards, how Andy popped +the question; told it in her quiet way--you know Lizzie's quiet way +(something of the old, privileged house-cat about her); never a sign in +expression or tone to show whether she herself saw or appreciated the +humour of anything she was telling, no matter how comical it might be. +She had witnessed two tragedies, and had found a dead man in the bush, +and related the incidents as though they were common-place. + +It happened one day--after Andy had been coming two or three times a +week for about a year--that she found herself sitting with him on a log +of the woodheap, in the cool of the evening, enjoying the sunset breeze. +Andy's arm had got round her--just as it might have gone round a post he +happened to be leaning against. They hadn't been talking about anything +in particular. Andy said he wouldn't be surprised if they had a +thunderstorm before mornin'--it had been so smotherin' hot all day. + +Lizzie said, "Very likely." + +Andy smoked a good while, then he said: "Ah, well! It's a weary world." + +Lizzie didn't say anything. + +By-and-bye Andy said: "Ah, well; it's a lonely world, Lizzie." + +"Do you feel lonely, Andy?" asked Lizzie, after a while. + +"Yes, Lizzie; I do." + +Lizzie let herself settle, a little, against him, without either seeming +to notice it, and after another while she said, softly: "So do I, Andy." + +Andy knocked the ashes from his pipe very slowly and deliberately, and +put it away; then he seemed to brighten suddenly, and said briskly: +"Well, Lizzie! Are you satisfied!" + +"Yes, Andy; I'm satisfied." + +"Quite sure, now?" + +"Yes; I'm quite sure, Andy. I'm perfectly satisfied." + +"Well, then, Lizzie--it's settled!" + + . . . . . + +But to-day--a couple of months after the proposal described above--Andy +had trouble on his mind, and the trouble was connected with Lizzie +Porter. He was putting up a two-rail fence along the old log-paddock on +the frontage, and working like a man in trouble, trying to work it off +his mind; and evidently not succeeding--for the last two panels were out +of line. He was ramming a post--Andy rammed honestly, from the bottom of +the hole, not the last few shovelfuls below the surface, as some do. He +was ramming the last layer of clay when a cloud of white dust came along +the road, paused, and drifted or poured off into the scrub, leaving long +Dave Bentley, the horse-breaker, on his last victim. + +"'Ello, Andy! Graftin'?" + +"I want to speak to you, Dave," said Andy, in a strange voice. + +"All--all right!" said Dave, rather puzzled. He got down, wondering what +was up, and hung his horse to the last post but one. + +Dave was Andy's opposite in one respect: he jumped to conclusions, as +women do; but, unlike women, he was mostly wrong. He was an old chum and +mate of Andy's who had always liked, admired, and trusted him. But +now, to his helpless surprise, Andy went on scraping the earth from the +surface with his long-handled shovel, and heaping it conscientiously +round the butt of the post, his face like a block of wood, and his lips +set grimly. Dave broke out first (with bush oaths): + +"What's the matter with you? Spit it out! What have I been doin' to you? +What's yer got yer rag out about, anyway?" + +Andy faced him suddenly, with hatred for "funny business" flashing in +his eyes. + +"What did you say to my sister Mary about Lizzie Porter?" + +Dave started; then he whistled long and low. "Spit it all out, Andy!" he +advised. + +"You said she was travellin' with a feller!" + +"Well, what's the harm in that? Everybody knows that--" + +"If any crawler says a word about Lizzie Porter--look here, me and you's +got to fight, Dave Bentley!" Then, with still greater vehemence, as +though he had a share in the garment: "Take off that coat!" + +"Not if I know it!" said Dave, with the sudden quietness that comes to +brave but headstrong and impulsive men at a critical moment: "Me and you +ain't goin' to fight, Andy; and" (with sudden energy) "if you try it on +I'll knock you into jim-rags!" + +Then, stepping close to Andy and taking him by the arm: "Andy, this +thing will have to be fixed up. Come here; I want to talk to you." And +he led him some paces aside, inside the boundary line, which seemed a +ludicrously unnecessary precaution, seeing that there was no one within +sight or hearing save Dave's horse. + +"Now, look here, Andy; let's have it over. What's the matter with you +and Lizzie Porter?" + +"I'M travellin' with her, that's all; and we're going to get married in +two years!" + +Dave gave vent to another long, low whistle. He seemed to think and make +up his mind. + +"Now, look here, Andy: we're old mates, ain't we?" + +"Yes; I know that." + +"And do you think I'd tell you a blanky lie, or crawl behind your back? +Do you? Spit it out!" + +"N--no, I don't!" + +"I've always stuck up for you, Andy, and--why, I've fought for you +behind your back!" + +"I know that, Dave." + +"There's my hand on it!" + +Andy took his friend's hand mechanically, but gripped it hard. + +"Now, Andy, I'll tell you straight: It's Gorstruth about Lizzie Porter!" + +They stood as they were for a full minute, hands clasped; Andy with his +jaw dropped and staring in a dazed sort of way at Dave. He raised his +disengaged hand helplessly to his thatch, gulped suspiciously, and asked +in a broken voice: + +"How--how do you know it, Dave?" + +"Know it? Andy, I SEEN 'EM MESELF!" + +"You did, Dave?" in a tone that suggested sorrow more than anger at +Dave's part in the seeing of them. + +"Gorstruth, Andy!" + + . . . . . + +"Tell me, Dave, who was the feller? That's all I want to know." + +"I can't tell you that. I only seen them when I was canterin' past in +the dusk." + +"Then how'd you know it was a man at all?" + +"It wore trousers, anyway, and was as big as you; so it couldn't have +been a girl. I'm pretty safe to swear it was Mick Kelly. I saw his horse +hangin' up at Porter's once or twice. But I'll tell you what I'll do: +I'll find out for you, Andy. And, what's more, I'll job him for you if I +catch him!" + +Andy said nothing; his hands clenched and his chest heaved. Dave laid a +friendly hand on his shoulder. + +"It's red hot, Andy, I know. Anybody else but you and I wouldn't have +cared. But don't be a fool; there's any Gorsquantity of girls knockin' +round. You just give it to her straight and chuck her, and have done +with it. You must be bad off to bother about her. Gorstruth! she ain't +much to look at anyway! I've got to ride like blazes to catch the coach. +Don't knock off till I come back; I won't be above an hour. I'm goin' to +give you some points in case you've got to fight Mick; and I'll have to +be there to back you!" And, thus taking the right moment instinctively, +he jumped on his horse and galloped on towards the town. + +His dust-cloud had scarcely disappeared round a corner of the paddocks +when Andy was aware of another one coming towards him. He had a +dazed idea that it was Dave coming back, but went on digging another +post-hole, mechanically, until a spring-cart rattled up, and stopped +opposite him. Then he lifted his head. It was Lizzie herself, driving +home from town. She turned towards him with her usual faint smile. Her +small features were "washed out" and rather haggard. + +"'Ello, Andy!" + +But, at the sight of her, all his hatred of "funny +business"--intensified, perhaps, by a sense of personal injury--came to +a head, and he exploded: + +"Look here, Lizzie Porter! I know all about you. You needn't think +you're goin' to cotton on with me any more after this! I wouldn't be +seen in a paddock with yer! I'm satisfied about you! Get on out of +this!" + +The girl stared at him for a moment thunderstruck; then she lammed into +the old horse with a stick she carried in place of a whip. + +She cried, and wondered what she'd done, and trembled so that she could +scarcely unharness the horse, and wondered if Andy had got a touch of +the sun, and went in and sat down and cried again; and pride came to her +aid and she hated Andy; thought of her big brother, away droving, and +made a cup of tea. She shed tears over the tea, and went through it all +again. + +Meanwhile Andy was suffering a reaction. He started to fill the hole +before he put the post in; then to ram the post before the rails were +in position. Dubbing off the ends of the rails, he was in danger of +amputating a toe or a foot with every stroke of the adze. And, at last, +trying to squint along the little lumps of clay which he had placed in +the centre of the top of each post for several panels back--to assist +him to take a line--he found that they swam and doubled, and ran off in +watery angles, for his eyes were too moist to see straight and single. + +Then he threw down the tools hopelessly, and was standing helplessly +undecided whether to go home or go down to the creek and drown himself, +when Dave turned up again. + +"Seen her?" asked Dave. + +"Yes," said Andy. + +"Did you chuck her?" + +"Look here, Dave; are you sure the feller was Mick Kelly?" + +"I never said I was. How was I to know? It was dark. You don't expect +I'd 'fox' a feller I see doing a bit of a bear-up to a girl, do you? It +might have been you, for all I knowed. I suppose she's been talking you +round?" + +"No, she ain't," said Andy. "But, look here, Dave; I was properly gone +on that girl, I was, and--and I want to be sure I'm right." + +The business was getting altogether too psychological for Dave Bentley. +"You might as well," he rapped out, "call me a liar at once!" + +"'Taint that at all, Dave. I want to get at who the feller is; that's +what I want to get at now. Where did you see them, and when?" + +"I seen them Anniversary night, along the road, near Ross' farm; and +I seen 'em Sunday night afore that--in the trees near the old +culvert--near Porter's sliprails; and I seen 'em one night outside +Porter's, on a log near the woodheap. They was thick that time, and +bearin' up proper, and no mistake. So I can swear to her. Now, are you +satisfied about her?" + +But Andy was wildly pitchforking his thatch under his hat with all ten +fingers and staring at Dave, who began to regard him uneasily; then +there came to Andy's eyes an awful glare, which caused Dave to step back +hastily. + +"Good God, Andy! Are yer goin' ratty?" + +"No!" cried Andy, wildly. + +"Then what the blazes is the matter with you? You'll have rats if you +don't look out!" + +"JIMMINY FROTH!--It was ME all the time!" + +"What?" + +"It was me that was with her all them nights. It was me that you seen. +WHY, I POPPED ON THE WOODHEAP!" + +Dave was taken too suddenly to whistle this time. + +"And you went for her just now?" + +"Yes!" yelled Andy. + +"Well--you've done it!" + +"Yes," said Andy, hopelessly; "I've done it!" + +Dave whistled now--a very long, low whistle. "Well, you're a bloomin' +goat, Andy, after this. But this thing'll have to be fixed up!" and he +cantered away. Poor Andy was too badly knocked to notice the abruptness +of Dave's departure, or to see that he turned through the sliprails on +to the track that led to Porter's. + + . . . . . + +Half an hour later Andy appeared at Porter's back door, with an +expression on his face as though the funeral was to start in ten +minutes. In a tone befitting such an occasion, he wanted to see Lizzie. + +Dave had been there with the laudable determination of fixing the +business up, and had, of course, succeeded in making it much worse than +it was before. But Andy made it all right. + + + + +The Iron-Bark Chip + + + +Dave Regan and party--bush-fencers, tank-sinkers, rough carpenters, +&c.--were finishing the third and last culvert of their contract on +the last section of the new railway line, and had already sent in their +vouchers for the completed contract, so that there might be no excuse +for extra delay in connection with the cheque. + +Now it had been expressly stipulated in the plans and specifications +that the timber for certain beams and girders was to be iron-bark and +no other, and Government inspectors were authorised to order the removal +from the ground of any timber or material they might deem inferior, +or not in accordance with the stipulations. The railway contractor's +foreman and inspector of sub-contractors was a practical man and a +bushman, but he had been a timber-getter himself; his sympathies were +bushy, and he was on winking terms with Dave Regan. Besides, extended +time was expiring, and the contractors were in a hurry to complete the +line. But the Government inspector was a reserved man who poked round +on his independent own and appeared in lonely spots at unexpected +times--with apparently no definite object in life--like a grey kangaroo +bothered by a new wire fence, but unsuspicious of the presence of +humans. He wore a grey suit, rode, or mostly led, an ashen-grey horse; +the grass was long and grey, so he was seldom spotted until he was +well within the horizon and bearing leisurely down on a party of +sub-contractors, leading his horse. + +Now iron-bark was scarce and distant on those ridges, and another +timber, similar in appearance, but much inferior in grain and "standing" +quality, was plentiful and close at hand. Dave and party were "about +full of" the job and place, and wanted to get their cheque and be gone +to another "spec" they had in view. So they came to reckon they'd get +the last girder from a handy tree, and have it squared, in place, and +carefully and conscientiously tarred before the inspector happened +along, if he did. But they didn't. They got it squared, and ready to be +lifted into its place; the kindly darkness of tar was ready to cover a +fraud that took four strong men with crowbars and levers to shift; and +now (such is the regular cussedness of things) as the fraudulent piece +of timber lay its last hour on the ground, looking and smelling, to +their guilty imaginations like anything but iron-bark, they were aware +of the Government inspector drifting down upon them obliquely, with +something of the atmosphere of a casual Bill or Jim who had dropped out +of his easy-going track to see how they were getting on, and borrow a +match. They had more than half hoped that, as he had visited them pretty +frequently during the progress of the work, and knew how near it was to +completion, he wouldn't bother coming any more. But it's the way with +the Government. You might move heaven and earth in vain endeavour to +get the "Guvermunt" to flutter an eyelash over something of the most +momentous importance to yourself and mates and the district--even to +the country; but just when you are leaving authority severely alone, and +have strong reasons for not wanting to worry or interrupt it, and not +desiring it to worry about you, it will take a fancy into its head to +come along and bother. + +"It's always the way!" muttered Dave to his mates. "I knew the beggar +would turn up!... And the only cronk log we've had, too!" he added, in +an injured tone. "If this had 'a' been the only blessed iron-bark in the +whole contract, it would have been all right.... Good-day, sir!" (to the +inspector). "It's hot?" + +The inspector nodded. He was not of an impulsive nature. He got down +from his horse and looked at the girder in an abstracted way; and +presently there came into his eyes a dreamy, far-away, sad sort of +expression, as if there had been a very sad and painful occurrence in +his family, way back in the past, and that piece of timber in some way +reminded him of it and brought the old sorrow home to him. He blinked +three times, and asked, in a subdued tone: + +"Is that iron-bark?" + +Jack Bentley, the fluent liar of the party, caught his breath with a +jerk and coughed, to cover the gasp and gain time. "I--iron-bark? Of +course it is! I thought you would know iron-bark, mister." (Mister was +silent.) "What else d'yer think it is?" + +The dreamy, abstracted expression was back. The inspector, by-the-way, +didn't know much about timber, but he had a great deal of instinct, and +went by it when in doubt. + +"L--look here, mister!" put in Dave Regan, in a tone of innocent +puzzlement and with a blank bucolic face. "B--but don't the plans and +specifications say iron-bark? Ours does, anyway. I--I'll git the papers +from the tent and show yer, if yer like." + +It was not necessary. The inspector admitted the fact slowly. He +stooped, and with an absent air picked up a chip. He looked at it +abstractedly for a moment, blinked his threefold blink; then, seeming to +recollect an appointment, he woke up suddenly and asked briskly: + +"Did this chip come off that girder?" + +Blank silence. The inspector blinked six times, divided in threes, +rapidly, mounted his horse, said "Day," and rode off. + +Regan and party stared at each other. + +"Wha--what did he do that for?" asked Andy Page, the third in the party. + +"Do what for, you fool?" enquired Dave. + +"Ta--take that chip for?" + +"He's taking it to the office!" snarled Jack Bentley. + +"What--what for? What does he want to do that for?" + +"To get it blanky well analysed! You ass! Now are yer satisfied?" And +Jack sat down hard on the timber, jerked out his pipe, and said to Dave, +in a sharp, toothache tone: + +"Gimmiamatch!" + +"We--well! what are we to do now?" enquired Andy, who was the hardest +grafter, but altogether helpless, hopeless, and useless in a crisis like +this. + +"Grain and varnish the bloomin' culvert!" snapped Bentley. + +But Dave's eyes, that had been ruefully following the inspector, +suddenly dilated. The inspector had ridden a short distance along the +line, dismounted, thrown the bridle over a post, laid the chip (which +was too big to go in his pocket) on top of it, got through the fence, +and was now walking back at an angle across the line in the direction +of the fencing party, who had worked up on the other side, a little more +than opposite the culvert. + +Dave took in the lay of the country at a glance and thought rapidly. + +"Gimme an iron-bark chip!" he said suddenly. + +Bentley, who was quick-witted when the track was shown him, as is a +kangaroo dog (Jack ran by sight, not scent), glanced in the line of +Dave's eyes, jumped up, and got a chip about the same size as that which +the inspector had taken. + +Now the "lay of the country" sloped generally to the line from both +sides, and the angle between the inspector's horse, the fencing party, +and the culvert was well within a clear concave space; but a couple +of hundred yards back from the line and parallel to it (on the side on +which Dave's party worked their timber) a fringe of scrub ran to within +a few yards of a point which would be about in line with a single tree +on the cleared slope, the horse, and the fencing party. + +Dave took the iron-bark chip, ran along the bed of the water-course into +the scrub, raced up the siding behind the bushes, got safely, though +without breathing, across the exposed space, and brought the tree into +line between him and the inspector, who was talking to the fencers. Then +he began to work quickly down the slope towards the tree (which was a +thin one), keeping it in line, his arms close to his sides, and working, +as it were, down the trunk of the tree, as if the fencing party were +kangaroos and Dave was trying to get a shot at them. The inspector, +by-the-bye, had a habit of glancing now and then in the direction of his +horse, as though under the impression that it was flighty and restless +and inclined to bolt on opportunity. It was an anxious moment for all +parties concerned--except the inspector. They didn't want HIM to be +perturbed. And, just as Dave reached the foot of the tree, the inspector +finished what he had to say to the fencers, turned, and started to walk +briskly back to his horse. There was a thunderstorm coming. Now was the +critical moment--there were certain prearranged signals between Dave's +party and the fencers which might have interested the inspector, but +none to meet a case like this. + +Jack Bentley gasped, and started forward with an idea of intercepting +the inspector and holding him for a few minutes in bogus conversation. +Inspirations come to one at a critical moment, and it flashed on Jack's +mind to send Andy instead. Andy looked as innocent and guileless as he +was, but was uncomfortable in the vicinity of "funny business", and +must have an honest excuse. "Not that that mattered," commented Jack +afterwards; "it would have taken the inspector ten minutes to get at +what Andy was driving at, whatever it was." + +"Run, Andy! Tell him there's a heavy thunderstorm coming and he'd better +stay in our humpy till it's over. Run! Don't stand staring like a blanky +fool. He'll be gone!" + +Andy started. But just then, as luck would have it, one of the fencers +started after the inspector, hailing him as "Hi, mister!" He wanted to +be set right about the survey or something--or to pretend to want to be +set right--from motives of policy which I haven't time to explain here. + +That fencer explained afterwards to Dave's party that he "seen what you +coves was up to," and that's why he called the inspector back. But he +told them that after they had told their yarn--which was a mistake. + +"Come back, Andy!" cried Jack Bentley. + +Dave Regan slipped round the tree, down on his hands and knees, and made +quick time through the grass which, luckily, grew pretty tall on the +thirty or forty yards of slope between the tree and the horse. Close to +the horse, a thought struck Dave that pulled him up, and sent a shiver +along his spine and a hungry feeling under it. The horse would +break away and bolt! But the case was desperate. Dave ventured an +interrogatory "Cope, cope, cope?" The horse turned its head wearily and +regarded him with a mild eye, as if he'd expected him to come, and come +on all fours, and wondered what had kept him so long; then he went +on thinking. Dave reached the foot of the post; the horse obligingly +leaning over on the other leg. Dave reared head and shoulders cautiously +behind the post, like a snake; his hand went up twice, swiftly--the +first time he grabbed the inspector's chip, and the second time he put +the iron-bark one in its place. He drew down and back, and scuttled off +for the tree like a gigantic tailless "goanna". + +A few minutes later he walked up to the culvert from along the creek, +smoking hard to settle his nerves. + +The sky seemed to darken suddenly; the first great drops of the +thunderstorm came pelting down. The inspector hurried to his horse, and +cantered off along the line in the direction of the fettlers' camp. + +He had forgotten all about the chip, and left it on top of the post! + +Dave Regan sat down on the beam in the rain and swore comprehensively. + + + + +"Middleton's Peter" + + + I. + + The First Born + + +The struggling squatter is to be found in Australia as well as the +"struggling farmer". The Australian squatter is not always the mighty +wool king that English and American authors and other uninformed people +apparently imagine him to be. Squatting, at the best, is but a game of +chance. It depends mainly on the weather, and that, in New South Wales +at least, depends on nothing. + +Joe Middleton was a struggling squatter, with a station some distance +to the westward of the furthest line reached by the ordinary "new chum". +His run, at the time of our story, was only about six miles square, and +his stock was limited in proportion. The hands on Joe's run consisted +of his brother Dave, a middle-aged man known only as "Middleton's Peter" +(who had been in the service of the Middleton family ever since Joe +Middleton could remember), and an old black shepherd, with his gin and +two boys. + +It was in the first year of Joe's marriage. He had married a very +ordinary girl, as far as Australian girls go, but in his eyes she was an +angel. He really worshipped her. + +One sultry afternoon in midsummer all the station hands, with the +exception of Dave Middleton, were congregated about the homestead door, +and it was evident from their solemn faces that something unusual was +the matter. They appeared to be watching for something or someone across +the flat, and the old black shepherd, who had been listening intently +with bent head, suddenly straightened himself up and cried: + +"I can hear the cart. I can see it!" + +You must bear in mind that our blackfellows do not always talk the +gibberish with which they are credited by story writers. + +It was not until some time after Black Bill had spoken that the +white--or, rather, the brown--portion of the party could see or even +hear the approaching vehicle. At last, far out through the trunks of the +native apple-trees, the cart was seen approaching; and as it came nearer +it was evident that it was being driven at a break-neck pace, the horses +cantering all the way, while the motion of the cart, as first one +wheel and then the other sprang from a root or a rut, bore a striking +resemblance to the Highland Fling. There were two persons in the cart. +One was Mother Palmer, a stout, middle-aged party (who sometimes did the +duties of a midwife), and the other was Dave Middleton, Joe's brother. + +The cart was driven right up to the door with scarcely any abatement of +speed, and was stopped so suddenly that Mrs. Palmer was sent sprawling +on to the horse's rump. She was quickly helped down, and, as soon as +she had recovered sufficient breath, she followed Black Mary into the +bedroom where young Mrs. Middleton was lying, looking very pale and +frightened. The horse which had been driven so cruelly had not done +blowing before another cart appeared, also driven very fast. It +contained old Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, who lived comfortably on a small +farm not far from Palmer's place. + +As soon as he had dumped Mrs. Palmer, Dave Middleton left the cart and, +mounting a fresh horse which stood ready saddled in the yard, galloped +off through the scrub in a different direction. + +Half an hour afterwards Joe Middleton came home on a horse that had been +almost ridden to death. His mother came out at the sound of his arrival, +and he anxiously asked her: + +"How is she?" + +"Did you find Doc. Wild?" asked the mother. + +"No, confound him!" exclaimed Joe bitterly. "He promised me faithfully +to come over on Wednesday and stay until Maggie was right again. Now +he has left Dean's and gone--Lord knows where. I suppose he is drinking +again. How is Maggie?" + +"It's all over now--the child is born. It's a boy; but she is very weak. +Dave got Mrs. Palmer here just in time. I had better tell you at once +that Mrs. Palmer says if we don't get a doctor here to-night poor Maggie +won't live." + +"Good God! and what am I to do?" cried Joe desperately. + +"Is there any other doctor within reach?" + +"No; there is only the one at B----; that's forty miles away, and he is +laid up with the broken leg he got in the buggy accident. Where's Dave?" + +"Gone to Black's shanty. One of Mrs. Palmer's sons thought he remembered +someone saying that Doc. Wild was there last week. That's fifteen miles +away." + +"But it is our only hope," said Joe dejectedly. "I wish to God that I +had taken Maggie to some civilised place a month ago." + +Doc. Wild was a well-known character among the bushmen of New South +Wales, and although the profession did not recognise him, and denounced +him as an empiric, his skill was undoubted. Bushmen had great faith in +him, and would often ride incredible distances in order to bring him +to the bedside of a sick friend. He drank fearfully, but was seldom +incapable of treating a patient; he would, however, sometimes be found +in an obstinate mood and refuse to travel to the side of a sick person, +and then the devil himself could not make the doctor budge. But for all +this he was very generous--a fact that could, no doubt, be testified to +by many a grateful sojourner in the lonely bush. + + + + II. + + The Only Hope + + +Night came on, and still there was no change in the condition of +the young wife, and no sign of the doctor. Several stockmen from +the neighbouring stations, hearing that there was trouble at Joe +Middleton's, had ridden over, and had galloped off on long, hopeless +rides in search of a doctor. Being generally free from sickness +themselves, these bushmen look upon it as a serious business even in its +mildest form; what is more, their sympathy is always practical where +it is possible for it to be so. One day, while out on the run after +an "outlaw", Joe Middleton was badly thrown from his horse, and the +break-neck riding that was done on that occasion from the time the horse +came home with empty saddle until the rider was safe in bed and attended +by a doctor was something extraordinary, even for the bush. + +Before the time arrived when Dave Middleton might reasonably have been +expected to return, the station people were anxiously watching for him, +all except the old blackfellow and the two boys, who had gone to yard +the sheep. + +The party had been increased by Jimmy Nowlett, the bullocky, who had +just arrived with a load of fencing wire and provisions for Middleton. +Jimmy was standing in the moonlight, whip in hand, looking as anxious as +the husband himself, and endeavouring to calculate by mental arithmetic +the exact time it ought to take Dave to complete his double journey, +taking into consideration the distance, the obstacles in the way, and +the chances of horse-flesh. + +But the time which Jimmy fixed for the arrival came without Dave. + +Old Peter (as he was generally called, though he was not really old) +stood aside in his usual sullen manner, his hat drawn down over his +brow and eyes, and nothing visible but a thick and very horizontal +black beard, from the depth of which emerged large clouds of very strong +tobacco smoke, the product of a short, black, clay pipe. + +They had almost given up all hope of seeing Dave return that night, when +Peter slowly and deliberately removed his pipe and grunted: + +"He's a-comin'." + +He then replaced the pipe, and smoked on as before. + +All listened, but not one of them could hear a sound. + +"Yer ears must be pretty sharp for yer age, Peter. We can't hear him," +remarked Jimmy Nowlett. + +"His dog ken," said Peter. + +The pipe was again removed and its abbreviated stem pointed in the +direction of Dave's cattle dog, who had risen beside his kennel with +pointed ears, and was looking eagerly in the direction from which his +master was expected to come. + +Presently the sound of horse's hoofs was distinctly heard. + +"I can hear two horses," cried Jimmy Nowlett excitedly. + +"There's only one," said old Peter quietly. + +A few moments passed, and a single horseman appeared on the far side of +the flat. + +"It's Doc. Wild on Dave's horse," cried Jimmy Nowlett. "Dave don't ride +like that." + +"It's Dave," said Peter, replacing his pipe and looking more unsociable +than ever. + +Dave rode up and, throwing himself wearily from the saddle, stood +ominously silent by the side of his horse. + +Joe Middleton said nothing, but stood aside with an expression of utter +hopelessness on his face. + +"Not there?" asked Jimmy Nowlett at last, addressing Dave. + +"Yes, he's there," answered Dave, impatiently. + +This was not the answer they expected, but nobody seemed surprised. + +"Drunk?" asked Jimmy. + +"Yes." + +Here old Peter removed his pipe, and pronounced the one word--"How?" + +"What the hell do you mean by that?" muttered Dave, whose patience had +evidently been severely tried by the clever but intemperate bush doctor. + +"How drunk?" explained Peter, with great equanimity. + +"Stubborn drunk, blind drunk, beastly drunk, dead drunk, and damned well +drunk, if that's what you want to know!" + +"What did Doc. say?" asked Jimmy. + +"Said he was sick--had lumbago--wouldn't come for the Queen of England; +said he wanted a course of treatment himself. Curse him! I have no +patience to talk about him." + +"I'd give him a course of treatment," muttered Jimmy viciously, trailing +the long lash of his bullock-whip through the grass and spitting +spitefully at the ground. + +Dave turned away and joined Joe, who was talking earnestly to his mother +by the kitchen door. He told them that he had spent an hour trying to +persuade Doc. Wild to come, and, that before he had left the shanty, +Black had promised him faithfully to bring the doctor over as soon as +his obstinate mood wore off. + +Just then a low moan was heard from the sick room, followed by the sound +of Mother Palmer's voice calling old Mrs. Middleton, who went inside +immediately. + +No one had noticed the disappearance of Peter, and when he presently +returned from the stockyard, leading the only fresh horse that remained, +Jimmy Nowlett began to regard him with some interest. Peter transferred +the saddle from Dave's horse to the other, and then went into a small +room off the kitchen, which served him as a bedroom; from it he soon +returned with a formidable-looking revolver, the chambers of which he +examined in the moonlight in full view of all the company. They thought +for a moment the man had gone mad. Old Middleton leaped quickly behind +Nowlett, and Black Mary, who had come out to the cask at the corner for +a dipper of water, dropped the dipper and was inside like a shot. One of +the black boys came softly up at that moment; as soon as his sharp eye +"spotted" the weapon, he disappeared as though the earth had swallowed +him. + +"What the mischief are yer goin' ter do, Peter?" asked Jimmy. + +"Goin' to fetch him," said Peter, and, after carefully emptying his pipe +and replacing it in a leather pouch at his belt, he mounted and rode off +at an easy canter. + +Jimmy watched the horse until it disappeared at the edge of the flat, +and then after coiling up the long lash of his bullock-whip in the dust +until it looked like a sleeping snake, he prodded the small end of the +long pine handle into the middle of the coil, as though driving home a +point, and said in a tone of intense conviction: + +"He'll fetch him." + + + + III. + + Doc. Wild + + +Peter gradually increased his horse's speed along the rough bush track +until he was riding at a good pace. It was ten miles to the main road, +and five from there to the shanty kept by Black. + +For some time before Peter started the atmosphere had been very close +and oppressive. The great black edge of a storm-cloud had risen in the +east, and everything indicated the approach of a thunderstorm. It was +not long coming. Before Peter had completed six miles of his journey, +the clouds rolled over, obscuring the moon, and an Australian +thunderstorm came on with its mighty downpour, its blinding lightning, +and its earth-shaking thunder. Peter rode steadily on, only pausing now +and then until a flash revealed the track in front of him. + +Black's shanty--or, rather, as the sign had it, "Post Office and General +Store"--was, as we have said, five miles along the main road from the +point where Middleton's track joined it. The building was of the usual +style of bush architecture. About two hundred yards nearer the creek, +which crossed the road further on, stood a large bark and slab stable, +large enough to have met the requirements of a legitimate bush "public". + +The reader may doubt that a "sly grog shop" could openly carry on +business on a main Government road along which mounted troopers were +continually passing. But then, you see, mounted troopers get thirsty +like other men; moreover, they could always get their thirst quenched +'gratis' at these places; so the reader will be prepared to hear that +on this very night two troopers' horses were stowed snugly away in the +stable, and two troopers were stowed snugly away in the back room of the +shanty, sleeping off the effects of their cheap but strong potations. + +There were two rooms, of a sort, attached to the stables--one at each +end. One was occupied by a man who was "generally useful", and the other +was the surgery, office, and bedroom 'pro tem.' of Doc. Wild. + +Doc. Wild was a tall man, of spare proportions. He had a cadaverous +face, black hair, bushy black eyebrows, eagle nose, and eagle eyes. He +never slept while he was drinking. On this occasion he sat in front of +the fire on a low three-legged stool. His knees were drawn up, his toes +hooked round the front legs of the stool, one hand resting on one knee, +and one elbow (the hand supporting the chin) resting on the other. He +was staring intently into the fire, on which an old black saucepan +was boiling and sending forth a pungent odour of herbs. There seemed +something uncanny about the doctor as the red light of the fire fell on +his hawk-like face and gleaming eyes. He might have been Mephistopheles +watching some infernal brew. + +He had sat there some time without stirring a finger, when the door +suddenly burst open and Middleton's Peter stood within, dripping wet. +The doctor turned his black, piercing eyes upon the intruder (who +regarded him silently) for a moment, and then asked quietly: + +"What the hell do you want?" + +"I want you," said Peter. + +"And what do you want me for?" + +"I want you to come to Joe Middleton's wife. She's bad," said Peter +calmly. + +"I won't come," shouted the doctor. "I've brought enough horse-stealers +into the world already. If any more want to come they can go to blazes +for me. Now, you get out of this!" + +"Don't get yer rag out," said Peter quietly. "The hoss-stealer's come, +an' nearly killed his mother ter begin with; an' if yer don't get yer +physic-box an' come wi' me, by the great God I'll----" + +Here the revolver was produced and pointed at Doc. Wild's head. The +sight of the weapon had a sobering effect upon the doctor. He rose, +looked at Peter critically for a moment, knocked the weapon out of his +hand, and said slowly and deliberately: + +"Wall, ef the case es as serious as that, I (hic) reckon I'd better +come." + +Peter was still of the same opinion, so Doc. Wild proceeded to get his +medicine chest ready. He explained afterwards, in one of his softer +moments, that the shooter didn't frighten him so much as it touched his +memory--"sorter put him in mind of the old days in California, and made +him think of the man he might have been," he'd say,--"kinder touched +his heart and slid the durned old panorama in front of him like a flash; +made him think of the time when he slipped three leaden pills into 'Blue +Shirt' for winking at a new chum behind his (the Doc.'s) back when he +was telling a truthful yarn, and charged the said 'Blue Shirt' a hundred +dollars for extracting the said pills." + +Joe Middleton's wife is a grandmother now. + +Peter passed after the manner of his sort; he was found dead in his +bunk. + +Poor Doc. Wild died in a shepherd's hut at the Dry Creeks. The shepherds +(white men) found him, "naked as he was born and with the hide half +burned off him with the sun," rounding up imaginary snakes on a dusty +clearing, one blazing hot day. The hut-keeper had some "quare" (queer) +experiences with the doctor during the next three days and used, in +after years, to tell of them, between the puffs of his pipe, calmly +and solemnly and as if the story was rather to the doctor's credit than +otherwise. The shepherds sent for the police and a doctor, and sent word +to Joe Middleton. Doc. Wild was sensible towards the end. His interview +with the other doctor was characteristic. "And, now you see how far I +am," he said in conclusion--"have you brought the brandy?" The other +doctor had. Joe Middleton came with his waggonette, and in it the +softest mattress and pillows the station afforded. He also, in his +innocence, brought a dozen of soda-water. Doc. Wild took Joe's hand +feebly, and, a little later, he "passed out" (as he would have said) +murmuring "something that sounded like poetry", in an unknown tongue. +Joe took the body to the home station. "Who's the boss bringin'?" asked +the shearers, seeing the waggonette coming very slowly and the boss +walking by the horses' heads. "Doc. Wild," said a station hand. "Take +yer hats off." + +They buried him with bush honours, and chiselled his name on a slab of +bluegum--a wood that lasts. + + + + +The Mystery of Dave Regan + + + +"And then there was Dave Regan," said the traveller. "Dave used to die +oftener than any other bushman I knew. He was always being reported +dead and turnin' up again. He seemed to like it--except once, when his +brother drew his money and drank it all to drown his grief at what he +called Dave's 'untimely end'. Well, Dave went up to Queensland once with +cattle, and was away three years and reported dead, as usual. He was +drowned in the Bogan this time while tryin' to swim his horse acrost +a flood--and his sweetheart hurried up and got spliced to a worse man +before Dave got back. + +"Well, one day I was out in the bush lookin' for timber, when the +biggest storm ever knowed in that place come on. There was hail in it, +too, as big as bullets, and if I hadn't got behind a stump and crouched +down in time I'd have been riddled like a--like a bushranger. As it was, +I got soakin' wet. The storm was over in a few minutes, the water run +off down the gullies, and the sun come out and the scrub steamed--and +stunk like a new pair of moleskin trousers. I went on along the track, +and presently I seen a long, lanky chap get on to a long, lanky horse +and ride out of a bush yard at the edge of a clearin'. I knowed it was +Dave d'reckly I set eyes on him. + +"Dave used to ride a tall, holler-backed thoroughbred with a body and +limbs like a kangaroo dog, and it would circle around you and sidle away +as if it was frightened you was goin' to jab a knife into it. + +"''Ello! Dave!' said I, as he came spurrin' up. 'How are yer!' + +"''Ello, Jim!' says he. 'How are you?' + +"'All right!' says I. 'How are yer gettin' on?' + +"But, before we could say any more, that horse shied away and broke off +through the scrub to the right. I waited, because I knowed Dave would +come back again if I waited long enough; and in about ten minutes he +came sidlin' in from the scrub to the left. + +"'Oh, I'm all right,' says he, spurrin' up sideways; 'How are you?' + +"'Right!' says I. 'How's the old people?' + +"'Oh, I ain't been home yet,' says he, holdin' out his hand; but, afore +I could grip it, the cussed horse sidled off to the south end of the +clearin' and broke away again through the scrub. + +"I heard Dave swearin' about the country for twenty minutes or so, and +then he came spurrin' and cursin' in from the other end of the clearin'. + +"'Where have you been all this time?' I said, as the horse came curvin' +up like a boomerang. + +"'Gulf country,' said Dave. + +"'That was a storm, Dave,' said I. + +"'My oath!' says Dave. + +"'Get caught in it?' + +"'Yes.' + +"'Got to shelter?' + +"'No.' + +"'But you're as dry's a bone, Dave!' + +"Dave grinned. '------and------and------the--------!' he yelled. + +"He said that to the horse as it boomeranged off again and broke away +through the scrub. I waited; but he didn't come back, and I reckoned +he'd got so far away before he could pull up that he didn't think it +worth while comin' back; so I went on. By-and-bye I got thinkin'. Dave +was as dry as a bone, and I knowed that he hadn't had time to get to +shelter, for there wasn't a shed within twelve miles. He wasn't only +dry, but his coat was creased and dusty too--same as if he'd been +sleepin' in a holler log; and when I come to think of it, his face +seemed thinner and whiter than it used ter, and so did his hands and +wrists, which always stuck a long way out of his coat-sleeves; and there +was blood on his face--but I thought he'd got scratched with a twig. +(Dave used to wear a coat three or four sizes too small for him, with +sleeves that didn't come much below his elbows and a tail that scarcely +reached his waist behind.) And his hair seemed dark and lank, instead +of bein' sandy and stickin' out like an old fibre brush, as it used +ter. And then I thought his voice sounded different, too. And, when +I enquired next day, there was no one heard of Dave, and the chaps +reckoned I must have been drunk, or seen his ghost. + +"It didn't seem all right at all--it worried me a lot. I couldn't make +out how Dave kept dry; and the horse and saddle and saddle-cloth was +wet. I told the chaps how he talked to me and what he said, and how he +swore at the horse; but they only said it was Dave's ghost and nobody +else's. I told 'em about him bein' dry as a bone after gettin' caught in +that storm; but they only laughed and said it was a dry place where Dave +went to. I talked and argued about it until the chaps began to tap their +foreheads and wink--then I left off talking. But I didn't leave off +thinkin'--I always hated a mystery. Even Dave's father told me that Dave +couldn't be alive or else his ghost wouldn't be round--he said he knew +Dave better than that. One or two fellers did turn up afterwards that +had seen Dave about the time that I did--and then the chaps said they +was sure that Dave was dead. + +"But one fine day, as a lot of us chaps was playin' pitch and toss at +the shanty, one of the fellers yelled out: + +"'By Gee! Here comes Dave Regan!' + +"And I looked up and saw Dave himself, sidlin' out of a cloud of dust on +a long lanky horse. He rode into the stockyard, got down, hung his horse +up to a post, put up the rails, and then come slopin' towards us with +a half-acre grin on his face. Dave had long, thin bow-legs, and when he +was on the ground he moved as if he was on roller skates. + +"''El-lo, Dave!' says I. 'How are yer?' + +"''Ello, Jim!' said he. 'How the blazes are you?' + +"'All right!' says I, shakin' hands. 'How are yer?' + +"'Oh! I'm all right!' he says. 'How are yer poppin' up!' + +"Well, when we'd got all that settled, and the other chaps had asked how +he was, he said: 'Ah, well! Let's have a drink.' + +"And all the other chaps crawfished up and flung themselves round the +corner and sidled into the bar after Dave. We had a lot of talk, and he +told us that he'd been down before, but had gone away without seein' any +of us, except me, because he'd suddenly heard of a mob of cattle at a +station two hundred miles away; and after a while I took him aside and +said: + +"'Look here, Dave! Do you remember the day I met you after the storm?' + +"He scratched his head. + +"'Why, yes,' he says. + +"'Did you get under shelter that day?' + +"'Why--no.' + +"'Then how the blazes didn't yer get wet?' + +"Dave grinned; then he says: + +"'Why, when I seen the storm coming I took off me clothes and stuck 'em +in a holler log till the rain was over.' + +"'Yes,' he says, after the other coves had done laughin', but before +I'd done thinking; 'I kept my clothes dry and got a good refreshin' +shower-bath into the bargain.' + +"Then he scratched the back of his neck with his little finger, and +dropped his jaw, and thought a bit; then he rubbed the top of his head +and his shoulder, reflective-like, and then he said: + +"'But I didn't reckon for them there blanky hailstones.'" + + + + +Mitchell on Matrimony + + + +"I suppose your wife will be glad to see you," said Mitchell to his +mate in their camp by the dam at Hungerford. They were overhauling their +swags, and throwing away the blankets, and calico, and old clothes, and +rubbish they didn't want--everything, in fact, except their pocket-books +and letters and portraits, things which men carry about with them +always, that are found on them when they die, and sent to their +relations if possible. Otherwise they are taken in charge by the +constable who officiates at the inquest, and forwarded to the Minister +of Justice along with the depositions. + +It was the end of the shearing season. Mitchell and his mate had been +lucky enough to get two good sheds in succession, and were going to take +the coach from Hungerford to Bourke on their way to Sydney. The morning +stars were bright yet, and they sat down to a final billy of tea, two +dusty Johnny-cakes, and a scrag of salt mutton. + +"Yes," said Mitchell's mate, "and I'll be glad to see her too." + +"I suppose you will," said Mitchell. He placed his pint-pot between his +feet, rested his arm against his knee, and stirred the tea meditatively +with the handle of his pocket-knife. It was vaguely understood that +Mitchell had been married at one period of his chequered career. + +"I don't think we ever understood women properly," he said, as he took +a cautious sip to see if his tea was cool and sweet enough, for his lips +were sore; "I don't think we ever will--we never took the trouble to +try, and if we did it would be only wasted brain power that might just +as well be spent on the blackfellow's lingo; because by the time you've +learnt it they'll be extinct, and woman 'll be extinct before you've +learnt her.... The morning star looks bright, doesn't it?" + +"Ah, well," said Mitchell after a while, "there's many little things +we might try to understand women in. I read in a piece of newspaper the +other day about how a man changes after he's married; how he gets short, +and impatient, and bored (which is only natural), and sticks up a wall +of newspaper between himself and his wife when he's at home; and how it +comes like a cold shock to her, and all her air-castles vanish, and +in the end she often thinks about taking the baby and the clothes she +stands in, and going home for sympathy and comfort to mother. + +"Perhaps she never got a word of sympathy from her mother in her life, +nor a day's comfort at home before she was married; but that doesn't +make the slightest difference. It doesn't make any difference in your +case either, if you haven't been acting like a dutiful son-in-law. + +"Somebody wrote that a woman's love is her whole existence, while a +man's love is only part of his--which is true, and only natural and +reasonable, all things considered. But women never consider as a rule. A +man can't go on talking lovey-dovey talk for ever, and listening to his +young wife's prattle when he's got to think about making a living, and +nursing her and answering her childish questions and telling her he +loves his little ownest every minute in the day, while the bills are +running up, and rent mornings begin to fly round and hustle and crowd +him. + +"He's got her and he's satisfied; and if the truth is known he loves +her really more than he did when they were engaged, only she won't be +satisfied about it unless he tells her so every hour in the day. At +least that's how it is for the first few months. + +"But a woman doesn't understand these things--she never will, she +can't--and it would be just as well for us to try and understand that +she doesn't and can't understand them." + +Mitchell knocked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin against his boot, +and reached for the billy. + +"There's many little things we might do that seem mere trifles and +nonsense to us, but mean a lot to her; that wouldn't be any trouble +or sacrifice to us, but might help to make her life happy. It's just +because we never think about these little things--don't think them worth +thinking about, in fact--they never enter our intellectual foreheads. + +"For instance, when you're going out in the morning you might put your +arms round her and give her a hug and a kiss, without her having to +remind you. You may forget about it and never think any more of it--but +she will. + +"It wouldn't be any trouble to you, and would only take a couple of +seconds, and would give her something to be happy about when you're +gone, and make her sing to herself for hours while she bustles about her +work and thinks up what she'll get you for dinner." + +Mitchell's mate sighed, and shifted the sugar-bag over towards Mitchell. +He seemed touched and bothered over something. + +"Then again," said Mitchell, "it mightn't be convenient for you to go +home to dinner--something might turn up during the morning--you might +have some important business to do, or meet some chaps and get invited +to lunch and not be very well able to refuse, when it's too late, or you +haven't a chance to send a message to your wife. But then again, chaps +and business seem very big things to you, and only little things to the +wife; just as lovey-dovey talk is important to her and nonsense to you. +And when you come to analyse it, one is not so big, nor the other so +small, after all; especially when you come to think that chaps can +always wait, and business is only an inspiration in your mind, nine +cases out of ten. + +"Think of the trouble she takes to get you a good dinner, and how she +keeps it hot between two plates in the oven, and waits hour after hour +till the dinner gets dried up, and all her morning's work is wasted. +Think how it hurts her, and how anxious she'll be (especially if you're +inclined to booze) for fear that something has happened to you. You +can't get it out of the heads of some young wives that you're liable to +get run over, or knocked down, or assaulted, or robbed, or get into one +of the fixes that a woman is likely to get into. But about the dinner +waiting. Try and put yourself in her place. Wouldn't you get mad under +the same circumstances? I know I would. + +"I remember once, only just after I was married, I was invited +unexpectedly to a kidney pudding and beans--which was my favourite grub +at the time--and I didn't resist, especially as it was washing day and +I told the wife not to bother about anything for dinner. I got home an +hour or so late, and had a good explanation thought out, when the wife +met me with a smile as if we had just been left a thousand pounds. She'd +got her washing finished without assistance, though I'd told her to get +somebody to help her, and she had a kidney pudding and beans, with a lot +of extras thrown in, as a pleasant surprise for me. + +"Well, I kissed her, and sat down, and stuffed till I thought every +mouthful would choke me. I got through with it somehow, but I've never +cared for kidney pudding or beans since." + +Mitchell felt for his pipe with a fatherly smile in his eyes. + +"And then again," he continued, as he cut up his tobacco, "your wife +might put on a new dress and fix herself up and look well, and you might +think so and be satisfied with her appearance and be proud to take her +out; but you want to tell her so, and tell her so as often as you think +about it--and try to think a little oftener than men usually do, too." + + . . . . . + +"You should have made a good husband, Jack," said his mate, in a +softened tone. + +"Ah, well, perhaps I should," said Mitchell, rubbing up his tobacco; +then he asked abstractedly: "What sort of a husband did you make, Joe?" + +"I might have made a better one than I did," said Joe seriously, and +rather bitterly, "but I know one thing, I'm going to try and make up for +it when I go back this time." + +"We all say that," said Mitchell reflectively, filling his pipe. "She +loves you, Joe." + +"I know she does," said Joe. + +Mitchell lit up. + +"And so would any man who knew her or had seen her letters to you," he +said between the puffs. "She's happy and contented enough, I believe?" + +"Yes," said Joe, "at least while I was there. She's never easy when I'm +away. I might have made her a good deal more happy and contented without +hurting myself much." + +Mitchell smoked long, soft, measured puffs. + +His mate shifted uneasily and glanced at him a couple of times, and +seemed to become impatient, and to make up his mind about something; +or perhaps he got an idea that Mitchell had been "having" him, and +felt angry over being betrayed into maudlin confidences; for he asked +abruptly: + +"How is your wife now, Mitchell?" + +"I don't know," said Mitchell calmly. + +"Don't know?" echoed the mate. "Didn't you treat her well?" + +Mitchell removed his pipe and drew a long breath. + +"Ah, well, I tried to," he said wearily. + +"Well, did you put your theory into practice?" + +"I did," said Mitchell very deliberately. + +Joe waited, but nothing came. + +"Well?" he asked impatiently, "How did it act? Did it work well?" + +"I don't know," said Mitchell (puff); "she left me." + +"What!" + +Mitchell jerked the half-smoked pipe from his mouth, and rapped the +burning tobacco out against the toe of his boot. + +"She left me," he said, standing up and stretching himself. Then, with a +vicious jerk of his arm, "She left me for--another kind of a fellow!" + +He looked east towards the public-house, where they were taking the +coach-horses from the stable. + +"Why don't you finish your tea, Joe? The billy's getting cold." + + + + +Mitchell on Women + + + +"All the same," said Mitchell's mate, continuing an argument by the +camp-fire; "all the same, I think that a woman can stand cold water +better than a man. Why, when I was staying in a boarding-house in +Dunedin, one very cold winter, there was a lady lodger who went down to +the shower-bath first thing every morning; never missed one; sometimes +went in freezing weather when I wouldn't go into a cold bath for a +fiver; and sometimes she'd stay under the shower for ten minutes at a +time." + +"How'd you know?" + +"Why, my room was near the bath-room, and I could hear the shower and +tap going, and her floundering about." + +"Hear your grandmother!" exclaimed Mitchell, contemptuously. "You don't +know women yet. Was this woman married? Did she have a husband there?" + +"No; she was a young widow." + +"Ah! well, it would have been the same if she was a young girl--or an +old one. Were there some passable men-boarders there?" + +"_I_ was there." + +"Oh, yes! But I mean, were there any there beside you?" + +"Oh, yes, there were three or four; there was--a clerk and a----" + +"Never mind, as long as there was something with trousers on. Did it +ever strike you that she never got into the bath at all?" + +"Why, no! What would she want to go there at all for, in that case?" + +"To make an impression on the men," replied Mitchell promptly. "She +wanted to make out she was nice, and wholesome, and well-washed, +and particular. Made an impression on YOU, it seems, or you wouldn't +remember it." + +"Well, yes, I suppose so; and, now I come to think of it, the bath +didn't seem to injure her make-up or wet her hair; but I supposed she +held her head from under the shower somehow." + +"Did she make-up so early in the morning?" asked Mitchell. + +"Yes--I'm sure." + +"That's unusual; but it might have been so where there was a lot of +boarders. And about the hair--that didn't count for anything, because +washing-the-head ain't supposed to be always included in a lady's bath; +it's only supposed to be washed once a fortnight, and some don't do it +once a month. The hair takes so long to dry; it don't matter so much if +the woman's got short, scraggy hair; but if a girl's hair was down to +her waist it would take hours to dry." + +"Well, how do they manage it without wetting their heads?" + +"Oh, that's easy enough. They have a little oilskin cap that fits tight +over the forehead, and they put it on, and bunch their hair up in it +when they go under the shower. Did you ever see a woman sit in a sunny +place with her hair down after having a wash?" + +"Yes, I used to see one do that regular where I was staying; but I +thought she only did it to show off." + +"Not at all--she was drying her hair; though perhaps she was showing +off at the same time, for she wouldn't sit where you--or even a +Chinaman--could see her, if she didn't think she had a good head of +hair. Now, I'LL tell you a yarn about a woman's bath. I was stopping +at a shabby-genteel boarding-house in Melbourne once, and one very cold +winter, too; and there was a rather good-looking woman there, looking +for a husband. She used to go down to the bath every morning, no matter +how cold it was, and flounder and splash about as if she enjoyed it, +till you'd feel as though you'd like to go and catch hold of her and +wrap her in a rug and carry her in to the fire and nurse her till she +was warm again." + +Mitchell's mate moved uneasily, and crossed the other leg; he seemed +greatly interested. + +"But she never went into the water at all!" continued Mitchell. "As soon +as one or two of the men was up in the morning she'd come down from her +room in a dressing-gown. It was a toney dressing-gown, too, and set her +off properly. She knew how to dress, anyway; most of that sort of women +do. The gown was a kind of green colour, with pink and white flowers +all over it, and red lining, and a lot of coffee-coloured lace round the +neck and down the front. Well, she'd come tripping downstairs and along +the passage, holding up one side of the gown to show her little +bare white foot in a slipper; and in the other hand she carried her +tooth-brush and bath-brush, and soap--like this--so's we all could see +'em; trying to make out she was too particular to use soap after anyone +else. She could afford to buy her own soap, anyhow; it was hardly ever +wet. + +"Well, she'd go into the bathroom and turn on the tap and shower; when +she got about three inches of water in the bath, she'd step in, holding +up her gown out of the water, and go slithering and kicking up and down +the bath, like this, making a tremendous splashing. Of course she'd turn +off the shower first, and screw it off very tight--wouldn't do to let +that leak, you know; she might get wet; but she'd leave the other tap +on, so as to make all the more noise." + +"But how did you come to know all about this?" + +"Oh, the servant girl told me. One morning she twigged her through a +corner of the bathroom window that the curtain didn't cover." + +"You seem to have been pretty thick with servant girls." + +"So do you with landladies! But never mind--let me finish the yarn. When +she thought she'd splashed enough, she'd get out, wipe her feet, wash +her face and hands, and carefully unbutton the two top buttons of her +gown; then throw a towel over her head and shoulders, and listen at the +door till she thought she heard some of the men moving about. Then +she'd start for her room, and, if she met one of the men-boarders in the +passage or on the stairs, she'd drop her eyes, and pretend to see for +the first time that the top of her dressing-gown wasn't buttoned--and +she'd give a little start and grab the gown and scurry off to her room +buttoning it up. + +"And sometimes she'd come skipping into the breakfast-room late, looking +awfully sweet in her dressing-gown; and if she saw any of us there, +she'd pretend to be much startled, and say that she thought all the men +had gone out, and make as though she was going to clear; and someone 'd +jump up and give her a chair, while someone else said, 'Come in, Miss +Brown! come in! Don't let us frighten you. Come right in, and have +your breakfast before it gets cold.' So she'd flutter a bit in pretty +confusion, and then make a sweet little girly-girly dive for her chair, +and tuck her feet away under the table; and she'd blush, too, but I +don't know how she managed that. + +"I know another trick that women have; it's mostly played by private +barmaids. That is, to leave a stocking by accident in the bathroom for +the gentlemen to find. If the barmaid's got a nice foot and ankle, she +uses one of her own stockings; but if she hasn't she gets hold of +a stocking that belongs to a girl that has. Anyway, she'll have one +readied up somehow. The stocking must be worn and nicely darned; one +that's been worn will keep the shape of the leg and foot--at least +till it's washed again. Well, the barmaid generally knows what time the +gentlemen go to bath, and she'll make it a point of going down just as +a gentleman's going. Of course he'll give her the preference--let her go +first, you know--and she'll go in and accidentally leave the stocking +in a place where he's sure to see it, and when she comes out he'll go in +and find it; and very likely he'll be a jolly sort of fellow, and when +they're all sitting down to breakfast he'll come in and ask them to +guess what he's found, and then he'll hold up the stocking. The barmaid +likes this sort of thing; but she'll hold down her head, and pretend +to be confused, and keep her eyes on her plate, and there'll be much +blushing and all that sort of thing, and perhaps she'll gammon to be +mad at him, and the landlady'll say, 'Oh, Mr. Smith! how can yer? At the +breakfast table, too!' and they'll all laugh and look at the barmaid, +and she'll get more embarrassed than ever, and spill her tea, and make +out as though the stocking didn't belong to her." + + + + +No Place for a Woman + + + +He had a selection on a long box-scrub siding of the ridges, about half +a mile back and up from the coach road. There were no neighbours that +I ever heard of, and the nearest "town" was thirty miles away. He grew +wheat among the stumps of his clearing, sold the crop standing to a +Cockie who lived ten miles away, and had some surplus sons; or, some +seasons, he reaped it by hand, had it thrashed by travelling "steamer" +(portable steam engine and machine), and carried the grain, a few bags +at a time, into the mill on his rickety dray. + +He had lived alone for upwards of 15 years, and was known to those who +knew him as "Ratty Howlett". + +Trav'lers and strangers failed to see anything uncommonly ratty about +him. It was known, or, at least, it was believed, without question, that +while at work he kept his horse saddled and bridled, and hung up to the +fence, or grazing about, with the saddle on--or, anyway, close handy +for a moment's notice--and whenever he caught sight, over the scrub and +through the quarter-mile break in it, of a traveller on the road, he +would jump on his horse and make after him. If it was a horseman +he usually pulled him up inside of a mile. Stories were told of +unsuccessful chases, misunderstandings, and complications arising out of +Howlett's mania for running down and bailing up travellers. Sometimes he +caught one every day for a week, sometimes not one for weeks--it was a +lonely track. + +The explanation was simple, sufficient, and perfectly natural--from a +bushman's point of view. Ratty only wanted to have a yarn. He and the +traveller would camp in the shade for half an hour or so and yarn and +smoke. The old man would find out where the traveller came from, and +how long he'd been there, and where he was making for, and how long +he reckoned he'd be away; and ask if there had been any rain along the +traveller's back track, and how the country looked after the drought; +and he'd get the traveller's ideas on abstract questions--if he had any. +If it was a footman (swagman), and he was short of tobacco, old Howlett +always had half a stick ready for him. Sometimes, but very rarely, he'd +invite the swagman back to the hut for a pint of tea, or a bit of meat, +flour, tea, or sugar, to carry him along the track. + +And, after the yarn by the road, they said, the old man would ride back, +refreshed, to his lonely selection, and work on into the night as long +as he could see his solitary old plough horse, or the scoop of his +long-handled shovel. + +And so it was that I came to make his acquaintance--or, rather, that he +made mine. I was cantering easily along the track--I was making for the +north-west with a pack horse--when about a mile beyond the track to the +selection I heard, "Hi, Mister!" and saw a dust cloud following me. I +had heard of "Old Ratty Howlett" casually, and so was prepared for him. + +A tall gaunt man on a little horse. He was clean-shaven, except for +a frill beard round under his chin, and his long wavy, dark hair +was turning grey; a square, strong-faced man, and reminded me of one +full-faced portrait of Gladstone more than any other face I had seen. +He had large reddish-brown eyes, deep set under heavy eyebrows, and with +something of the blackfellow in them--the sort of eyes that will peer +at something on the horizon that no one else can see. He had a way of +talking to the horizon, too--more than to his companion; and he had a +deep vertical wrinkle in his forehead that no smile could lessen. + +I got down and got out my pipe, and we sat on a log and yarned awhile on +bush subjects; and then, after a pause, he shifted uneasily, it seemed +to me, and asked rather abruptly, and in an altered tone, if I was +married. A queer question to ask a traveller; more especially in my +case, as I was little more than a boy then. + +He talked on again of old things and places where we had both been, and +asked after men he knew, or had known--drovers and others--and whether +they were living yet. Most of his inquiries went back before my time; +but some of the drovers, one or two overlanders with whom he had been +mates in his time, had grown old into mine, and I knew them. I notice +now, though I didn't then--and if I had it would not have seemed +strange from a bush point of view--that he didn't ask for news, nor seem +interested in it. + +Then after another uneasy pause, during which he scratched crosses in +the dust with a stick, he asked me, in the same queer tone and without +looking at me or looking up, if I happened to know anything about +doctoring--if I'd ever studied it. + +I asked him if anyone was sick at his place. He hesitated, and said +"No." Then I wanted to know why he had asked me that question, and +he was so long about answering that I began to think he was hard of +hearing, when, at last, he muttered something about my face reminding +him of a young fellow he knew of who'd gone to Sydney to "study for a +doctor". That might have been, and looked natural enough; but why didn't +he ask me straight out if I was the chap he "knowed of"? Travellers do +not like beating about the bush in conversation. + +He sat in silence for a good while, with his arms folded, and looking +absently away over the dead level of the great scrubs that spread +from the foot of the ridge we were on to where a blue peak or two of a +distant range showed above the bush on the horizon. + +I stood up and put my pipe away and stretched. Then he seemed to wake +up. "Better come back to the hut and have a bit of dinner," he said. +"The missus will about have it ready, and I'll spare you a handful of +hay for the horses." + +The hay decided it. It was a dry season. I was surprised to hear of a +wife, for I thought he was a hatter--I had always heard so; but +perhaps I had been mistaken, and he had married lately; or had got a +housekeeper. The farm was an irregularly-shaped clearing in the scrub, +with a good many stumps in it, with a broken-down two-rail fence +along the frontage, and logs and "dog-leg" the rest. It was about +as lonely-looking a place as I had seen, and I had seen some +out-of-the-way, God-forgotten holes where men lived alone. The hut was +in the top corner, a two-roomed slab hut, with a shingle roof, which +must have been uncommon round there in the days when that hut was built. +I was used to bush carpentering, and saw that the place had been put +up by a man who had plenty of life and hope in front of him, and for +someone else beside himself. But there were two unfinished skilling +rooms built on to the back of the hut; the posts, sleepers, and +wall-plates had been well put up and fitted, and the slab walls were +up, but the roof had never been put on. There was nothing but burrs +and nettles inside those walls, and an old wooden bullock plough and a +couple of yokes were dry-rotting across the back doorway. The remains of +a straw-stack, some hay under a bark humpy, a small iron plough, and an +old stiff coffin-headed grey draught horse, were all that I saw about +the place. + +But there was a bit of a surprise for me inside, in the shape of a clean +white tablecloth on the rough slab table which stood on stakes driven +into the ground. The cloth was coarse, but it was a tablecloth--not +a spare sheet put on in honour of unexpected visitors--and perfectly +clean. The tin plates, pannikins, and jam tins that served as sugar +bowls and salt cellars were polished brightly. The walls and fireplace +were whitewashed, the clay floor swept, and clean sheets of newspaper +laid on the slab mantleshelf under the row of biscuit tins that held the +groceries. I thought that his wife, or housekeeper, or whatever she was, +was a clean and tidy woman about a house. I saw no woman; but on the +sofa--a light, wooden, batten one, with runged arms at the ends--lay a +woman's dress on a lot of sheets of old stained and faded newspapers. +He looked at it in a puzzled way, knitting his forehead, then took it +up absently and folded it. I saw then that it was a riding skirt and +jacket. He bundled them into the newspapers and took them into the +bedroom. + +"The wife was going on a visit down the creek this afternoon," he said +rapidly and without looking at me, but stooping as if to have another +look through the door at those distant peaks. "I suppose she got tired +o' waitin', and went and took the daughter with her. But, never mind, +the grub is ready." There was a camp-oven with a leg of mutton and +potatoes sizzling in it on the hearth, and billies hanging over the +fire. I noticed the billies had been scraped, and the lids polished. + +There seemed to be something queer about the whole business, but then he +and his wife might have had a "breeze" during the morning. I thought +so during the meal, when the subject of women came up, and he said one +never knew how to take a woman, etc.; but there was nothing in what he +said that need necessarily have referred to his wife or to any woman in +particular. For the rest he talked of old bush things, droving, digging, +and old bushranging--but never about live things and living men, unless +any of the old mates he talked about happened to be alive by accident. +He was very restless in the house, and never took his hat off. + +There was a dress and a woman's old hat hanging on the wall near the +door, but they looked as if they might have been hanging there for a +lifetime. There seemed something queer about the whole place--something +wanting; but then all out-of-the-way bush homes are haunted by that +something wanting, or, more likely, by the spirits of the things that +should have been there, but never had been. + +As I rode down the track to the road I looked back and saw old Howlett +hard at work in a hole round a big stump with his long-handled shovel. + +I'd noticed that he moved and walked with a slight list to port, and put +his hand once or twice to the small of his back, and I set it down to +lumbago, or something of that sort. + +Up in the Never Never I heard from a drover who had known Howlett that +his wife had died in the first year, and so this mysterious woman, if +she was his wife, was, of course, his second wife. The drover seemed +surprised and rather amused at the thought of old Howlett going in for +matrimony again. + + . . . . . + +I rode back that way five years later, from the Never Never. It was +early in the morning--I had ridden since midnight. I didn't think the +old man would be up and about; and, besides, I wanted to get on home, +and have a look at the old folk, and the mates I'd left behind--and the +girl. But I hadn't got far past the point where Howlett's track joined +the road, when I happened to look back, and saw him on horseback, +stumbling down the track. I waited till he came up. + +He was riding the old grey draught horse this time, and it looked very +much broken down. I thought it would have come down every step, and +fallen like an old rotten humpy in a gust of wind. And the old man was +not much better off. I saw at once that he was a very sick man. His face +was drawn, and he bent forward as if he was hurt. He got down stiffly +and awkwardly, like a hurt man, and as soon as his feet touched the +ground he grabbed my arm, or he would have gone down like a man who +steps off a train in motion. He hung towards the bank of the road, +feeling blindly, as it were, for the ground, with his free hand, as I +eased him down. I got my blanket and calico from the pack saddle to make +him comfortable. + +"Help me with my back agen the tree," he said. "I must sit up--it's no +use lyin' me down." + +He sat with his hand gripping his side, and breathed painfully. + +"Shall I run up to the hut and get the wife?" I asked. + +"No." He spoke painfully. "No!" Then, as if the words were jerked out of +him by a spasm: "She ain't there." + +I took it that she had left him. + +"How long have you been bad? How long has this been coming on?" + +He took no notice of the question. I thought it was a touch of rheumatic +fever, or something of that sort. "It's gone into my back and sides +now--the pain's worse in me back," he said presently. + +I had once been mates with a man who died suddenly of heart disease, +while at work. He was washing a dish of dirt in the creek near a claim +we were working; he let the dish slip into the water, fell back, crying, +"O, my back!" and was gone. And now I felt by instinct that it was poor +old Howlett's heart that was wrong. A man's heart is in his back as well +as in his arms and hands. + +The old man had turned pale with the pallor of a man who turns faint in +a heat wave, and his arms fell loosely, and his hands rocked helplessly +with the knuckles in the dust. I felt myself turning white, too, and the +sick, cold, empty feeling in my stomach, for I knew the signs. Bushmen +stand in awe of sickness and death. + +But after I'd fixed him comfortably and given him a drink from the water +bag the greyness left his face, and he pulled himself together a bit; he +drew up his arms and folded them across his chest. He let his head rest +back against the tree--his slouch hat had fallen off revealing a broad, +white brow, much higher than I expected. He seemed to gaze on the azure +fin of the range, showing above the dark blue-green bush on the horizon. + +Then he commenced to speak--taking no notice of me when I asked him if +he felt better now--to talk in that strange, absent, far-away tone that +awes one. He told his story mechanically, monotonously--in set words, as +I believe now, as he had often told it before; if not to others, then to +the loneliness of the bush. And he used the names of people and places +that I had never heard of--just as if I knew them as well as he did. + +"I didn't want to bring her up the first year. It was no place for a +woman. I wanted her to stay with her people and wait till I'd got the +place a little more ship-shape. The Phippses took a selection down the +creek. I wanted her to wait and come up with them so's she'd have some +company--a woman to talk to. They came afterwards, but they didn't stop. +It was no place for a woman. + +"But Mary would come. She wouldn't stop with her people down country. +She wanted to be with me, and look after me, and work and help me." + +He repeated himself a great deal--said the same thing over and over +again sometimes. He was only mad on one track. He'd tail off and +sit silent for a while; then he'd become aware of me in a hurried, +half-scared way, and apologise for putting me to all that trouble, and +thank me. "I'll be all right d'reckly. Best take the horses up to the +hut and have some breakfast; you'll find it by the fire. I'll foller +you, d'reckly. The wife'll be waitin' an'----" He would drop off, and be +going again presently on the old track:-- + +"Her mother was coming up to stay awhile at the end of the year, but the +old man hurt his leg. Then her married sister was coming, but one of the +youngsters got sick and there was trouble at home. I saw the doctor in +the town--thirty miles from here--and fixed it up with him. He was a +boozer--I'd 'a shot him afterwards. I fixed up with a woman in the town +to come and stay. I thought Mary was wrong in her time. She must have +been a month or six weeks out. But I listened to her.... Don't argue +with a woman. Don't listen to a woman. Do the right thing. We should +have had a mother woman to talk to us. But it was no place for a woman!" + +He rocked his head, as if from some old agony of mind, against the +tree-trunk. + +"She was took bad suddenly one night, but it passed off. False alarm. I +was going to ride somewhere, but she said to wait till daylight. Someone +was sure to pass. She was a brave and sensible girl, but she had a +terror of being left alone. It was no place for a woman! + +"There was a black shepherd three or four miles away. I rode over while +Mary was asleep, and started the black boy into town. I'd 'a shot him +afterwards if I'd 'a caught him. The old black gin was dead the week +before, or Mary would a' bin alright. She was tied up in a bunch with +strips of blanket and greenhide, and put in a hole. So there wasn't even +a gin near the place. It was no place for a woman! + +"I was watchin' the road at daylight, and I was watchin' the road at +dusk. I went down in the hollow and stooped down to get the gap agen the +sky, so's I could see if anyone was comin' over.... I'd get on the horse +and gallop along towards the town for five miles, but something would +drag me back, and then I'd race for fear she'd die before I got to the +hut. I expected the doctor every five minutes. + +"It come on about daylight next morning. I ran back'ards and for'ards +between the hut and the road like a madman. And no one come. I was +running amongst the logs and stumps, and fallin' over them, when I saw +a cloud of dust agen sunrise. It was her mother an' sister in the +spring-cart, an' just catchin' up to them was the doctor in his buggy +with the woman I'd arranged with in town. The mother and sister was +staying at the town for the night, when they heard of the black boy. It +took him a day to ride there. I'd 'a shot him if I'd 'a caught him ever +after. The doctor'd been on the drunk. If I'd had the gun and known she +was gone I'd have shot him in the buggy. They said she was dead. And the +child was dead, too. + +"They blamed me, but I didn't want her to come; it was no place for a +woman. I never saw them again after the funeral. I didn't want to see +them any more." + +He moved his head wearily against the tree, and presently drifted on +again in a softer tone--his eyes and voice were growing more absent and +dreamy and far away. + +"About a month after--or a year, I lost count of the time long ago--she +came back to me. At first she'd come in the night, then sometimes when +I was at work--and she had the baby--it was a girl--in her arms. And +by-and-bye she came to stay altogether.... I didn't blame her for going +away that time--it was no place for a woman.... She was a good wife to +me. She was a jolly girl when I married her. The little girl grew up +like her. I was going to send her down country to be educated--it was no +place for a girl. + +"But a month, or a year, ago, Mary left me, and took the daughter, and +never came back till last night--this morning, I think it was. I thought +at first it was the girl with her hair done up, and her mother's skirt +on, to surprise her old dad. But it was Mary, my wife--as she was when +I married her. She said she couldn't stay, but she'd wait for me on the +road; on--the road...." + +His arms fell, and his face went white. I got the water-bag. "Another +turn like that and you'll be gone," I thought, as he came to again. Then +I suddenly thought of a shanty that had been started, when I came that +way last, ten or twelve miles along the road, towards the town. There +was nothing for it but to leave him and ride on for help, and a cart of +some kind. + +"You wait here till I come back," I said. "I'm going for the doctor." + +He roused himself a little. "Best come up to the hut and get some grub. +The wife'll be waiting...." He was off the track again. + +"Will you wait while I take the horse down to the creek?" + +"Yes--I'll wait by the road." + +"Look!" I said, "I'll leave the water-bag handy. Don't move till I come +back." + +"I won't move--I'll wait by the road," he said. + +I took the packhorse, which was the freshest and best, threw the +pack-saddle and bags into a bush, left the other horse to take care of +itself, and started for the shanty, leaving the old man with his back to +the tree, his arms folded, and his eyes on the horizon. + +One of the chaps at the shanty rode on for the doctor at once, while the +other came back with me in a spring-cart. He told me that old Howlett's +wife had died in child-birth the first year on the selection--"she was a +fine girl he'd heered!" He told me the story as the old man had told it, +and in pretty well the same words, even to giving it as his opinion that +it was no place for a woman. "And he 'hatted' and brooded over it till +he went ratty." + +I knew the rest. He not only thought that his wife, or the ghost of his +wife, had been with him all those years, but that the child had lived +and grown up, and that the wife did the housework; which, of course, he +must have done himself. + +When we reached him his knotted hands had fallen for the last time, and +they were at rest. I only took one quick look at his face, but could +have sworn that he was gazing at the blue fin of the range on the +horizon of the bush. + +Up at the hut the table was set as on the first day I saw it, and +breakfast in the camp-oven by the fire. + + + + +Mitchell's Jobs + + + +"I'm going to knock off work and try to make some money," said Mitchell, +as he jerked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin and reached for the +billy. "It's been the great mistake of my life--if I hadn't wasted all +my time and energy working and looking for work I might have been an +independent man to-day." + +"Joe!" he added in a louder voice, condescendingly adapting his language +to my bushed comprehension. "I'm going to sling graft and try and get +some stuff together." + +I didn't feel in a responsive humour, but I lit up and settled back +comfortably against the tree, and Jack folded his arms on his knees and +presently continued, reflectively: + +"I remember the first time I went to work. I was a youngster then. +Mother used to go round looking for jobs for me. She reckoned, perhaps, +that I was too shy to go in where there was a boy wanted and barrack for +myself properly, and she used to help me and see me through to the best +of her ability. I'm afraid I didn't always feel as grateful to her as I +should have felt. I was a thankless kid at the best of times--most kids +are--but otherwise I was a straight enough little chap as nippers go. +Sometimes I almost wish I hadn't been. My relations would have thought +a good deal more of me and treated me better--and, besides, it's a +comfort, at times, to sit and watch the sun going down in the bed of the +bush, and think of your wicked childhood and wasted life, and the way +you treated your parents and broke their hearts, and feel just properly +repentant and bitter and remorseful and low-spirited about it when it's +too late. + +"Ah, well!... I generally did feel a bit backward in going in when I +came to the door of an office or shop where there was a 'Strong Lad', or +a 'Willing Youth', wanted inside to make himself generally useful. I +was a strong lad and a willing youth enough, in some things, for that +matter; but I didn't like to see it written up on a card in a shop +window, and I didn't want to make myself generally useful in a close +shop in a hot dusty street on mornings when the weather was fine and the +great sunny rollers were coming in grand on the Bondi Beach and down at +Coogee, and I could swim.... I'd give something to be down along there +now." + +Mitchell looked away out over the sultry sandy plain that we were to +tackle next day, and sighed. + +"The first job I got was in a jam factory. They only had 'Boy Wanted' on +the card in the window, and I thought it would suit me. They set me to +work to peel peaches, and, as soon as the foreman's back was turned, +I picked out a likely-looking peach and tried it. They soaked those +peaches in salt or acid or something--it was part of the process--and +I had to spit it out. Then I got an orange from a boy who was slicing +them, but it was bitter, and I couldn't eat it. I saw that I'd been had +properly. I was in a fix, and had to get out of it the best way I could. +I'd left my coat down in the front shop, and the foreman and boss were +there, so I had to work in that place for two mortal hours. It was about +the longest two hours I'd ever spent in my life. At last the foreman +came up, and I told him I wanted to go down to the back for a minute. I +slipped down, watched my chance till the boss' back was turned, got my +coat, and cleared. + +"The next job I got was in a mat factory; at least, Aunt got that for +me. I didn't want to have anything to do with mats or carpets. The worst +of it was the boss didn't seem to want me to go, and I had a job to get +him to sack me, and when he did he saw some of my people and took me +back again next week. He sacked me finally the next Saturday. + +"I got the next job myself. I didn't hurry; I took my time and picked +out a good one. It was in a lolly factory. I thought it would suit +me--and it did, for a while. They put me on stirring up and mixing stuff +in the jujube department; but I got so sick of the smell of it and so +full of jujube and other lollies that I soon wanted a change; so I had +a row with the chief of the jujube department and the boss gave me the +sack. + +"I got a job in a grocery then. I thought I'd have more variety there. +But one day the boss was away, sick or something, all the afternoon, and +I sold a lot of things too cheap. I didn't know. When a customer came in +and asked for something I'd just look round in the window till I saw +a card with the price written up on it, and sell the best quality +according to that price; and once or twice I made a mistake the other +way about and lost a couple of good customers. It was a hot, drowsy +afternoon, and by-and-bye I began to feel dull and sleepy. So I looked +round the corner and saw a Chinaman coming. I got a big tin garden +syringe and filled it full of brine from the butter keg, and, when he +came opposite the door, I let him have the full force of it in the ear. + +"That Chinaman put down his baskets and came for me. I was strong for my +age, and thought I could fight, but he gave me a proper mauling. + +"It was like running up against a thrashing machine, and it wouldn't +have been well for me if the boss of the shop next door hadn't +interfered. He told my boss, and my boss gave me the sack at once. + +"I took a spell of eighteen months or so after that, and was growing +up happy and contented when a married sister of mine must needs come +to live in town and interfere. I didn't like married sisters, though I +always got on grand with my brothers-in-law, and wished there were more +of them. The married sister comes round and cleans up the place and +pulls your things about and finds your pipe and tobacco and things, and +cigarette portraits, and "Deadwood Dicks", that you've got put away all +right, so's your mother and aunt wouldn't find them in a generation of +cats, and says: + +"'Mother, why don't you make that boy go to work. It's a scandalous +shame to see a big boy like that growing up idle. He's going to the bad +before your eyes.' And she's always trying to make out that you're a +liar, and trying to make mother believe it, too. My married sister got +me a job with a chemist, whose missus she knew. + +"I got on pretty well there, and by-and-bye I was put upstairs in the +grinding and mixing department; but, after a while, they put another +boy that I was chummy with up there with me, and that was a mistake. +I didn't think so at the time, but I can see it now. We got up to all +sorts of tricks. We'd get mixing together chemicals that weren't related +to see how they'd agree, and we nearly blew up the shop several times, +and set it on fire once. But all the chaps liked us, and fixed things up +for us. One day we got a big black dog--that we meant to take home that +evening--and sneaked him upstairs and put him on a flat roof outside the +laboratory. He had a touch of the mange and didn't look well, so we gave +him a dose of something; and he scrambled over the parapet and slipped +down a steep iron roof in front, and fell on a respected townsman that +knew my people. We were awfully frightened, and didn't say anything. +Nobody saw it but us. The dog had the presence of mind to leave at once, +and the respected townsman was picked up and taken home in a cab; and +he got it hot from his wife, too, I believe, for being in that drunken, +beastly state in the main street in the middle of the day. + +"I don't think he was ever quite sure that he hadn't been drunk or +what had happened, for he had had one or two that morning; so it didn't +matter much. Only we lost the dog. + +"One day I went downstairs to the packing-room and saw a lot of +phosphorus in jars of water. I wanted to fix up a ghost for Billy, my +mate, so I nicked a bit and slipped it into my trouser pocket. + +"I stood under the tap and let it pour on me. The phosphorus burnt clean +through my pocket and fell on the ground. I was sent home that night +with my leg dressed with lime-water and oil, and a pair of the boss's +pants on that were about half a yard too long for me, and I felt +miserable enough, too. They said it would stop my tricks for a while, +and so it did. I'll carry the mark to my dying day--and for two or three +days after, for that matter." + + . . . . . + +I fell asleep at this point, and left Mitchell's cattle pup to hear it +out. + + + + +Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster + + + +"When we were up country on the selection, we had a rooster at our +place, named Bill," said Mitchell; "a big mongrel of no particular +breed, though the old lady said he was a 'brammer'--and many an argument +she had with the old man about it too; she was just as stubborn and +obstinate in her opinion as the governor was in his. But, anyway, we +called him Bill, and didn't take any particular notice of him till a +cousin of some of us came from Sydney on a visit to the country, and +stayed at our place because it was cheaper than stopping at a pub. Well, +somehow this chap got interested in Bill, and studied him for two or +three days, and at last he says: + +"'Why, that rooster's a ventriloquist!' + +"'A what?' + +"'A ventriloquist!' + +"'Go along with yer!' + +"'But he is. I've heard of cases like this before; but this is the first +I've come across. Bill's a ventriloquist right enough.' + +"Then we remembered that there wasn't another rooster within five +miles--our only neighbour, an Irishman named Page, didn't have one at +the time--and we'd often heard another cock crow, but didn't think +to take any notice of it. We watched Bill, and sure enough he WAS +a ventriloquist. The 'ka-cocka' would come all right, but the +'co-ka-koo-oi-oo' seemed to come from a distance. And sometimes the +whole crow would go wrong, and come back like an echo that had been lost +for a year. Bill would stand on tiptoe, and hold his elbows out, and +curve his neck, and go two or three times as if he was swallowing +nest-eggs, and nearly break his neck and burst his gizzard; and then +there'd be no sound at all where he was--only a cock crowing in the +distance. + +"And pretty soon we could see that Bill was in great trouble about it +himself. You see, he didn't know it was himself--thought it was another +rooster challenging him, and he wanted badly to find that other bird. +He would get up on the wood-heap, and crow and listen--crow and listen +again--crow and listen, and then he'd go up to the top of the paddock, +and get up on the stack, and crow and listen there. Then down to the +other end of the paddock, and get up on a mullock-heap, and crow and +listen there. Then across to the other side and up on a log among the +saplings, and crow 'n' listen some more. He searched all over the place +for that other rooster, but, of course, couldn't find him. Sometimes +he'd be out all day crowing and listening all over the country, and then +come home dead tired, and rest and cool off in a hole that the hens had +scratched for him in a damp place under the water-cask sledge. + +"Well, one day Page brought home a big white rooster, and when he let +it go it climbed up on Page's stack and crowed, to see if there was any +more roosters round there. Bill had come home tired; it was a hot day, +and he'd rooted out the hens, and was having a spell-oh under the cask +when the white rooster crowed. Bill didn't lose any time getting out and +on to the wood-heap, and then he waited till he heard the crow again; +then he crowed, and the other rooster crowed again, and they crowed at +each other for three days, and called each other all the wretches they +could lay their tongues to, and after that they implored each other +to come out and be made into chicken soup and feather pillows. But +neither'd come. You see, there were THREE crows--there was Bill's crow, +and the ventriloquist crow, and the white rooster's crow--and each +rooster thought that there was TWO roosters in the opposition camp, and +that he mightn't get fair play, and, consequently, both were afraid to +put up their hands. + +"But at last Bill couldn't stand it any longer. He made up his mind to +go and have it out, even if there was a whole agricultural show of prize +and honourable-mention fighting-cocks in Page's yard. He got down from +the wood-heap and started off across the ploughed field, his head down, +his elbows out, and his thick awkward legs prodding away at the furrows +behind for all they were worth. + +"I wanted to go down badly and see the fight, and barrack for Bill. But +I daren't, because I'd been coming up the road late the night before +with my brother Joe, and there was about three panels of turkeys +roosting along on the top rail of Page's front fence; and we brushed 'em +with a bough, and they got up such a blessed gobbling fuss about it that +Page came out in his shirt and saw us running away; and I knew he was +laying for us with a bullock whip. Besides, there was friction between +the two families on account of a thoroughbred bull that Page borrowed +and wouldn't lend to us, and that got into our paddock on account of me +mending a panel in the party fence, and carelessly leaving the top +rail down after sundown while our cows was moving round there in the +saplings. + +"So there was too much friction for me to go down, but I climbed a tree +as near the fence as I could and watched. Bill reckoned he'd found that +rooster at last. The white rooster wouldn't come down from the stack, +so Bill went up to him, and they fought there till they tumbled down the +other side, and I couldn't see any more. Wasn't I wild? I'd have given +my dog to have seen the rest of the fight. I went down to the far side +of Page's fence and climbed a tree there, but, of course, I couldn't +see anything, so I came home the back way. Just as I got home Page came +round to the front and sung out, 'Insoid there!' And me and Jim went +under the house like snakes and looked out round a pile. But Page was +all right--he had a broad grin on his face, and Bill safe under his arm. +He put Bill down on the ground very carefully, and says he to the old +folks: + +"'Yer rooster knocked the stuffin' out of my rooster, but I bear no +malice. 'Twas a grand foight.' + +"And then the old man and Page had a yarn, and got pretty friendly after +that. And Bill didn't seem to bother about any more ventriloquism; but +the white rooster spent a lot of time looking for that other rooster. +Perhaps he thought he'd have better luck with him. But Page was on the +look-out all the time to get a rooster that would lick ours. He did +nothing else for a month but ride round and enquire about roosters; and +at last he borrowed a game-bird in town, left five pounds deposit on +him, and brought him home. And Page and the old man agreed to have a +match--about the only thing they'd agreed about for five years. And they +fixed it up for a Sunday when the old lady and the girls and kids were +going on a visit to some relations, about fifteen miles away--to stop +all night. The guv'nor made me go with them on horseback; but I knew +what was up, and so my pony went lame about a mile along the road, and +I had to come back and turn him out in the top paddock, and hide the +saddle and bridle in a hollow log, and sneak home and climb up on the +roof of the shed. It was a awful hot day, and I had to keep climbing +backward and forward over the ridge-pole all the morning to keep out of +sight of the old man, for he was moving about a good deal. + +"Well, after dinner, the fellows from roundabout began to ride in and +hang up their horses round the place till it looked as if there was +going to be a funeral. Some of the chaps saw me, of course, but I tipped +them the wink, and they gave me the office whenever the old man happened +around. + +"Well, Page came along with his game-rooster. Its name was Jim. It +wasn't much to look at, and it seemed a good deal smaller and weaker +than Bill. Some of the chaps were disgusted, and said it wasn't a +game-rooster at all; Bill'd settle it in one lick, and they wouldn't +have any fun. + +"Well, they brought the game one out and put him down near the +wood-heap, and rousted Bill out from under his cask. He got interested +at once. He looked at Jim, and got up on the wood-heap and crowed and +looked at Jim again. He reckoned THIS at last was the fowl that had been +humbugging him all along. Presently his trouble caught him, and then +he'd crow and take a squint at the game 'un, and crow again, and +have another squint at gamey, and try to crow and keep his eye on the +game-rooster at the same time. But Jim never committed himself, until +at last he happened to gape just after Bill's whole crow went wrong, and +Bill spotted him. He reckoned he'd caught him this time, and he got down +off that wood-heap and went for the foe. But Jim ran away--and Bill ran +after him. + +"Round and round the wood-heap they went, and round the shed, and round +the house and under it, and back again, and round the wood-heap and over +it and round the other way, and kept it up for close on an hour. Bill's +bill was just within an inch or so of the game-rooster's tail feathers +most of the time, but he couldn't get any nearer, do how he liked. And +all the time the fellers kept chyackin Page and singing out, 'What price +yer game 'un, Page! Go it, Bill! Go it, old cock!' and all that sort of +thing. Well, the game-rooster went as if it was a go-as-you-please, and +he didn't care if it lasted a year. He didn't seem to take any interest +in the business, but Bill got excited, and by-and-by he got mad. He held +his head lower and lower and his wings further and further out from his +sides, and prodded away harder and harder at the ground behind, but it +wasn't any use. Jim seemed to keep ahead without trying. They stuck +to the wood-heap towards the last. They went round first one way for a +while, and then the other for a change, and now and then they'd go over +the top to break the monotony; and the chaps got more interested in the +race than they would have been in the fight--and bet on it, too. But +Bill was handicapped with his weight. He was done up at last; he slowed +down till he couldn't waddle, and then, when he was thoroughly knocked +up, that game-rooster turned on him, and gave him the father of a +hiding. + +"And my father caught me when I'd got down in the excitement, and wasn't +thinking, and HE gave ME the step-father of a hiding. But he had a +lively time with the old lady afterwards, over the cock-fight. + +"Bill was so disgusted with himself that he went under the cask and +died." + + + + +Bush Cats + + + +"Domestic cats" we mean--the descendants of cats who came from the +northern world during the last hundred odd years. We do not know the +name of the vessel in which the first Thomas and his Maria came out +to Australia, but we suppose that it was one of the ships of the +First Fleet. Most likely Maria had kittens on the voyage--two lots, +perhaps--the majority of which were buried at sea; and no doubt the +disembarkation caused her much maternal anxiety. + + . . . . . + +The feline race has not altered much in Australia, from a physical point +of view--not yet. The rabbit has developed into something like a cross +between a kangaroo and a possum, but the bush has not begun to develop +the common cat. She is just as sedate and motherly as the mummy cats +of Egypt were, but she takes longer strolls of nights, climbs gum-trees +instead of roofs, and hunts stranger vermin than ever came under the +observation of her northern ancestors. Her views have widened. She is +mostly thinner than the English farm cat--which is, they say, on account +of eating lizards. + +English rats and English mice--we say "English" because everything which +isn't Australian in Australia, IS English (or British)--English rats and +English mice are either rare or non-existent in the bush; but the hut +cat has a wider range for game. She is always dragging in things which +are unknown in the halls of zoology; ugly, loathsome, crawling abortions +which have not been classified yet--and perhaps could not be. + +The Australian zoologist ought to rake up some more dead languages, and +then go Out Back with a few bush cats. + +The Australian bush cat has a nasty, unpleasant habit of dragging +a long, wriggling, horrid, black snake--she seems to prefer black +snakes--into a room where there are ladies, proudly laying it down in +a conspicuous place (usually in front of the exit), and then looking up +for approbation. She wonders, perhaps, why the visitors are in such a +hurry to leave. + +Pussy doesn't approve of live snakes round the place, especially if +she has kittens; and if she finds a snake in the vicinity of her +progeny--well, it is bad for that particular serpent. + +This brings recollections of a neighbour's cat who went out in the +scrub, one midsummer's day, and found a brown snake. Her name--the cat's +name--was Mary Ann. She got hold of the snake all right, just within an +inch of its head; but it got the rest of its length wound round her body +and squeezed about eight lives out of her. She had the presence of mind +to keep her hold; but it struck her that she was in a fix, and that if +she wanted to save her ninth life, it wouldn't be a bad idea to go home +for help. So she started home, snake and all. + +The family were at dinner when Mary Ann came in, and, although she +stood on an open part of the floor, no one noticed her for a while. She +couldn't ask for help, for her mouth was too full of snake. By-and-bye +one of the girls glanced round, and then went over the table, with a +shriek, and out of the back door. The room was cleared very quickly. The +eldest boy got a long-handled shovel, and in another second would have +killed more cat than snake; but his father interfered. The father was +a shearer, and Mary Ann was a favourite cat with him. He got a pair of +shears from the shelf and deftly shore off the snake's head, and one +side of Mary Ann's whiskers. She didn't think it safe to let go yet. She +kept her teeth in the neck until the selector snipped the rest of the +snake off her. The bits were carried out on a shovel to die at sundown. +Mary Ann had a good drink of milk, and then got her tongue out and +licked herself back into the proper shape for a cat; after which she +went out to look for that snake's mate. She found it, too, and dragged +it home the same evening. + +Cats will kill rabbits and drag them home. We knew a fossicker whose cat +used to bring him a bunny nearly every night. The fossicker had rabbits +for breakfast until he got sick of them, and then he used to swap them +with a butcher for meat. The cat was named Ingersoll, which indicates +his sex and gives an inkling to his master's religious and political +opinions. Ingersoll used to prospect round in the gloaming until he +found some rabbit holes which showed encouraging indications. He would +shepherd one hole for an hour or so every evening until he found it was +a duffer, or worked it out; then he would shift to another. One day he +prospected a big hollow log with a lot of holes in it, and more going +down underneath. The indications were very good, but Ingersoll had no +luck. The game had too many ways of getting out and in. He found that he +could not work that claim by himself, so he floated it into a company. +He persuaded several cats from a neighbouring selection to take shares, +and they watched the holes together, or in turns--they worked shifts. +The dividends more than realised even their wildest expectations, for +each cat took home at least one rabbit every night for a week. + +A selector started a vegetable garden about the time when rabbits were +beginning to get troublesome up country. The hare had not shown itself +yet. The farmer kept quite a regiment of cats to protect his garden--and +they protected it. He would shut the cats up all day with nothing to +eat, and let them out about sundown; then they would mooch off to the +turnip patch like farm-labourers going to work. They would drag the +rabbits home to the back door, and sit there and watch them until the +farmer opened the door and served out the ration of milk. Then the cats +would turn in. He nearly always found a semi-circle of dead rabbits and +watchful cats round the door in the morning. They sold the product of +their labour direct to the farmer for milk. It didn't matter if one cat +had been unlucky--had not got a rabbit--each had an equal share in the +general result. They were true socialists, those cats. + +One of those cats was a mighty big Tom, named Jack. He was death on +rabbits; he would work hard all night, laying for them and dragging them +home. Some weeks he would graft every night, and at other times every +other night, but he was generally pretty regular. When he reckoned he +had done an extra night's work, he would take the next night off and go +three miles to the nearest neighbour's to see his Maria and take her out +for a stroll. Well, one evening Jack went into the garden and chose a +place where there was good cover, and lay low. He was a bit earlier than +usual, so he thought he would have a doze till rabbit time. By-and-bye +he heard a noise, and slowly, cautiously opening one eye, he saw two big +ears sticking out of the leaves in front of him. He judged that it was +an extra big bunny, so he put some extra style into his manoeuvres. In +about five minutes he made his spring. He must have thought (if cats +think) that it was a whopping, old-man rabbit, for it was a pioneer +hare--not an ordinary English hare, but one of those great coarse, lanky +things which the bush is breeding. The selector was attracted by an +unusual commotion and a cloud of dust among his cabbages, and came along +with his gun in time to witness the fight. First Jack would drag the +hare, and then the hare would drag Jack; sometimes they would be down +together, and then Jack would use his hind claws with effect; finally he +got his teeth in the right place, and triumphed. Then he started to drag +the corpse home, but he had to give it best and ask his master to lend a +hand. The selector took up the hare, and Jack followed home, much to +the family's surprise. He did not go back to work that night; he took +a spell. He had a drink of milk, licked the dust off himself, washed it +down with another drink, and sat in front of the fire and thought for a +goodish while. Then he got up, walked over to the corner where the hare +was lying, had a good look at it, came back to the fire, sat down again, +and thought hard. He was still thinking when the family retired. + + + + +Meeting Old Mates + + + + I. + + Tom Smith + + +You are getting well on in the thirties, and haven't left off being a +fool yet. You have been away in another colony or country for a year or +so, and have now come back again. Most of your chums have gone away or +got married, or, worse still, signed the pledge--settled down and got +steady; and you feel lonely and desolate and left-behind enough for +anything. While drifting aimlessly round town with an eye out for some +chance acquaintance to have a knock round with, you run against an old +chum whom you never dreamt of meeting, or whom you thought to be in some +other part of the country--or perhaps you knock up against someone who +knows the old chum in question, and he says: + +"I suppose you know Tom Smith's in Sydney?" + +"Tom Smith! Why, I thought he was in Queensland! I haven't seen him for +more than three years. Where's the old joker hanging out at all? Why, +except you, there's no one in Australia I'd sooner see than Tom Smith. +Here I've been mooning round like an unemployed for three weeks, looking +for someone to have a knock round with, and Tom in Sydney all the time. +I wish I'd known before. Where'll I run against him--where does he +live?" + +"Oh, he's living at home." + +"But where's his home? I was never there." + +"Oh, I'll give you his address.... There, I think that's it. I'm not +sure about the number, but you'll soon find out in that street--most of +'em'll know Tom Smith." + +"Thanks! I rather think they will. I'm glad I met you. I'll hunt Tom up +to-day." + +So you put a few shillings in your pocket, tell your landlady that +you're going to visit an old aunt of yours or a sick friend, and mayn't +be home that night; and then you start out to hunt up Tom Smith and have +at least one more good night, if you die for it. + + . . . . . + +This is the first time you have seen Tom at home; you knew of his home +and people in the old days, but only in a vague, indefinite sort of way. +Tom has changed! He is stouter and older-looking; he seems solemn and +settled down. You intended to give him a surprise and have a good old +jolly laugh with him, but somehow things get suddenly damped at the +beginning. He grins and grips your hand right enough, but there seems +something wanting. You can't help staring at him, and he seems to look +at you in a strange, disappointing way; it doesn't strike you that you +also have changed, and perhaps more in his eyes than he in yours. He +introduces you to his mother and sisters and brothers, and the rest of +the family; or to his wife, as the case may be; and you have to suppress +your feelings and be polite and talk common-place. You hate to be polite +and talk common-place. You aren't built that way--and Tom wasn't either, +in the old days. The wife (or the mother and sisters) receives you +kindly, for Tom's sake, and makes much of you; but they don't know you +yet. You want to get Tom outside, and have a yarn and a drink and a +laugh with him--you are bursting to tell him all about yourself, and get +him to tell you all about himself, and ask him if he remembers things; +and you wonder if he is bursting the same way, and hope he is. The old +lady and sisters (or the wife) bore you pretty soon, and you wonder +if they bore Tom; you almost fancy, from his looks, that they do. You +wonder whether Tom is coming out to-night, whether he wants to get out, +and if he wants to and wants to get out by himself, whether he'll be +able to manage it; but you daren't broach the subject, it wouldn't be +polite. You've got to be polite. Then you get worried by the thought +that Tom is bursting to get out with you and only wants an excuse; is +waiting, in fact, and hoping for you to ask him in an off-hand sort of +way to come out for a stroll. But you're not quite sure; and besides, if +you were, you wouldn't have the courage. By-and-bye you get tired of +it all, thirsty, and want to get out in the open air. You get tired of +saying, "Do you really, Mrs. Smith?" or "Do you think so, Miss Smith?" +or "You were quite right, Mrs. Smith," and "Well, I think so too, Mrs. +Smith," or, to the brother, "That's just what I thought, Mr. Smith." +You don't want to "talk pretty" to them, and listen to their wishy-washy +nonsense; you want to get out and have a roaring spree with Tom, as you +had in the old days; you want to make another night of it with your +old mate, Tom Smith; and pretty soon you get the blues badly, and feel +nearly smothered in there, and you've got to get out and have a beer +anyway--Tom or no Tom; and you begin to feel wild with Tom himself; and +at last you make a bold dash for it and chance Tom. You get up, look +at your hat, and say: "Ah, well, I must be going, Tom; I've got to meet +someone down the street at seven o'clock. Where'll I meet you in town +next week?" + +But Tom says: + +"Oh, dash it; you ain't going yet. Stay to tea, Joe, stay to tea. It'll +be on the table in a minute. Sit down--sit down, man! Here, gimme your +hat." + +And Tom's sister, or wife, or mother comes in with an apron on and her +hands all over flour, and says: + +"Oh, you're not going yet, Mr. Brown? Tea'll be ready in a minute. Do +stay for tea." And if you make excuses, she cross-examines you about the +time you've got to keep that appointment down the street, and tells you +that their clock is twenty minutes fast, and that you have got plenty of +time, and so you have to give in. But you are mightily encouraged by +a winksome expression which you see, or fancy you see, on your side of +Tom's face; also by the fact of his having accidentally knocked his foot +against your shins. So you stay. + +One of the females tells you to "Sit there, Mr. Brown," and you take +your place at the table, and the polite business goes on. You've got to +hold your knife and fork properly, and mind your p's and q's, and when +she says, "Do you take milk and sugar, Mr. Brown?" you've got to say, +"Yes, please, Miss Smith--thanks--that's plenty." And when they press +you, as they will, to have more, you've got to keep on saying, "No, +thanks, Mrs. Smith; no, thanks, Miss Smith; I really couldn't; I've done +very well, thank you; I had a very late dinner, and so on"--bother such +tommy-rot. And you don't seem to have any appetite, anyway. And you +think of the days out on the track when you and Tom sat on your +swags under a mulga at mid-day, and ate mutton and johnny-cake with +clasp-knives, and drank by turns out of the old, battered, leaky billy. + +And after tea you have to sit still while the precious minutes are +wasted, and listen and sympathize, while all the time you are on the +fidget to get out with Tom, and go down to a private bar where you know +some girls. + +And perhaps by-and-bye the old lady gets confidential, and seizes an +opportunity to tell you what a good steady young fellow Tom is now that +he never touches drink, and belongs to a temperance society (or the +Y.M.C.A.), and never stays out of nights. + +Consequently you feel worse than ever, and lonelier, and sorrier that +you wasted your time coming. You are encouraged again by a glimpse of +Tom putting on a clean collar and fixing himself up a bit; but when you +are ready to go, and ask him if he's coming a bit down the street +with you, he says he thinks he will in such a disinterested, +don't-mind-if-I-do sort of tone, that he makes you mad. + +At last, after promising to "drop in again, Mr. Brown, whenever you're +passing," and to "don't forget to call," and thanking them for their +assurance that they'll "be always glad to see you," and telling them +that you've spent a very pleasant evening and enjoyed yourself, and are +awfully sorry you couldn't stay--you get away with Tom. + +You don't say much to each other till you get round the corner and +down the street a bit, and then for a while your conversation is mostly +common-place, such as, "Well, how have you been getting on all this +time, Tom?" "Oh, all right. How have you been getting on?" and so on. + +But presently, and perhaps just as you have made up your mind to chance +the alleged temperance business and ask Tom in to have a drink, he +throws a glance up and down the street, nudges your shoulder, says "Come +on," and disappears sideways into a pub. + + . . . . . + +"What's yours, Tom?" "What's yours, Joe?" "The same for me." "Well, +here's luck, old man." "Here's luck." You take a drink, and look over +your glass at Tom. Then the old smile spreads over his face, and it +makes you glad--you could swear to Tom's grin in a hundred years. Then +something tickles him--your expression, perhaps, or a recollection of +the past--and he sets down his glass on the bar and laughs. Then you +laugh. Oh, there's no smile like the smile that old mates favour each +other with over the tops of their glasses when they meet again after +years. It is eloquent, because of the memories that give it birth. + +"Here's another. Do you remember----? Do you remember----?" Oh, it all +comes back again like a flash. Tom hasn't changed a bit; just the same +good-hearted, jolly idiot he always was. Old times back again! "It's +just like old times," says Tom, after three or four more drinks. + + . . . . . + +And so you make a night of it and get uproariously jolly. You get as +"glorious" as Bobby Burns did in the part of Tam O'Shanter, and have a +better "time" than any of the times you had in the old days. And you see +Tom as nearly home in the morning as you dare, and he reckons he'll get +it hot from his people--which no doubt he will--and he explains that +they are very particular up at home--church people, you know--and, of +course, especially if he's married, it's understood between you that +you'd better not call for him up at home after this--at least, not till +things have cooled down a bit. It's always the way. The friend of the +husband always gets the blame in cases like this. But Tom fixes up a +yarn to tell them, and you aren't to "say anything different" in case +you run against any of them. And he fixes up an appointment with you for +next Saturday night, and he'll get there if he gets divorced for it. +But he MIGHT have to take the wife out shopping, or one of the girls +somewhere; and if you see her with him you've got to lay low, and be +careful, and wait--at another hour and place, perhaps, all of which is +arranged--for if she sees you she'll smell a rat at once, and he won't +be able to get off at all. + +And so, as far as you and Tom are concerned, the "old times" have come +back once more. + + . . . . . + +But, of course (and we almost forgot it), you might chance to fall in +love with one of Tom's sisters, in which case there would be another and +a totally different story to tell. + + + + II. + + Jack Ellis + + +Things are going well with you. You have escaped from "the track", so to +speak, and are in a snug, comfortable little billet in the city. Well, +while doing the block you run against an old mate of other days--VERY +other days--call him Jack Ellis. Things have gone hard with Jack. He +knows you at once, but makes no advance towards a greeting; he acts as +though he thinks you might cut him--which, of course, if you are a true +mate, you have not the slightest intention of doing. His coat is yellow +and frayed, his hat is battered and green, his trousers "gone" in +various places, his linen very cloudy, and his boots burst and innocent +of polish. You try not to notice these things--or rather, not to seem +to notice them--but you cannot help doing so, and you are afraid he'll +notice that you see these things, and put a wrong construction on it. +How men will misunderstand each other! You greet him with more than the +necessary enthusiasm. In your anxiety to set him at his ease and make +him believe that nothing--not even money--can make a difference in your +friendship, you over-act the business; and presently you are afraid that +he'll notice that too, and put a wrong construction on it. You wish that +your collar was not so clean, nor your clothes so new. Had you known you +would meet him, you would have put on some old clothes for the occasion. + +You are both embarrassed, but it is YOU who feel ashamed--you are +almost afraid to look at him lest he'll think you are looking at his +shabbiness. You ask him in to have a drink, but he doesn't respond +so heartily as you wish, as he did in the old days; he doesn't like +drinking with anybody when he isn't "fixed", as he calls it--when he +can't shout. + +It didn't matter in the old days who held the money so long as there was +plenty of "stuff" in the camp. You think of the days when Jack stuck to +you through thick and thin. You would like to give him money now, but +he is so proud; he always was; he makes you mad with his beastly pride. +There wasn't any pride of that sort on the track or in the camp in +those days; but times have changed--your lives have drifted too widely +apart--you have taken different tracks since then; and Jack, without +intending to, makes you feel that it is so. + +You have a drink, but it isn't a success; it falls flat, as far as Jack +is concerned; he won't have another; he doesn't "feel on", and presently +he escapes under plea of an engagement, and promises to see you again. + +And you wish that the time was come when no one could have more or less +to spend than another. + + . . . . . + +P.S.--I met an old mate of that description once, and so successfully +persuaded him out of his beastly pride that he borrowed two pounds off +me till Monday. I never got it back since, and I want it badly at +the present time. In future I'll leave old mates with their pride +unimpaired. + + + + +Two Larrikins + + + +"Y'orter do something, Ernie. Yer know how I am. YOU don't seem to care. +Y'orter to do something." + +Stowsher slouched at a greater angle to the greasy door-post, and +scowled under his hat-brim. It was a little, low, frowsy room opening +into Jones' Alley. She sat at the table, sewing--a thin, sallow girl +with weak, colourless eyes. She looked as frowsy as her surroundings. + +"Well, why don't you go to some of them women, and get fixed up?" + +She flicked the end of the table-cloth over some tiny, unfinished +articles of clothing, and bent to her work. + +"But you know very well I haven't got a shilling, Ernie," she said, +quietly. "Where am I to get the money from?" + +"Who asked yer to get it?" + +She was silent, with the exasperating silence of a woman who has +determined to do a thing in spite of all reasons and arguments that may +be brought against it. + +"Well, wot more do yer want?" demanded Stowsher, impatiently. + +She bent lower. "Couldn't we keep it, Ernie?" + +"Wot next?" asked Stowsher, sulkily--he had half suspected what was +coming. Then, with an impatient oath, "You must be gettin' ratty." + +She brushed the corner of the cloth further over the little clothes. + +"It wouldn't cost anything, Ernie. I'd take a pride in him, and keep him +clean, and dress him like a little lord. He'll be different from all the +other youngsters. He wouldn't be like those dirty, sickly little brats +out there. He'd be just like you, Ernie; I know he would. I'll look +after him night and day, and bring him up well and strong. We'd train +his little muscles from the first, Ernie, and he'd be able to knock 'em +all out when he grew up. It wouldn't cost much, and I'd work hard and be +careful if you'd help me. And you'd be proud of him, too, Ernie--I know +you would." + +Stowsher scraped the doorstep with his foot; but whether he was +"touched", or feared hysterics and was wisely silent, was not apparent. + +"Do you remember the first day I met you, Ernie?" she asked, presently. + +Stowsher regarded her with an uneasy scowl: "Well--wot o' that?" + +"You came into the bar-parlour at the 'Cricketers' Arms' and caught a +push of 'em chyacking your old man." + +"Well, I altered that." + +"I know you did. You done for three of them, one after another, and two +was bigger than you." + +"Yes! and when the push come up we done for the rest," said Stowsher, +softening at the recollection. + +"And the day you come home and caught the landlord bullying your old +mother like a dog----" + +"Yes; I got three months for that job. But it was worth it!" he +reflected. "Only," he added, "the old woman might have had the knocker +to keep away from the lush while I was in quod.... But wot's all this +got to do with it?" + +"HE might barrack and fight for you, some day, Ernie," she said softly, +"when you're old and out of form and ain't got no push to back you." + +The thing was becoming decidedly embarrassing to Stowsher; not that he +felt any delicacy on the subject, but because he hated to be drawn into +a conversation that might be considered "soft". + +"Oh, stow that!" he said, comfortingly. "Git on yer hat, and I'll take +yer for a trot." + +She rose quickly, but restrained herself, recollecting that it was not +good policy to betray eagerness in response to an invitation from Ernie. + +"But--you know--I don't like to go out like this. You can't--you +wouldn't like to take me out the way I am, Ernie!" + +"Why not? Wot rot!" + +"The fellows would see me, and--and----" + +"And... wot?" + +"They might notice----" + +"Well, wot o' that? I want 'em to. Are yer comin' or are yer ain't? +Fling round now. I can't hang on here all day." + +They walked towards Flagstaff Hill. + +One or two, slouching round a pub. corner, saluted with "Wotcher, +Stowsher!" + +"Not too stinkin'," replied Stowsher. "Soak yer heads." + +"Stowsher's goin' to stick," said one privately. + +"An' so he orter," said another. "Wish I had the chanst." + +The two turned up a steep lane. + +"Don't walk so fast up hill, Ernie; I can't, you know." + +"All right, Liz. I forgot that. Why didn't yer say so before?" + +She was contentedly silent most of the way, warned by instinct, after +the manner of women when they have gained their point by words. + +Once he glanced over his shoulder with a short laugh. "Gorblime!" he +said, "I nearly thought the little beggar was a-follerin' along behind!" + +When he left her at the door he said: "Look here, Liz. 'Ere's half a +quid. Git what yer want. Let her go. I'm goin' to graft again in the +mornin', and I'll come round and see yer to-morrer night." + +Still she seemed troubled and uneasy. + +"Ernie." + +"Well. Wot now?" + +"S'posin' it's a girl, Ernie." + +Stowsher flung himself round impatiently. + +"Oh, for God's sake, stow that! Yer always singin' out before yer +hurt.... There's somethin' else, ain't there--while the bloomin' shop's +open?" + +"No, Ernie. Ain't you going to kiss me?... I'm satisfied." + +"Satisfied! Yer don't want the kid to be arst 'oo 'is father was, do +yer? Yer'd better come along with me some day this week and git spliced. +Yer don't want to go frettin' or any of that funny business while it's +on." + +"Oh, Ernie! do you really mean it?"--and she threw her arms round his +neck, and broke down at last. + + . . . . . + +"So-long, Liz. No more funny business now--I've had enough of it. Keep +yer pecker up, old girl. To-morrer night, mind." Then he added suddenly: +"Yer might have known I ain't that sort of a bloke"--and left abruptly. + +Liz was very happy. + + + + +Mr. Smellingscheck + + + +I met him in a sixpenny restaurant--"All meals, 6d.--Good beds, 1s." +That was before sixpenny restaurants rose to a third-class position, +and became possibly respectable places to live in, through the +establishment, beneath them, of fourpenny hash-houses (good beds, 6d.), +and, beneath THEM again, of THREE-penny "dining-rooms--CLEAN beds, 4d." + +There were five beds in our apartment, the head of one against the foot +of the next, and so on round the room, with a space where the door and +washstand were. I chose the bed the head of which was near the foot of +his, because he looked like a man who took his bath regularly. I +should like, in the interests of sentiment, to describe the place as a +miserable, filthy, evil-smelling garret; but I can't--because it wasn't. +The room was large and airy; the floor was scrubbed and the windows +cleaned at least once a week, and the beds kept fresh and neat, which +is more--a good deal more--than can be said of many genteel private +boarding-houses. The lodgers were mostly respectable unemployed, and +one or two--fortunate men!--in work; it was the casual boozer, +the professional loafer, and the occasional spieler--the +one-shilling-bed-men--who made the place objectionable, not the +hard-working people who paid ten pounds a week for the house; and, but +for the one-night lodgers and the big gilt black-and-red bordered and +"shaded" "6d." in the window--which made me glance guiltily up and down +the street, like a burglar about to do a job, before I went in--I was +pretty comfortable there. + +They called him "Mr. Smellingscheck", and treated him with a peculiar +kind of deference, the reason for which they themselves were doubtless +unable to explain or even understand. The haggard woman who made the +beds called him "Mr. Smell-'is-check". Poor fellow! I didn't think, by +the look of him, that he'd smelt his cheque, or anyone else's, or that +anyone else had smelt his, for many a long day. He was a fat man, slow +and placid. He looked like a typical monopolist who had unaccountably +got into a suit of clothes belonging to a Domain unemployed, and hadn't +noticed, or had entirely forgotten, the circumstance in his business +cares--if such a word as care could be connected with such a calm, +self-contained nature. He wore a suit of cheap slops of some kind of +shoddy "tweed". The coat was too small and the trousers too short, and +they were drawn up to meet the waistcoat--which they did with painful +difficulty, now and then showing, by way of protest, two pairs of brass +buttons and the ends of the brace-straps; and they seemed to blame the +irresponsive waistcoat or the wearer for it all. Yet he never gave way +to assist them. A pair of burst elastic-sides were in full evidence, and +a rim of cloudy sock, with a hole in it, showed at every step. + +But he put on his clothes and wore them like--like a gentleman. He had +two white shirts, and they were both dirty. He'd lay them out on +the bed, turn them over, regard them thoughtfully, choose that which +appeared to his calm understanding to be the cleaner, and put it on, and +wear it until it was unmistakably dirtier than the other; then he'd +wear the other till it was dirtier than the first. He managed his three +collars the same way. His handkerchiefs were washed in the bathroom, and +dried, without the slightest disguise, in the bedroom. He never hurried +in anything. The way he cleaned his teeth, shaved, and made his toilet +almost transformed the place, in my imagination, into a gentleman's +dressing-room. + +He talked politics and such things in the abstract--always in the +abstract--calmly in the abstract. He was an old-fashioned Conservative +of the Sir Leicester Deadlock style. When he was moved by an extra +shower of aggressive democratic cant--which was seldom--he defended +Capital, but only as if it needed no defence, and as if its opponents +were merely thoughtless, ignorant children whom he condescended to set +right because of their inexperience and for their own good. He stuck +calmly to his own order--the order which had dropped him like a foul +thing when the bottom dropped out of his boom, whatever that was. He +never talked of his misfortunes. + +He took his meals at the little greasy table in the dark corner +downstairs, just as if he were dining at the Exchange. He had a +chop--rather well-done--and a sheet of the 'Herald' for breakfast. He +carried two handkerchiefs; he used one for a handkerchief and the other +for a table-napkin, and sometimes folded it absently and laid it on the +table. He rose slowly, putting his chair back, took down his battered +old green hat, and regarded it thoughtfully--as though it had just +occurred to him in a calm, casual way that he'd drop into his hatter's, +if he had time, on his way down town, and get it blocked, or else send +the messenger round with it during business hours. He'd draw his stick +out from behind the next chair, plant it, and, if you hadn't quite +finished your side of the conversation, stand politely waiting until you +were done. Then he'd look for a suitable reply into his hat, put it +on, give it a twitch to settle it on his head--as gentlemen do a +"chimney-pot"--step out into the gangway, turn his face to the door, and +walk slowly out on to the middle of the pavement--looking more placidly +well-to-do than ever. The saying is that clothes make a man, but HE +made his almost respectable just by wearing them. Then he'd consult his +watch--(he stuck to the watch all through, and it seemed a good one--I +often wondered why he didn't pawn it); then he'd turn slowly, right +turn, and look down the street. Then slowly back, left-about turn, and +take a cool survey in that direction, as if calmly undecided whether to +take a cab and drive to the Exchange, or (as it was a very fine morning, +and he had half an hour to spare) walk there and drop in at his club +on the way. He'd conclude to walk. I never saw him go anywhere in +particular, but he walked and stood as if he could. + +Coming quietly into the room one day, I surprised him sitting at the +table with his arms lying on it and his face resting on them. I heard +something like a sob. He rose hastily, and gathered up some papers which +were on the table; then he turned round, rubbing his forehead and +eyes with his forefinger and thumb, and told me that he suffered +from--something, I forget the name of it, but it was a well-to-do +ailment. His manner seemed a bit jolted and hurried for a minute or so, +and then he was himself again. He told me he was leaving for Melbourne +next day. He left while I was out, and left an envelope downstairs for +me. There was nothing in it except a pound note. + +I saw him in Brisbane afterwards, well-dressed, getting out of a cab at +the entrance of one of the leading hotels. But his manner was no more +self-contained and well-to-do than it had been in the old sixpenny +days--because it couldn't be. We had a well-to-do whisky together, and +he talked of things in the abstract. He seemed just as if he'd met me in +the Australia. + + + + +"A Rough Shed" + + + +A hot, breathless, blinding sunrise--the sun having appeared suddenly +above the ragged edge of the barren scrub like a great disc of molten +steel. No hint of a morning breeze before it, no sign on earth or sky to +show that it is morning--save the position of the sun. + +A clearing in the scrub--bare as though the surface of the earth were +ploughed and harrowed, and dusty as the road. Two oblong huts--one for +the shearers and one for the rouseabouts--in about the centre of the +clearing (as if even the mongrel scrub had shrunk away from them) built +end-to-end, of weatherboards, and roofed with galvanised iron. Little +ventilation; no verandah; no attempt to create, artificially, a breath +of air through the buildings. Unpainted, sordid--hideous. Outside, heaps +of ashes still hot and smoking. Close at hand, "butcher's shop"--a bush +and bag breakwind in the dust, under a couple of sheets of iron, with +offal, grease and clotted blood blackening the surface of the +ground about it. Greasy, stinking sheepskins hanging everywhere with +blood-blotched sides out. Grease inches deep in great black patches +about the fireplace ends of the huts, where wash-up and "boiling" water +is thrown. + +Inside, a rough table on supports driven into the black, greasy ground +floor, and formed of flooring boards, running on uneven lines the length +of the hut from within about 6ft. of the fire-place. Lengths of single +six-inch boards or slabs on each side, supported by the projecting ends +of short pieces of timber nailed across the legs of the table to serve +as seats. + +On each side of the hut runs a rough framework, like the partitions in a +stable; each compartment battened off to about the size of a manger, and +containing four bunks, one above the other, on each side--their ends, +of course, to the table. Scarcely breathing space anywhere between. +Fireplace, the full width of the hut in one end, where all the cooking +and baking for forty or fifty men is done, and where flour, sugar, etc., +are kept in open bags. Fire, like a very furnace. Buckets of tea and +coffee on roasting beds of coals and ashes on the hearth. Pile of +"brownie" on the bare black boards at the end of the table. Unspeakable +aroma of forty or fifty men who have little inclination and less +opportunity to wash their skins, and who soak some of the grease out +of their clothes--in buckets of hot water--on Saturday afternoons or +Sundays. And clinging to all, and over all, the smell of the dried, +stale yolk of wool--the stink of rams! + + . . . . . + +"I am a rouseabout of the rouseabouts. I have fallen so far that it +is beneath me to try to climb to the proud position of 'ringer' of the +shed. I had that ambition once, when I was the softest of green hands; +but then I thought I could work out my salvation and go home. I've got +used to hell since then. I only get twenty-five shillings a week (less +station store charges) and tucker here. I have been seven years west of +the Darling and never shore a sheep. Why don't I learn to shear, and +so make money? What should I do with more money? Get out of this and go +home? I would never go home unless I had enough money to keep me for +the rest of my life, and I'll never make that Out Back. Otherwise, what +should I do at home? And how should I account for the seven years, if +I were to go home? Could I describe shed life to them and explain how +I lived. They think shearing only takes a few days of the year--at the +beginning of summer. They'd want to know how I lived the rest of the +year. Could I explain that I 'jabbed trotters' and was a 'tea-and-sugar +burglar' between sheds. They'd think I'd been a tramp and a beggar all +the time. Could I explain ANYTHING so that they'd understand? I'd have +to be lying all the time and would soon be tripped up and found out. +For, whatever else I have been I was never much of a liar. No, I'll +never go home. + +"I become momentarily conscious about daylight. The flies on the track +got me into that habit, I think; they start at day-break--when the +mosquitoes give over. + +"The cook rings a bullock bell. + +"The cook is fire-proof. He is as a fiend from the nethermost sheol +and needs to be. No man sees him sleep, for he makes bread--or worse, +brownie--at night, and he rings a bullock bell loudly at half-past +five in the morning to rouse us from our animal torpors. Others, the +sheep-ho's or the engine-drivers at the shed or wool-wash, call him, if +he does sleep. They manage it in shifts, somehow, and sleep somewhere, +sometime. We haven't time to know. The cook rings the bullock bell and +yells the time. It was the same time five minutes ago--or a year ago. +No time to decide which. I dash water over my head and face and slap +handfuls on my eyelids--gummed over aching eyes--still blighted by the +yolk o' wool--grey, greasy-feeling water from a cut-down kerosene +tin which I sneaked from the cook and hid under my bunk and had the +foresight to refill from the cask last night, under cover of warm, +still, suffocating darkness. Or was it the night before last? Anyhow, it +will be sneaked from me to-day, and from the crawler who will collar it +to-morrow, and 'touched' and 'lifted' and 'collared' and recovered by +the cook, and sneaked back again, and cause foul language, and fights, +maybe, till we 'cut-out'. + +"No; we didn't have sweet dreams of home and mother, gentle poet--nor +yet of babbling brooks and sweethearts, and love's young dream. We are +too dirty and dog-tired when we tumble down, and have too little time to +sleep it off. We don't want to dream those dreams out here--they'd only +be nightmares for us, and we'd wake to remember. We MUSTN'T remember +here. + +"At the edge of the timber a great galvanised-iron shed, nearly all +roof, coming down to within 6ft. 6in. of the 'board' over the 'shoots'. +Cloud of red dust in the dead timber behind, going up--noon-day dust. +Fence covered with skins; carcases being burned; blue smoke going +straight up as in noonday. Great glossy (greasy-glossy) black crows +'flopping' around. + +"The first syren has gone. We hurry in single files from opposite ends +of rouseabouts' and shearers' huts (as the paths happen to run to the +shed) gulping hot tea or coffee from a pint-pot in one hand and biting +at a junk of brownie in the other. + +"Shed of forty hands. Shearers rush the pens and yank out sheep and +throw them like demons; grip them with their knees, take up machines, +jerk the strings; and with a rattling whirring roar the great +machine-shed starts for the day. + +"'Go it, you----tigers!' yells a tar-boy. 'Wool away!' 'Tar!' 'Sheep +Ho!' We rush through with a whirring roar till breakfast time. + +"We seize our tin plate from the pile, knife and fork from the +candle-box, and crowd round the camp-oven to jab out lean chops, dry as +chips, boiled in fat. Chops or curry-and-rice. There is some growling +and cursing. We slip into our places without removing our hats. There's +no time to hunt for mislaid hats when the whistle goes. Row of hat +brims, level, drawn over eyes, or thrust back--according to characters +or temperaments. Thrust back denotes a lucky absence of brains, I fancy. +Row of forks going up, or jabbing, or poised, loaded, waiting for last +mouthful to be bolted. + +"We pick up, sweep, tar, sew wounds, catch sheep that break from the +pens, jump down and pick up those that can't rise at the bottom of +the shoots, 'bring-my-combs-from-the-grinder-will-yer,' laugh at dirty +jokes, and swear--and, in short, are the 'will-yer' slaves, body and +soul, of seven, six, five, or four shearers, according to the distance +from the rolling tables. + +"The shearer on the board at the shed is a demon. He gets so much a +hundred; we, 25s. a week. He is not supposed, by the rules of the shed, +the Union, and humanity, to take a sheep out of the pen AFTER the bell +goes (smoke-ho, meals, or knock-off), but his watch is hanging on the +post, and he times himself to get so many sheep out of the pen BEFORE +the bell goes, and ONE MORE--the 'bell-sheep'--as it is ringing. We have +to take the last fleece to the table and leave our board clean. We go +through the day of eight hours in runs of about an hour and 20 minutes +between smoke-ho's--from 6 to 6. If the shearers shore 200 instead of +100, they'd get 2 Pounds a day instead of 1 Pound, and we'd have twice +as much work to do for our 25s. per week. But the shearers are racing +each other for tallies. And it's no use kicking. There is no God here +and no Unionism (though we all have tickets). But what am I growling +about? I've worked from 6 to 6 with no smoke-ho's for half the wages, +and food we wouldn't give the sheep-ho dog. It's the bush growl, born of +heat, flies, and dust. I'd growl now if I had a thousand a year. We MUST +growl, swear, and some of us drink to d.t.'s, or go mad sober. + +"Pants and shirts stiff with grease as though a couple of pounds of soft +black putty were spread on with a painter's knife. + +"No, gentle bard!--we don't sing at our work. Over the whirr and roar +and hum all day long, and with iteration that is childish and irritating +to the intelligent greenhand, float unthinkable adjectives and adverbs, +addressed to jumbucks, jackaroos, and mates indiscriminately. And worse +words for the boss over the board--behind his back. + +"I came of a Good Christian Family--perhaps that's why I went to the +Devil. When I came out here I'd shrink from the man who used foul +language. In a short time I used it with the worst. I couldn't help it. + +"That's the way of it. If I went back to a woman's country again I +wouldn't swear. I'd forget this as I would a nightmare. That's the +way of it. There's something of the larrikin about us. We don't exist +individually. Off the board, away from the shed (and each other) we are +quiet--even gentle. + +"A great-horned ram, in poor condition, but shorn of a heavy fleece, +picks himself up at the foot of the 'shoot', and hesitates, as if +ashamed to go down to the other end where the ewes are. The most +ridiculous object under Heaven. + +"A tar-boy of fifteen, of the bush, with a mouth so vile that +a street-boy, same age (up with a shearing uncle), kicks him +behind--having proved his superiority with his fists before the shed +started. Of which unspeakable little fiend the roughest shearer of a +rough shed was heard to say, in effect, that if he thought there was +the slightest possibility of his becoming the father of such a boy +he'd----take drastic measures to prevent the possibility of his becoming +a proud parent at all. + +"Twice a day the cooks and their familiars carry buckets of +oatmeal-water and tea to the shed, two each on a yoke. We cry, 'Where +are you coming to, my pretty maids?' + +"In ten minutes the surfaces of the buckets are black with flies. We +have given over trying to keep them clear. We stir the living cream +aside with the bottoms of the pints, and guzzle gallons, and sweat it +out again. Occasionally a shearer pauses and throws the perspiration +from his forehead in a rain. + +"Shearers live in such a greedy rush of excitement that often a strong +man will, at a prick of the shears, fall in a death-like faint on the +board. + +"We hate the Boss-of-the-Board as the shearers' 'slushy' hates the +shearers' cook. I don't know why. He's a very fair boss. + +"He refused to put on a traveller yesterday, and the traveller knocked +him down. He walked into the shed this morning with his hat back and +thumbs in waistcoat--a tribute to man's weakness. He threatened to +dismiss the traveller's mate, a bigger man, for rough shearing--a +tribute to man's strength. The shearer said nothing. We hate the boss +because he IS boss, but we respect him because he is a strong man. He is +as hard up as any of us, I hear, and has a sick wife and a large, small +family in Melbourne. God judge us all! + +"There is a gambling-school here, headed by the shearers' cook. After +tea they head-'em, and advance cheques are passed from hand to hand, and +thrown in the dust until they are black. When it's too dark to see with +nose to the ground, they go inside and gamble with cards. Sometimes +they start on Saturday afternoon, heading 'em till dark, play cards all +night, start again heading 'em Sunday afternoon, play cards all Sunday +night, and sleep themselves sane on Monday, or go to work ghastly--like +dead men. + +"Cry of 'Fight'; we all rush out. But there isn't much fighting. Afraid +of murdering each other. I'm beginning to think that most bush crime is +due to irritation born of dust, heat, and flies. + +"The smothering atmosphere shudders when the sun goes down. We call it +the sunset breeze. + +"Saturday night or Sunday we're invited into the shearers' hut. There +are songs that are not hymns and recitations and speeches that are not +prayers. + +"Last Sunday night: Slush lamps at long intervals on table. Men playing +cards, sewing on patches--(nearly all smoking)--some writing, and +the rest reading Deadwood Dick. At one end of the table a Christian +Endeavourer endeavouring; at the other a cockney Jew, from the hawker's +boat, trying to sell rotten clothes. In response to complaints, direct +and not chosen generally for Sunday, the shearers' rep. requests both +apostles to shut up or leave. + +"He couldn't be expected to take the Christian and leave the Jew, any +more than he could take the Jew and leave the Christian. We are just +amongst ourselves in our hell. + + . . . . . + +"Fiddle at the end of rouseabouts' hut. Voice of Jackeroo, from upper +bunk with apologetic oaths: 'For God's sake chuck that up; it makes a +man think of blanky old things!' + +"A lost soul laughs (mine) and dreadful night smothers us." + + + + +Payable Gold + + + +Among the crowds who left the Victorian side for New South Wales about +the time Gulgong broke out was an old Ballarat digger named Peter +McKenzie. He had married and retired from the mining some years +previously and had made a home for himself and family at the village of +St. Kilda, near Melbourne; but, as was often the case with old diggers, +the gold fever never left him, and when the fields of New South Wales +began to blaze he mortgaged his little property in order to raise funds +for another campaign, leaving sufficient behind him to keep his wife and +family in comfort for a year or so. + +As he often remarked, his position was now very different from what it +had been in the old days when he first arrived from Scotland, in the +height of the excitement following on the great discovery. He was a +young man then with only himself to look out for, but now that he was +getting old and had a family to provide for he had staked too much on +this venture to lose. His position did certainly look like a forlorn +hope, but he never seemed to think so. + +Peter must have been very lonely and low-spirited at times. A young +or unmarried man can form new ties, and even make new sweethearts if +necessary, but Peter's heart was with his wife and little ones at home, +and they were mortgaged, as it were, to Dame Fortune. Peter had to lift +this mortgage off. + +Nevertheless he was always cheerful, even at the worst of times, and +his straight grey beard and scrubby brown hair encircled a smile which +appeared to be a fixture. He had to make an effort in order to look +grave, such as some men do when they want to force a smile. + +It was rumoured that Peter had made a vow never to return home until +he could take sufficient wealth to make his all-important family +comfortable, or, at least, to raise the mortgage from the property, for +the sacrifice of which to his mad gold fever he never forgave himself. +But this was one of the few things which Peter kept to himself. + +The fact that he had a wife and children at St. Kilda was well known to +all the diggers. They had to know it, and if they did not know the age, +complexion, history and peculiarities of every child and of the "old +woman" it was not Peter's fault. + +He would cross over to our place and talk to the mother for hours about +his wife and children. And nothing pleased him better than to discover +peculiarities in us children wherein we resembled his own. It pleased us +also for mercenary reasons. "It's just the same with my old woman," +or "It's just the same with my youngsters," Peter would exclaim +boisterously, for he looked upon any little similarity between the two +families as a remarkable coincidence. He liked us all, and was always +very kind to us, often standing between our backs and the rod that +spoils the child--that is, I mean, if it isn't used. I was very +short-tempered, but this failing was more than condoned by the fact that +Peter's "eldest" was given that way also. Mother's second son was very +good-natured; so was Peter's third. Her "third" had a great aversion +for any duty that threatened to increase his muscles; so had Peter's +"second". Our baby was very fat and heavy and was given to sucking her +own thumb vigorously, and, according to the latest bulletins from home, +it was just the same with Peter's "last". + +I think we knew more about Peter's family than we did about our own. +Although we had never seen them, we were as familiar with their features +as the photographer's art could make us, and always knew their domestic +history up to the date of the last mail. + +We became interested in the McKenzie family. Instead of getting bored by +them as some people were, we were always as much pleased when Peter got +a letter from home as he was himself, and if a mail were missed, which +seldom happened--we almost shared his disappointment and anxiety. Should +one of the youngsters be ill, we would be quite uneasy, on Peter's +account, until the arrival of a later bulletin removed his anxiety, and +ours. + +It must have been the glorious power of a big true heart that gained for +Peter the goodwill and sympathy of all who knew him. + +Peter's smile had a peculiar fascination for us children. We would +stand by his pointing forge when he'd be sharpening picks in the early +morning, and watch his face for five minutes at a time, wondering +sometimes whether he was always SMILING INSIDE, or whether the smile +went on externally irrespective of any variation in Peter's condition of +mind. + +I think it was the latter case, for often when he had received bad news +from home we have heard his voice quaver with anxiety, while the old +smile played on his round, brown features just the same. + +Little Nelse (one of those queer old-man children who seem to come into +the world by mistake, and who seldom stay long) used to say that Peter +"cried inside". + +Once, on Gulgong, when he attended the funeral of an old Ballarat +mate, a stranger who had been watching his face curiously remarked that +McKenzie seemed as pleased as though the dead digger had bequeathed him +a fortune. But the stranger had soon reason to alter his opinion, for +when another old mate began in a tremulous voice to repeat the words +"Ashes to ashes, an' dust to dust," two big tears suddenly burst from +Peter's eyes, and hurried down to get entrapped in his beard. + +Peter's goldmining ventures were not successful. He sank three duffers +in succession on Gulgong, and the fourth shaft, after paying expenses, +left a little over a hundred to each party, and Peter had to send the +bulk of his share home. He lived in a tent (or in a hut when he could +get one) after the manner of diggers, and he "did for himself", even to +washing his own clothes. He never drank nor "played", and he took little +enjoyment of any kind, yet there was not a digger on the field who would +dream of calling old Peter McKenzie "a mean man". He lived, as we know +from our own observations, in a most frugal manner. He always tried to +hide this, and took care to have plenty of good things for us when he +invited us to his hut; but children's eyes are sharp. Some said that +Peter half-starved himself, but I don't think his family ever knew, +unless he told them so afterwards. + +Ah, well! the years go over. Peter was now three years from home, and he +and Fortune were enemies still. Letters came by the mail, full of little +home troubles and prayers for Peter's return, and letters went back by +the mail, always hopeful, always cheerful. Peter never gave up. When +everything else failed he would work by the day (a sad thing for a +digger), and he was even known to do a job of fencing until such time +as he could get a few pounds and a small party together to sink another +shaft. + +Talk about the heroic struggles of early explorers in a hostile country; +but for dogged determination and courage in the face of poverty, +illness, and distance, commend me to the old-time digger--the truest +soldier Hope ever had! + +In the fourth year of his struggle Peter met with a terrible +disappointment. His party put down a shaft called the Forlorn Hope near +Happy Valley, and after a few weeks' fruitless driving his mates jibbed +on it. Peter had his own opinion about the ground--an old digger's +opinion, and he used every argument in his power to induce his mates to +put a few days' more work in the claim. In vain he pointed out that the +quality of the wash and the dip of the bottom exactly resembled that of +the "Brown Snake", a rich Victorian claim. In vain he argued that in the +case of the abovementioned claim, not a colour could be got until the +payable gold was actually reached. Home Rule and The Canadian and that +cluster of fields were going ahead, and his party were eager to shift. +They remained obstinate, and at last, half-convinced against his +opinion, Peter left with them to sink the "Iawatha", in Log Paddock, +which turned out a rank duffer--not even paying its own expenses. + +A party of Italians entered the old claim and, after driving it a few +feet further, made their fortune. + + . . . . . + +We all noticed the change in Peter McKenzie when he came to "Log +Paddock", whither we had shifted before him. The old smile still +flickered, but he had learned to "look" grave for an hour at a time +without much effort. He was never quite the same after the affair of +Forlorn Hope, and I often think how he must have "cried" sometimes +"inside". + +However, he still read us letters from home, and came and smoked in +the evening by our kitchen-fire. He showed us some new portraits of his +family which he had received by a late mail, but something gave me +the impression that the portraits made him uneasy. He had them in his +possession for nearly a week before showing them to us, and to the best +of our knowledge he never showed them to anybody else. Perhaps they +reminded him of the flight of time--perhaps he would have preferred his +children to remain just as he left them until he returned. + +But stay! there was one portrait that seemed to give Peter infinite +pleasure. It was the picture of a chubby infant of about three years +or more. It was a fine-looking child taken in a sitting position on +a cushion, and arrayed in a very short shirt. On its fat, soft, white +face, which was only a few inches above the ten very podgy toes, was a +smile something like Peter's. Peter was never tired of looking at and +showing the picture of his child--the child he had never seen. Perhaps +he cherished a wild dream of making his fortune and returning home +before THAT child grew up. + + . . . . . + +McKenzie and party were sinking a shaft at the upper end of Log Paddock, +generally called "The other end". We were at the lower end. + +One day Peter came down from "the other end" and told us that his party +expected to "bottom" during the following week, and if they got no +encouragement from the wash they intended to go prospecting at the +"Happy Thought", near Specimen Flat. + +The shaft in Log Paddock was christened "Nil Desperandum". Towards the +end of the week we heard that the wash in the "Nil" was showing good +colours. + +Later came the news that "McKenzie and party" had bottomed on payable +gold, and the red flag floated over the shaft. Long before the first +load of dirt reached the puddling machine on the creek, the news was all +round the diggings. The "Nil Desperandum" was a "Golden Hole"! + + . . . . . + +We will not forget the day when Peter went home. He hurried down in the +morning to have an hour or so with us before Cobb and Co. went by. He +told us all about his little cottage by the bay at St. Kilda. He had +never spoken of it before, probably because of the mortgage. He told us +how it faced the bay--how many rooms it had, how much flower garden, and +how on a clear day he could see from the window all the ships that came +up to the Yarra, and how with a good telescope he could even distinguish +the faces of the passengers on the big ocean liners. + +And then, when the mother's back was turned, he hustled us children +round the corner, and surreptitiously slipped a sovereign into each +of our dirty hands, making great pantomimic show for silence, for the +mother was very independent. + +And when we saw the last of Peter's face setting like a good-humoured +sun on the top of Cobb and Co.'s, a great feeling of discontent and +loneliness came over all our hearts. Little Nelse, who had been Peter's +favourite, went round behind the pig-stye, where none might disturb him, +and sat down on the projecting end of a trough to "have a cry", in his +usual methodical manner. But old "Alligator Desolation", the dog, had +suspicions of what was up, and, hearing the sobs, went round to offer +whatever consolation appertained to a damp and dirty nose and a pair of +ludicrously doleful yellow eyes. + + + + +An Oversight of Steelman's + + + +Steelman and Smith--professional wanderers--were making back for +Wellington, down through the wide and rather dreary-looking Hutt Valley. +They were broke. They carried their few remaining belongings in two +skimpy, amateurish-looking swags. Steelman had fourpence left. They were +very tired and very thirsty--at least Steelman was, and he answered for +both. It was Smith's policy to feel and think just exactly as Steelman +did. Said Steelman: + +"The landlord of the next pub. is not a bad sort. I won't go in--he +might remember me. You'd best go in. You've been tramping round in the +Wairarapa district for the last six months, looking for work. You're +going back to Wellington now, to try and get on the new corporation +works just being started there--the sewage works. You think you've got a +show. You've got some mates in Wellington, and they're looking out for +a chance for you. You did get a job last week on a sawmill at +Silverstream, and the boss sacked you after three days and wouldn't pay +you a penny. That's just his way. I know him--at least a mate of mine +does. I've heard of him often enough. His name's Cowman. Don't forget +the name, whatever you do. The landlord here hates him like poison; +he'll sympathize with you. Tell him you've got a mate with you; he's +gone ahead--took a short cut across the paddocks. Tell him you've got +only fourpence left, and see if he'll give you a drop in a bottle. Says +you: 'Well, boss, the fact is we've only got fourpence, but you might +let us have a drop in a bottle'; and very likely he'll stand you a +couple of pints in a gin-bottle. You can fling the coppers on the +counter, but the chances are he won't take them. He's not a bad sort. +Beer's fourpence a pint out here, same's in Wellington. See that +gin-bottle lying there by the stump; get it and we'll take it down to +the river with us and rinse it out." + +They reached the river bank. + +"You'd better take my swag--it looks more decent," said Steelman. "No, +I'll tell you what we'll do: we'll undo both swags and make them into +one--one decent swag, and I'll cut round through the lanes and wait for +you on the road ahead of the pub." + +He rolled up the swag with much care and deliberation and considerable +judgment. He fastened Smith's belt round one end of it, and +the handkerchiefs round the other, and made a towel serve as a +shoulder-strap. + +"I wish we had a canvas bag to put it in," he said, "or a cover of some +sort. But never mind. The landlord's an old Australian bushman, now +I come to think of it; the swag looks Australian enough, and it might +appeal to his feelings, you know--bring up old recollections. But you'd +best not say you come from Australia, because he's been there, and he'd +soon trip you up. He might have been where you've been, you know, so +don't try to do too much. You always do mug-up the business when you +try to do more than I tell you. You might tell him your mate came from +Australia--but no, he might want you to bring me in. Better stick to +Maoriland. I don't believe in too much ornamentation. Plain lies are the +best." + +"What's the landlord's name?" asked Smith. + +"Never mind that. You don't want to know that. You are not supposed to +know him at all. It might look suspicious if you called him by his name, +and lead to awkward questions; then you'd be sure to put your foot into +it." + +"I could say I read it over the door." + +"Bosh. Travellers don't read the names over the doors, when they go into +pubs. You're an entire stranger to him. Call him 'Boss'. Say 'Good-day, +Boss,' when you go in, and swing down your swag as if you're used to +it. Ease it down like this. Then straighten yourself up, stick your hat +back, and wipe your forehead, and try to look as hearty and independent +and cheerful as you possibly can. Curse the Government, and say the +country's done. It don't matter what Government it is, for he's always +against it. I never knew a real Australian that wasn't. Say that you're +thinking about trying to get over to Australia, and then listen to +him talking about it--and try to look interested, too! Get that damned +stone-deaf expression off your face!... He'll run Australia down most +likely (I never knew an Other-sider that had settled down over here who +didn't). But don't you make any mistake and agree with him, because, +although successful Australians over here like to run their own country +down, there's very few of them that care to hear anybody else do it.... +Don't come away as soon as you get your beer. Stay and listen to him for +a while, as if you're interested in his yarning, and give him time to +put you on to a job, or offer you one. Give him a chance to ask how you +and your mate are off for tobacco or tucker. Like as not he'll sling you +half a crown when you come away--that is, if you work it all right. +Now try to think of something to say to him, and make yourself a bit +interesting--if you possibly can. Tell him about the fight we saw back +at the pub. the other day. He might know some of the chaps. This is a +sleepy hole, and there ain't much news knocking round.... I wish I could +go in myself, but he's sure to remember ME. I'm afraid he got left the +last time I stayed there (so did one or two others); and, besides, I +came away without saying good-bye to him, and he might feel a bit sore +about it. That's the worst of travelling on the old road. Come on now, +wake up!" + +"Bet I'll get a quart," said Smith, brightening up, "and some tucker for +it to wash down." + +"If you don't," said Steelman, "I'll stoush you. Never mind the bottle; +fling it away. It doesn't look well for a traveller to go into a pub. +with an empty bottle in his hand. A real swagman never does. It looks +much better to come out with a couple of full ones. That's what you've +got to do. Now, come along." + +Steelman turned off into a lane, cut across the paddocks to the road +again, and waited for Smith. He hadn't long to wait. + +Smith went on towards the public-house, rehearsing his part as +he walked--repeating his "lines" to himself, so as to be sure of +remembering all that Steelman had told him to say to the landlord, and +adding, with what he considered appropriate gestures, some fancy touches +of his own, which he determined to throw in in spite of Steelman's +advice and warning. "I'll tell him (this)--I'll tell him (that). Well, +look here, boss, I'll say you're pretty right and I quite agree with you +as far as that's concerned, but," &c. And so, murmuring and mumbling +to himself, Smith reached the hotel. The day was late, and the bar was +small, and low, and dark. Smith walked in with all the assurance he +could muster, eased down his swag in a corner in what he no doubt +considered the true professional style, and, swinging round to the bar, +said in a loud voice which he intended to be cheerful, independent, and +hearty: + +"Good-day, boss!" + +But it wasn't a "boss". It was about the hardest-faced old woman that +Smith had ever seen. The pub. had changed hands. + +"I--I beg your pardon, missus," stammered poor Smith. + +It was a knock-down blow for Smith. He couldn't come to time. He and +Steelman had had a landlord in their minds all the time, and laid +their plans accordingly; the possibility of having a she--and one like +this--to deal with never entered into their calculations. Smith had no +time to reorganise, even if he had had the brains to do so, without the +assistance of his mate's knowledge of human nature. + +"I--I beg your pardon, missus," he stammered. + +Painful pause. She sized him up. + +"Well, what do you want?" + +"Well, missus--I--the fact is--will you give me a bottle of beer for +fourpence?" + +"Wha--what?" + +"I mean----. The fact is, we've only got fourpence left, and--I've got a +mate outside, and you might let us have a quart or so, in a bottle, for +that. I mean--anyway, you might let us have a pint. I'm very sorry to +bother you, missus." + +But she couldn't do it. No. Certainly not. Decidedly not! All her drinks +were sixpence. She had her license to pay, and the rent, and a family to +keep. It wouldn't pay out there--it wasn't worth her while. It wouldn't +pay the cost of carting the liquor out, &c., &c. + +"Well, missus," poor Smith blurted out at last, in sheer desperation, +"give me what you can in a bottle for this. I've--I've got a mate +outside." And he put the four coppers on the bar. + +"Have you got a bottle?" + +"No--but----" + +"If I give you one, will you bring it back? You can't expect me to give +you a bottle as well as a drink." + +"Yes, mum; I'll bring it back directly." + +She reached out a bottle from under the bar, and very deliberately +measured out a little over a pint and poured it into the bottle, which +she handed to Smith without a cork. + +Smith went his way without rejoicing. It struck him forcibly that he +should have saved the money until they reached Petone, or the city, +where Steelman would be sure to get a decent drink. But how was he to +know? He had chanced it, and lost; Steelman might have done the same. +What troubled Smith most was the thought of what Steelman would say; he +already heard him, in imagination, saying: "You're a mug, Smith--Smith, +you ARE a mug." + +But Steelman didn't say much. He was prepared for the worst by seeing +Smith come along so soon. He listened to his story with an air of gentle +sadness, even as a stern father might listen to the voluntary confession +of a wayward child; then he held the bottle up to the fading light of +departing day, looked through it (the bottle), and said: + +"Well--it ain't worth while dividing it." + +Smith's heart shot right down through a hole in the sole of his left +boot into the hard road. + +"Here, Smith," said Steelman, handing him the bottle, "drink it, old +man; you want it. It wasn't altogether your fault; it was an oversight +of mine. I didn't bargain for a woman of that kind, and, of course, YOU +couldn't be expected to think of it. Drink it! Drink it down, Smith. +I'll manage to work the oracle before this night is out." + +Smith was forced to believe his ears, and, recovering from his surprise, +drank. + +"I promised to take back the bottle," he said, with the ghost of a +smile. + +Steelman took the bottle by the neck and broke it on the fence. + +"Come on, Smith; I'll carry the swag for a while." + +And they tramped on in the gathering starlight. + + + + +How Steelman told his Story + + + +It was Steelman's humour, in some of his moods, to take Smith into his +confidence, as some old bushmen do their dogs. + +"You're nearly as good as an intelligent sheep-dog to talk to, +Smith--when a man gets tired of thinking to himself and wants a relief. +You're a bit of a mug and a good deal of an idiot, and the chances are +that you don't know what I'm driving at half the time--that's the main +reason why I don't mind talking to you. You ought to consider yourself +honoured; it ain't every man I take into my confidence, even that far." + +Smith rubbed his head. + +"I'd sooner talk to you--or a stump--any day than to one of those +silent, suspicious, self-contained, worldly-wise chaps that listen to +everything you say--sense and rubbish alike--as if you were trying to +get them to take shares in a mine. I drop the man who listens to me all +the time and doesn't seem to get bored. He isn't safe. He isn't to be +trusted. He mostly wants to grind his axe against yours, and there's +too little profit for me where there are two axes to grind, and no +stone--though I'd manage it once, anyhow." + +"How'd you do it?" asked Smith. + +"There are several ways. Either you join forces, for instance, and find +a grindstone--or make one of the other man's axe. But the last way is +too slow, and, as I said, takes too much brain-work--besides, it doesn't +pay. It might satisfy your vanity or pride, but I've got none. I had +once, when I was younger, but it--well, it nearly killed me, so I +dropped it. + +"You can mostly trust the man who wants to talk more than you do; he'll +make a safe mate--or a good grindstone." + +Smith scratched the nape of his neck and sat blinking at the fire, with +the puzzled expression of a woman pondering over a life-question or the +trimming of a hat. Steelman took his chin in his hand and watched Smith +thoughtfully. + +"I--I say, Steely," exclaimed Smith, suddenly, sitting up and scratching +his head and blinking harder than ever--"wha--what am I?" + +"How do you mean?" + +"Am I the axe or the grindstone?" + +"Oh! your brain seems in extra good working order to-night, Smith. Well, +you turn the grindstone and I grind." Smith settled. "If you could +grind better than I, I'd turn the stone and let YOU grind, I'd never go +against the interests of the firm--that's fair enough, isn't it?" + +"Ye-es," admitted Smith; "I suppose so." + +"So do I. Now, Smith, we've got along all right together for years, off +and on, but you never know what might happen. I might stop breathing, +for instance--and so might you." + +Smith began to look alarmed. + +"Poetical justice might overtake one or both of us--such things have +happened before, though not often. Or, say, misfortune or death might +mistake us for honest, hard-working mugs with big families to keep, and +cut us off in the bloom of all our wisdom. You might get into trouble, +and, in that case, I'd be bound to leave you there, on principle; or +I might get into trouble, and you wouldn't have the brains to get me +out--though I know you'd be mug enough to try. I might make a rise and +cut you, or you might be misled into showing some spirit, and clear out +after I'd stoushed you for it. You might get tired of me calling you a +mug, and bossing you and making a tool or convenience of you, you know. +You might go in for honest graft (you were always a bit weak-minded) and +then I'd have to wash my hands of you (unless you agreed to keep me) +for an irreclaimable mug. Or it might suit me to become a respected and +worthy fellow townsman, and then, if you came within ten miles of me +or hinted that you ever knew me, I'd have you up for vagrancy, or +soliciting alms, or attempting to levy blackmail. I'd have to fix +you--so I give you fair warning. Or we might get into some desperate +fix (and it needn't be very desperate, either) when I'd be obliged to +sacrifice you for my own personal safety, comfort, and convenience. +Hundreds of things might happen. + +"Well, as I said, we've been at large together for some years, and I've +found you sober, trustworthy, and honest; so, in case we do part--as we +will sooner or later--and you survive, I'll give you some advice from my +own experience. + +"In the first place: If you ever happen to get born again--and it +wouldn't do you much harm--get born with the strength of a bullock and +the hide of one as well, and a swelled head, and no brains--at least +no more brains than you've got now. I was born with a skin like +tissue-paper, and brains; also a heart. + +"Get born without relatives, if you can: if you can't help it, clear out +on your own just as soon after you're born as you possibly can. I hung +on. + +"If you have relations, and feel inclined to help them any time when +you're flush (and there's no telling what a weak-minded man like you +might take it into his head to do)--don't do it. They'll get a down on +you if you do. It only causes family troubles and bitterness. There's +no dislike like that of a dependant. You'll get neither gratitude +nor civility in the end, and be lucky if you escape with a character. +(You've got NO character, Smith; I'm only just supposing you have.) +There's no hatred too bitter for, and nothing too bad to be said of, the +mug who turns. The worst yarns about a man are generally started by his +own tribe, and the world believes them at once on that very account. +Well, the first thing to do in life is to escape from your friends. + +"If you ever go to work--and miracles have happened before--no matter +what your wages are, or how you are treated, you can take it for granted +that you're sweated; act on that to the best of your ability, or you'll +never rise in the world. If you go to see a show on the nod you'll be +found a comfortable seat in a good place; but if you pay the chances +are the ticket clerk will tell you a lie, and you'll have to hustle for +standing room. The man that doesn't ante gets the best of this world; +anything he'll stand is good enough for the man that pays. If you try to +be too sharp you'll get into gaol sooner or later; if you try to be too +honest the chances are that the bailiff will get into your house--if you +have one--and make a holy show of you before the neighbours. The honest +softy is more often mistaken for a swindler, and accused of being one, +than the out-and-out scamp; and the man that tells the truth too much +is set down as an irreclaimable liar. But most of the time crow low +and roost high, for it's a funny world, and you never know what might +happen. + +"And if you get married (and there's no accounting for a woman's taste) +be as bad as you like, and then moderately good, and your wife will +love you. If you're bad all the time she can't stand it for ever, and if +you're good all the time she'll naturally treat you with contempt. Never +explain what you're going to do, and don't explain afterwards, if you +can help it. If you find yourself between two stools, strike hard for +your own self, Smith--strike hard, and you'll be respected more than if +you fought for all the world. Generosity isn't understood nowadays, and +what the people don't understand is either 'mad' or 'cronk'. Failure has +no case, and you can't build one for it.... I started out in life very +young--and very soft." + + . . . . . + +"I thought you were going to tell me your story, Steely," remarked +Smith. + +Steelman smiled sadly. + + + + +[End of original text.] + + + + + +About the author: + + + +Henry Lawson was born near Grenfell, New South Wales, Australia on +17 June 1867. Although he has since become Australia's most acclaimed +writer, in his own lifetime his writing was often "on the side"--his +"real" work being whatever he could find. His writing was frequently +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 at +Sydney, 2 September 1922. He is most famous for his short stories. + +"On the Track" and "Over the Sliprails" were both published at Sydney +in 1900, the prefaces being dated March and June respectively--and so, +though printed separately, a combined edition was printed the same +year (the two separate, complete works were simply put together in one +binding); hence they are sometimes referred to as "On the Track and Over +the Sliprails". + + . . . . . + +An incomplete Glossary of Australian terms and concepts which may prove +helpful to understanding this book: + + Anniversary Day: Alluded to 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. + + Billy: A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil water for + tea. + + Cabbage-tree/Cabbage-tree hat: A wide-brimmed hat made with the + leaves of the cabbage tree palm (Livistona australis). It was a + common hat in early colonial days, and later became associated with + patriotism. + + Gin: An aboriginal woman; use of the term is analogous to "squaw" + in N. America. May be considered derogatory in modern usage. + + Graft: Work; hard work. + + Humpy: (Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in the bush, + especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. A gunyah, + wurley, or mia-mia. + + Jackeroo/Jackaroo: At the time Lawson wrote, a Jackeroo 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. + + Jumbuck: A sheep. + + Larrikin: A hoodlum. + + Lollies: Candy, sweets. + + 'Possum/Possum: In Australia, a class of marsupials that were + originally mistaken for the American animal of the same name. They + are not especially related to the possums of North and South + America, other than 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. + + Push: A group of people sharing something in common; Lawson uses the + word in an older and more particular sense, as a gang of violent + city hoodlums. + + Ratty: Shabby, dilapidated; somewhat eccentric, perhaps even + slightly mad. + + Selector: A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled land + by lease or license from the government. + + Shout: To buy a round of drinks. + + Sliprails/slip-rails: movable rails, forming a section of fence, + which can be taken down in lieu of a gate. + + Sly grog shop or shanty: An unlicensed bar or liquor-store, + especially one selling cheap or poor-quality liquor. + + Squatter: A person who first settled on land without government + permission, and later continued by lease or license, generally to + raise stock; a wealthy rural landowner. + + Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + + Stoush: Violence; to do violence to. + + 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. + + + Also: a hint with the seasons--remember that the seasons are + reversed from those in the northern hemisphere, hence June may be + hot, but December is even hotter. Australia is at a lower latitude + than the United States, so the winters are not harsh by US + standards, and are not even mild in the north. In fact, large parts + of Australia are governed more by "dry" versus "wet" than by Spring- + Summer-Fall-Winter. + + +(Alan Light, Monroe, North Carolina, March 1998.) + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of On the Track, by Henry Lawson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON THE TRACK *** + +***** This file should be named 1231.txt or 1231.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/3/1231/ + +Produced by Alan R. Light + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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To assure a high quality text, +the original was typed in (manually) twice and electronically compared. + + +[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are CAPITALISED. +Some obvious errors have been corrected after being confirmed.] + + + + + +On the Track +by Henry Lawson +Author of "While the Billy Boils", and "When the World was Wide" + + + + +Preface + + + +Of the stories in this volume many have already appeared +in (various periodicals), while several now appear in print +for the first time. + +H. L. +Sydney, March 17th, 1900. + + + + + +Contents + + + +The Songs They used to Sing +A Vision of Sandy Blight +Andy Page's Rival +The Iron-Bark Chip +"Middleton's Peter" +The Mystery of Dave Regan +Mitchell on Matrimony +Mitchell on Women +No Place for a Woman +Mitchell's Jobs +Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster +Bush Cats +Meeting Old Mates +Two Larrikins +Mr. Smellingscheck +"A Rough Shed" +Payable Gold +An Oversight of Steelman's +How Steelman told his Story + + + + + + On the Track + + + + + +The Songs They used to Sing + + + +On the diggings up to twenty odd years ago -- and as far back +as I can remember -- on Lambing Flat, the Pipe Clays, Gulgong, Home Rule, +and so through the roaring list; in bark huts, tents, public-houses, +sly grog shanties, and -- well, the most glorious voice of all +belonged to a bad girl. We were only children and didn't know +why she was bad, but we weren't allowed to play near or go near +the hut she lived in, and we were trained to believe firmly +that something awful would happen to us if we stayed to answer a word, +and didn't run away as fast as our legs could carry us, if she attempted +to speak to us. We had before us the dread example of one urchin, +who got an awful hiding and went on bread and water for twenty-four hours +for allowing her to kiss him and give him lollies. She didn't look bad +-- she looked to us like a grand and beautiful lady-girl -- +but we got instilled into us the idea that she was an awful bad woman, +something more terrible even than a drunken man, and one whose presence +was to be feared and fled from. There were two other girls +in the hut with her, also a pretty little girl, who called her "Auntie", +and with whom we were not allowed to play -- for they were all bad; +which puzzled us as much as child-minds can be puzzled. +We couldn't make out how everybody in one house could be bad. +We used to wonder why these bad people weren't hunted away or put in gaol +if they were so bad. And another thing puzzled us. Slipping out after dark, +when the bad girls happened to be singing in their house, we'd sometimes +run against men hanging round the hut by ones and twos and threes, listening. +They seemed mysterious. They were mostly good men, and we concluded +they were listening and watching the bad women's house to see +that they didn't kill anyone, or steal and run away with any bad little boys +-- ourselves, for instance -- who ran out after dark; +which, as we were informed, those bad people were always on the lookout +for a chance to do. + +We were told in after years that old Peter McKenzie (a respectable, married, +hard-working digger) would sometimes steal up opposite the bad door +in the dark, and throw in money done up in a piece of paper, +and listen round until the bad girl had sung the "Bonnie Hills of Scotland" +two or three times. Then he'd go and get drunk, and stay drunk +two or three days at a time. And his wife caught him +throwing the money in one night, and there was a terrible row, +and she left him; and people always said it was all a mistake. +But we couldn't see the mistake then. + +But I can hear that girl's voice through the night, twenty years ago: + + Oh! the bloomin' heath, and the pale blue bell, + In my bonnet then I wore; + And memory knows no brighter theme + Than those happy days of yore. + Scotland! Land of chief and song! + Oh, what charms to thee belong! + +And I am old enough to understand why poor Peter McKenzie +-- who was married to a Saxon, and a Tartar -- went and got drunk +when the bad girl sang "The Bonnie Hills of Scotland." + + His anxious eye might look in vain + For some loved form it knew! + + . . . . . + +And yet another thing puzzled us greatly at the time. +Next door to the bad girl's house there lived a very respectable family -- +a family of good girls with whom we were allowed to play, +and from whom we got lollies (those hard old red-and-white "fish lollies" +that grocers sent home with parcels of groceries and receipted bills). +Now one washing day, they being as glad to get rid of us at home +as we were to get out, we went over to the good house and found no one at home +except the grown-up daughter, who used to sing for us, +and read "Robinson Crusoe" of nights, "out loud", and give us more lollies +than any of the rest -- and with whom we were passionately in love, +notwithstanding the fact that she was engaged to a "grown-up man" -- +(we reckoned he'd be dead and out of the way by the time we were old enough +to marry her). She was washing. She had carried the stool and tub +over against the stick fence which separated her house from the bad house; +and, to our astonishment and dismay, the bad girl had brought HER tub over +against her side of the fence. They stood and worked with their shoulders +to the fence between them, and heads bent down close to it. +The bad girl would sing a few words, and the good girl after her, +over and over again. They sang very low, we thought. +Presently the good grown-up girl turned her head and caught sight of us. +She jumped, and her face went flaming red; she laid hold of the stool +and carried it, tub and all, away from that fence in a hurry. +And the bad grown-up girl took her tub back to her house. +The good grown-up girl made us promise never to tell what we saw +-- that she'd been talking to a bad girl -- else she would never, +never marry us. + +She told me, in after years, when she'd grown up to be a grandmother, +that the bad girl was surreptitiously teaching her to sing "Madeline" +that day. + +I remember a dreadful story of a digger who went and shot himself one night +after hearing that bad girl sing. We thought then what a frightfully bad +woman she must be. The incident terrified us; and thereafter +we kept carefully and fearfully out of reach of her voice, +lest we should go and do what the digger did. + + . . . . . + +I have a dreamy recollection of a circus on Gulgong in the roaring days, +more than twenty years ago, and a woman (to my child-fancy +a being from another world) standing in the middle of the ring, singing: + + Out in the cold world -- out in the street -- + Asking a penny from each one I meet; + Cheerless I wander about all the day, + Wearing my young life in sorrow away! + +That last line haunted me for many years. I remember being frightened +by women sobbing (and one or two great grown-up diggers also) +that night in that circus. + +"Father, Dear Father, Come Home with Me Now", was a sacred song then, +not a peg for vulgar parodies and more vulgar "business" +for fourth-rate clowns and corner-men. Then there was "The Prairie Flower". +"Out on the Prairie, in an Early Day" -- I can hear the digger's wife yet: +she was the prettiest girl on the field. They married on the sly +and crept into camp after dark; but the diggers got wind of it and rolled up +with gold-dishes, shovels, &c., &c., and gave them a real good tinkettling +in the old-fashioned style, and a nugget or two to start housekeeping on. +She had a very sweet voice. + + Fair as a lily, joyous and free, + Light of the prairie home was she. + +She's a "granny" now, no doubt -- or dead. + +And I remember a poor, brutally ill-used little wife, +wearing a black eye mostly, and singing "Love Amongst the Roses" at her work. +And they sang the "Blue Tail Fly", and all the first and best coon songs -- +in the days when old John Brown sank a duffer on the hill. + + . . . . . + +The great bark kitchen of Granny Mathews' "Redclay Inn". +A fresh back-log thrown behind the fire, which lights the room fitfully. +Company settled down to pipes, subdued yarning, and reverie. + +Flash Jack -- red sash, cabbage-tree hat on back of head with nothing in it, +glossy black curls bunched up in front of brim. Flash Jack volunteers, +without invitation, preparation, or warning, and through his nose: + +Hoh! -- + + There was a wild kerlonial youth, + John Dowlin was his name! + He bountied on his parients, + Who lived in Castlemaine! + +and so on to -- + + He took a pistol from his breast + And waved that lit--tle toy -- + +"Little toy" with an enthusiastic flourish and great unction +on Flash Jack's part -- + + "I'll fight, but I won't surrender!" said + The wild Kerlonial Boy. + +Even this fails to rouse the company's enthusiasm. "Give us a song, Abe! +Give us the `Lowlands'!" Abe Mathews, bearded and grizzled, is lying +on the broad of his back on a bench, with his hands clasped under his head -- +his favourite position for smoking, reverie, yarning, or singing. +He had a strong, deep voice, which used to thrill me through and through, +from hair to toenails, as a child. + +They bother Abe till he takes his pipe out of his mouth and puts it +behind his head on the end of the stool: + + The ship was built in Glasgow; + 'Twas the "Golden Vanitee" -- + +Lines have dropped out of my memory during the thirty years gone between -- + + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low! + +The public-house people and more diggers drop into the kitchen, +as all do within hearing, when Abe sings. + +"Now then, boys: + + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low! + +"Now, all together! + + The Low Lands! The Low Lands! + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!" + +Toe and heel and flat of foot begin to stamp the clay floor, +and horny hands to slap patched knees in accompaniment. + + "Oh! save me, lads!" he cried, + "I'm drifting with the current, + And I'm drifting with the tide! + And I'm sinking in the Low Lands, Low! + + The Low Lands! The Low Lands!" -- + +The old bark kitchen is a-going now. Heels drumming on gin-cases +under stools; hands, knuckles, pipe-bowls, and pannikins +keeping time on the table. + + And we sewed him in his hammock, + And we slipped him o'er the side, + And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low! + The Low Lands! The Low Lands! + And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low! + +Old Boozer Smith -- a dirty gin-sodden bundle of rags on the floor +in the corner with its head on a candle box, and covered by a horse rug -- +old Boozer Smith is supposed to have been dead to the universe +for hours past, but the chorus must have disturbed his torpor; +for, with a suddenness and unexpectedness that makes the next man jump, +there comes a bellow from under the horse rug: + + Wot though! -- I wear! -- a rag! -- ged coat! + I'll wear it like a man! + +and ceases as suddenly as it commenced. He struggles to bring +his ruined head and bloated face above the surface, glares round; +then, no one questioning his manhood, he sinks back and dies to creation; +and subsequent proceedings are only interrupted by a snore, +as far as he is concerned. + +Little Jimmy Nowlett, the bullock-driver, is inspired. "Go on, Jimmy! +Give us a song!" + + In the days when we were hard up + For want of wood and wire -- + +Jimmy always blunders; it should have been "food and fire" -- + + We used to tie our boots up + With lit -- tle bits -- er wire; + +and -- + + I'm sitting in my lit--tle room, + It measures six by six; + The work-house wall is opposite, + I've counted all the bricks! + +"Give us a chorus, Jimmy!" + +Jimmy does, giving his head a short, jerky nod for nearly every word, +and describing a circle round his crown -- as if he were stirring +a pint of hot tea -- with his forefinger, at the end of every line: + + Hall! -- Round! -- Me -- Hat! + I wore a weepin' willer! + +Jimmy is a Cockney. + +"Now then, boys!" + + Hall -- round -- me hat! + +How many old diggers remember it? + +And: + + A butcher, and a baker, and a quiet-looking quaker, + All a-courting pretty Jessie at the Railway Bar. + +I used to wonder as a child what the "railway bar" meant. + +And: + + I would, I would, I would in vain + That I were single once again! + But ah, alas, that will not be + Till apples grow on the willow tree. + +A drunken gambler's young wife used to sing that song -- to herself. + +A stir at the kitchen door, and a cry of "Pinter," and old Poynton, +Ballarat digger, appears and is shoved in; he has several drinks aboard, +and they proceed to "git Pinter on the singin' lay," +and at last talk him round. He has a good voice, but no "theory", +and blunders worse than Jimmy Nowlett with the words. +He starts with a howl -- + + Hoh! + Way down in Covent Gar-ar-r-dings + A-strolling I did go, + To see the sweetest flow-ow-wers + That e'er in gardings grow. + +He saw the rose and lily -- the red and white and blue -- +and he saw the sweetest flow-ow-ers that e'er in gardings grew; +for he saw two lovely maidens (Pinter calls 'em "virgings") +underneath (he must have meant on top of) "a garding chair", sings Pinter. + + And one was lovely Jessie, + With the jet black eyes and hair, + +roars Pinter, + + And the other was a vir-ir-ging, + I solemn-lye declare! + +"Maiden, Pinter!" interjects Mr. Nowlett. + +"Well, it's all the same," retorts Pinter. "A maiden IS a virging, Jimmy. +If you're singing, Jimmy, and not me, I'll leave off!" +Chorus of "Order! Shut up, Jimmy!" + + I quicklye step-ped up to her, + And unto her did sa-a-y: + Do you belong to any young man, + Hoh, tell me that, I pra-a-y? + +Her answer, according to Pinter, was surprisingly prompt and unconventional; +also full and concise: + + No; I belong to no young man -- + I solemnlye declare! + I mean to live a virging + And still my laurels wear! + +Jimmy Nowlett attempts to move an amendment in favour of "maiden", but is +promptly suppressed. It seems that Pinter's suit has a happy termination, +for he is supposed to sing in the character of a "Sailor Bold", +and as he turns to pursue his stroll in "Covent Gar-ar-dings": + + "Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!" she cried, + "I love a Sailor Bold!" + +"Hong-kore, Pinter! Give us the `Golden Glove', Pinter!" + +Thus warmed up, Pinter starts with an explanatory "spoken" +to the effect that the song he is about to sing illustrates +some of the little ways of woman, and how, no matter what you say or do, +she is bound to have her own way in the end; also how, in one instance, +she set about getting it. + +Hoh! + + Now, it's of a young squoire near Timworth did dwell, + Who courted a nobleman's daughter so well -- + +The song has little or nothing to do with the "squire", +except so far as "all friends and relations had given consent," and -- + + The troo-soo was ordered -- appointed the day, + And a farmer were appointed for to give her away -- + +which last seemed a most unusual proceeding, considering the wedding +was a toney affair; but perhaps there were personal interests -- +the nobleman might have been hard up, and the farmer backing him. +But there was an extraordinary scene in the church, and things got mixed. + + For as soon as this maiding this farmer espied: + "Hoh, my heart! Hoh, my heart! + Hoh, my heart!" then she cried. + +Hysterics? Anyway, instead of being wed -- + + This maiden took sick and she went to her bed. + +(N.B. -- Pinter sticks to `virging'.) + +Whereupon friends and relations and guests left the house in a body +(a strange but perhaps a wise proceeding, after all -- maybe they smelt a rat) +and left her to recover alone, which she did promptly. And then: + + Shirt, breeches, and waistcoat this maiding put on, + And a-hunting she went with her dog and her gun; + She hunted all round where this farmier did dwell, + Because in her own heart she love-ed him well. + +The cat's out of the bag now: + + And often she fired, but no game she killed -- + +which was not surprising -- + + Till at last the young farmier came into the field -- + +No wonder. She put it to him straight: + + "Oh, why are you not at the wedding?" she cried, + "For to wait on the squoire, and to give him his bride." + +He was as prompt and as delightfully unconventional in his reply +as the young lady in Covent Gardings: + + "Oh, no! and oh, no! For the truth I must sa-a-y, + I love her too well for to give her a-w-a-a-y!" + +which was satisfactory to the disguised "virging". + + ". . . . and I'd take sword in hand, + And by honour I'd win her if she would command." + +Which was still more satisfactory. + + Now this virging, being -- + +(Jimmy Nowlett: "Maiden, Pinter --" Jim is thrown on a stool and sat on +by several diggers.) + + Now this maiding, being please-ed to see him so bold, + She gave him her glove that was flowered with gold, + +and explained that she found it in his field while hunting around +with her dog and her gun. It is understood that he promised +to look up the owner. Then she went home and put an advertisement +in the local `Herald'; and that ad. must have caused considerable sensation. +She stated that she had lost her golden glove, and + + The young man that finds it and brings it to me, + Hoh! that very young man my husband shall be! + +She had a saving clause in case the young farmer mislaid the glove +before he saw the ad., and an OLD bloke got holt of it and fetched it along. +But everything went all right. The young farmer turned up with the glove. +He was a very respectable young farmer, and expressed his gratitude to her +for having "honour-ed him with her love." They were married, +and the song ends with a picture of the young farmeress milking the cow, +and the young farmer going whistling to plough. The fact +that they lived and grafted on the selection proves that I hit +the right nail on the head when I guessed, in the first place, +that the old nobleman was "stony". + +In after years, + + . . . she told him of the fun, + How she hunted him up with her dog and her gun. + +But whether he was pleased or otherwise to hear it, +after years of matrimonial experiences, the old song doesn't say, +for it ends there. + +Flash Jack is more successful with "Saint Patrick's Day". + + I come to the river, I jumped it quite clever! + Me wife tumbled in, and I lost her for ever, + St. Patrick's own day in the mornin'! + +This is greatly appreciated by Jimmy Nowlett, who is suspected, +especially by his wife, of being more cheerful when on the roads +than when at home. + + . . . . . + +"Sam Holt" was a great favourite with Jimmy Nowlett in after years. + + Oh, do you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt? + Black Alice so dirty and dark -- + Who'd a nose on her face -- I forget how it goes -- + And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark. + +Sam Holt must have been very hard up for tucker as well as beauty then, for + + Do you remember the 'possums and grubs + She baked for you down by the creek? + +Sam Holt was, apparently, a hardened flash Jack. + + You were not quite the cleanly potato, Sam Holt. + +Reference is made to his "manner of holding a flush", and he is asked +to remember several things which he, no doubt, would rather forget, including + + . . . the hiding you got from the boys. + +The song is decidedly personal. + +But Sam Holt makes a pile and goes home, leaving many a better and worse man +to pad the hoof Out Back. And -- Jim Nowlett sang this with so much feeling +as to make it appear a personal affair between him and the absent Holt -- + + And, don't you remember the fiver, Sam Holt, + You borrowed so careless and free? + I reckon I'll whistle a good many tunes + +(with increasing feeling) + + Ere you think of that fiver and me. + +For the chances will be that Sam Holt's old mate + + Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden Road + To the end of the chapter of fate. + + . . . . . + +An echo from "The Old Bark Hut", sung in the opposition camp across the gully: + + You may leave the door ajar, but if you keep it shut, + There's no need of suffocation in the Ould Barrk Hut. + + . . . . . + + The tucker's in the gin-case, but you'd better keep it shut -- + For the flies will canther round it in the Ould Bark Hut. + +However: + + What's out of sight is out of mind, in the Ould Bark Hut. + + . . . . . + + We washed our greasy moleskins + On the banks of the Condamine. -- + +Somebody tackling the "Old Bullock Dray"; it must be over fifty verses now. +I saw a bushman at a country dance start to sing that song; +he'd get up to ten or fifteen verses, break down, and start afresh. +At last he sat down on his heel to it, in the centre of the clear floor, +resting his wrist on his knee, and keeping time with an index finger. +It was very funny, but the thing was taken seriously all through. + +Irreverent echo from the old Lambing Flat trouble, from camp across the gully: + + Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! + No more Chinamen will enter Noo South Wales! + +and + + Yankee Doodle came to town + On a little pony -- + Stick a feather in his cap, + And call him Maccaroni! + +All the camps seem to be singing to-night: + + Ring the bell, watchman! + Ring! Ring! Ring! + Ring, for the good news + Is now on the wing! + +Good lines, the introduction: + + High on the belfry the old sexton stands, + Grasping the rope with his thin bony hands! . . . + Bon-fires are blazing throughout the land . . . + Glorious and blessed tidings! Ring! Ring the bell! + + . . . . . + +Granny Mathews fails to coax her niece into the kitchen, +but persuades her to sing inside. She is the girl who learnt `sub rosa' +from the bad girl who sang "Madeline". Such as have them on +instinctively take their hats off. Diggers, &c., strolling past, +halt at the first notes of the girl's voice, and stand like statues +in the moonlight: + + Shall we gather at the river, + Where bright angel feet have trod? + The beautiful -- the beautiful river + That flows by the throne of God! -- + +Diggers wanted to send that girl "Home", but Granny Mathews had +the old-fashioned horror of any of her children becoming "public" -- + + Gather with the saints at the river, + That flows by the throne of God! + + . . . . . + +But it grows late, or rather, early. The "Eyetalians" go by +in the frosty moonlight, from their last shift in the claim +(for it is Saturday night), singing a litany. + +"Get up on one end, Abe! -- stand up all!" Hands are clasped +across the kitchen table. Redclay, one of the last of the alluvial fields, +has petered out, and the Roaring Days are dying. . . . The grand old song +that is known all over the world; yet how many in ten thousand +know more than one verse and the chorus? Let Peter McKenzie lead: + + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And never brought to min'? + +And hearts echo from far back in the past and across wide, wide seas: + + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And days o' lang syne? + +Now boys! all together! + + For auld lang syne, my dear, + For auld lang syne, + We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + + We twa hae run about the braes, + And pu'd the gowans fine; + But we've wandered mony a weary foot, + Sin' auld lang syne. + +The world was wide then. + + We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, + Frae mornin' sun till dine: + +the log fire seems to grow watery, for in wide, lonely Australia -- + + But seas between us braid hae roar'd, + Sin' auld lang syne. + +The kitchen grows dimmer, and the forms of the digger-singers +seemed suddenly vague and unsubstantial, fading back rapidly +through a misty veil. But the words ring strong and defiant +through hard years: + + And here's a hand, my trusty frien', + And gie's a grup o' thine; + And we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + + . . . . . + +And the nettles have been growing for over twenty years on the spot +where Granny Mathews' big bark kitchen stood. + + + + +A Vision of Sandy Blight + + + +I'd been humping my back, and crouching and groaning +for an hour or so in the darkest corner of the travellers' hut, +tortured by the demon of sandy blight. It was too hot to travel, +and there was no one there except ourselves and Mitchell's cattle pup. +We were waiting till after sundown, for I couldn't have travelled +in the daylight, anyway. Mitchell had tied a wet towel round my eyes, +and led me for the last mile or two by another towel -- +one end fastened to his belt behind, and the other in my hand +as I walked in his tracks. And oh! but this was a relief! +It was out of the dust and glare, and the flies didn't come into the dark hut, +and I could hump and stick my knees in my eyes and groan in comfort. +I didn't want a thousand a year, or anything; I only wanted relief for my eyes +-- that was all I prayed for in this world. When the sun got down a bit, +Mitchell started poking round, and presently he found amongst the rubbish +a dirty-looking medicine bottle, corked tight; when he rubbed the dirt +off a piece of notepaper that was pasted on, he saw "eye-water" written on it. +He drew the cork with his teeth, smelt the water, stuck his little finger in, +turned the bottle upside down, tasted the top of his finger, +and reckoned the stuff was all right. + +"Here! Wake up, Joe!" he shouted. "Here's a bottle of tears." + +"A bottler wot?" I groaned. + +"Eye-water," said Mitchell. + +"Are you sure it's all right?" I didn't want to be poisoned +or have my eyes burnt out by mistake; perhaps some burning acid +had got into that bottle, or the label had been put on, or left on, +in mistake or carelessness. + +"I dunno," said Mitchell, "but there's no harm in tryin'." + +I chanced it. I lay down on my back in a bunk, and Mitchell +dragged my lids up and spilt half a bottle of eye-water over my eye-balls. + +The relief was almost instantaneous. I never experienced such a quick cure +in my life. I carried the bottle in my swag for a long time afterwards, +with an idea of getting it analysed, but left it behind at last in a camp. + +Mitchell scratched his head thoughtfully, and watched me for a while. + +"I think I'll wait a bit longer," he said at last, "and if it doesn't +blind you I'll put some in my eyes. I'm getting a touch of blight myself now. +That's the fault of travelling with a mate who's always catching something +that's no good to him." + +As it grew dark outside we talked of sandy-blight and fly-bite, +and sand-flies up north, and ordinary flies, and branched off to Barcoo rot, +and struck the track again at bees and bee stings. When we got to bees, +Mitchell sat smoking for a while and looking dreamily backwards +along tracks and branch tracks, and round corners and circles +he had travelled, right back to the short, narrow, innocent bit of track +that ends in a vague, misty point -- like the end of a long, straight, +cleared road in the moonlight -- as far back as we can remember. + + . . . . . + +"I had about fourteen hives," said Mitchell -- "we used to call them `swarms', +no matter whether they were flying or in the box -- when I left home +first time. I kept them behind the shed, in the shade, +on tables of galvanised iron cases turned down on stakes; +but I had to make legs later on, and stand them in pans of water, +on account of the ants. When the bees swarmed -- and some hives sent out +the Lord knows how many swarms in a year, it seemed to me -- +we'd tin-kettle 'em, and throw water on 'em, to make 'em believe +the biggest thunderstorm was coming to drown the oldest inhabitant; +and, if they didn't get the start of us and rise, they'd settle on a branch -- +generally on one of the scraggy fruit trees. It was rough on the bees -- +come to think of it; their instinct told them it was going to be fine, +and the noise and water told them it was raining. They must have thought +that nature was mad, drunk, or gone ratty, or the end of the world had come. +We'd rig up a table, with a box upside down, under the branch, +cover our face with a piece of mosquito net, have rags burning round, +and then give the branch a sudden jerk, turn the box down, and run. If we got +most of the bees in, the rest that were hanging to the bough or flying round +would follow, and then we reckoned we'd shook the queen in. +If the bees in the box came out and joined the others, +we'd reckon we hadn't shook the queen in, and go for them again. +When a hive was full of honey we'd turn the box upside down, +turn the empty box mouth down on top of it, and drum and hammer +on the lower box with a stick till all the bees went up into the top box. +I suppose it made their heads ache, and they went up on that account. + +"I suppose things are done differently on proper bee-farms. +I've heard that a bee-farmer will part a hanging swarm with his fingers, +take out the queen bee and arrange matters with her; but our ways suited us, +and there was a lot of expectation and running and excitement in it, +especially when a swarm took us by surprise. The yell of `Bees swarmin'!' +was as good to us as the yell of `Fight!' is now, or `Bolt!' in town, +or `Fire' or `Man overboard!' at sea. + +"There was tons of honey. The bees used to go to the vineyards at wine-making +and get honey from the heaps of crushed grape-skins thrown out in the sun, +and get so drunk sometimes that they wobbled in their bee-lines home. +They'd fill all the boxes, and then build in between and under the bark, +and board, and tin covers. They never seemed to get the idea +out of their heads that this wasn't an evergreen country, +and it wasn't going to snow all winter. My younger brother Joe +used to put pieces of meat on the tables near the boxes, +and in front of the holes where the bees went in and out, +for the dogs to grab at. But one old dog, `Black Bill', was a match for him; +if it was worth Bill's while, he'd camp there, and keep Joe and the other dogs +from touching the meat -- once it was put down -- till the bees turned in +for the night. And Joe would get the other kids round there, and when +they weren't looking or thinking, he'd brush the bees with a stick and run. +I'd lam him when I caught him at it. He was an awful young devil, was Joe, +and he grew up steady, and respectable, and respected -- and I went +to the bad. I never trust a good boy now. . . . Ah, well! + +"I remember the first swarm we got. We'd been talking of getting a few swarms +for a long time. That was what was the matter with us +English and Irish and English-Irish Australian farmers: +we used to talk so much about doing things while the Germans and Scotch +did them. And we even talked in a lazy, easy-going sort of way. + +"Well, one blazing hot day I saw father coming along the road, home to dinner +(we had it in the middle of the day), with his axe over his shoulder. +I noticed the axe particularly because father was bringing it home to grind, +and Joe and I had to turn the stone; but, when I noticed Joe +dragging along home in the dust about fifty yards behind father, +I felt easier in my mind. Suddenly father dropped the axe and started to run +back along the road towards Joe, who, as soon as he saw father coming, +shied for the fence and got through. He thought he was going to catch it +for something he'd done -- or hadn't done. Joe used to do so many things +and leave so many things not done that he could never be sure of father. +Besides, father had a way of starting to hammer us unexpectedly -- +when the idea struck him. But father pulled himself up in about thirty yards +and started to grab up handfuls of dust and sand and throw them into the air. +My idea, in the first flash, was to get hold of the axe, for I thought +it was sun-stroke, and father might take it into his head to start chopping up +the family before I could persuade him to put it (his head, I mean) +in a bucket of water. But Joe came running like mad, yelling: + +"`Swarmer -- bees! Swawmmer -- bee--ee--es! Bring -- a -- tin -- dish -- +and -- a -- dippera -- wa-a-ter!' + +"I ran with a bucket of water and an old frying-pan, and pretty soon +the rest of the family were on the spot, throwing dust and water, +and banging everything, tin or iron, they could get hold of. +The only bullock bell in the district (if it was in the district) +was on the old poley cow, and she'd been lost for a fortnight. +Mother brought up the rear -- but soon worked to the front -- +with a baking-dish and a big spoon. The old lady -- she wasn't old then -- +had a deep-rooted prejudice that she could do everything +better than anybody else, and that the selection and all on it +would go to the dogs if she wasn't there to look after it. +There was no jolting that idea out of her. She not only believed +that she could do anything better than anybody, and hers was +the only right or possible way, and that we'd do everything upside down +if she wasn't there to do it or show us how -- but she'd try +to do things herself or insist on making us do them her way, +and that led to messes and rows. She was excited now, +and took command at once. She wasn't tongue-tied, and had no impediment +in her speech. + +"`Don't throw up dust! -- Stop throwing up dust! -- +Do you want to smother 'em? -- Don't throw up so much water! -- +Only throw up a pannikin at a time! -- D'yer want to drown 'em? +Bang! Keep on banging, Joe! -- Look at that child! Run, someone! -- run! +you, Jack! -- D'yer want the child to be stung to death? -- +Take her inside! . . . Dy' hear me? . . . Stop throwing up dust, Tom! +(To father.) You're scaring 'em away! Can't you see they want to settle?' +[Father was getting mad and yelping: `For Godsake shettup and go inside.'] +`Throw up water, Jack! Throw up -- Tom! Take that bucket from him +and don't make such a fool of yourself before the children! +Throw up water! Throw -- keep on banging, children! Keep on banging!' +[Mother put her faith in banging.] `There! -- they're off! You've lost 'em! +I knew you would! I told yer -- keep on bang--!' + +"A bee struck her in the eye, and she grabbed at it! + +"Mother went home -- and inside. + +"Father was good at bees -- could manage them like sheep when he got to know +their ideas. When the swarm settled, he sent us for the old washing stool, +boxes, bags, and so on; and the whole time he was fixing the bees +I noticed that whenever his back was turned to us his shoulders would jerk up +as if he was cold, and he seemed to shudder from inside, and now and then +I'd hear a grunting sort of whimper like a boy that was just starting +to blubber. But father wasn't weeping, and bees weren't stinging him; +it was the bee that stung mother that was tickling father. When he went +into the house, mother's other eye had bunged for sympathy. Father was always +gentle and kind in sickness, and he bathed mother's eyes and rubbed mud on, +but every now and then he'd catch inside, and jerk and shudder, +and grunt and cough. Mother got wild, but presently the humour of it +struck her, and she had to laugh, and a rum laugh it was, +with both eyes bunged up. Then she got hysterical, and started to cry, +and father put his arm round her shoulder and ordered us out of the house. + +"They were very fond of each other, the old people were, under it all -- +right up to the end. . . . Ah, well!" + +Mitchell pulled the swags out of a bunk, and started to fasten +the nose-bags on. + + + + +Andy Page's Rival + + + + Tall and freckled and sandy, + Face of a country lout; + That was the picture of Andy -- + Middleton's rouseabout. + On Middleton's wide dominions + Plied the stock-whip and shears; + Hadn't any opinions ------ + +And he hadn't any "ideers" -- at least, he said so himself -- +except as regarded anything that looked to him like what he called +"funny business", under which heading he catalogued tyranny, treachery, +interference with the liberty of the subject by the subject, +"blanky" lies, or swindles -- all things, in short, +that seemed to his slow understanding dishonest, mean or paltry; +most especially, and above all, treachery to a mate. +THAT he could never forget. Andy was uncomfortably "straight". +His mind worked slowly and his decisions were, as a rule, right and just; +and when he once came to a conclusion concerning any man or matter, +or decided upon a course of action, nothing short of an earthquake +or a Nevertire cyclone could move him back an inch -- unless a conviction +were severely shaken, and then he would require as much time +to "back" to his starting point as he did to come to the decision. + +Andy had come to a conclusion with regard to a selector's daughter +-- name, Lizzie Porter -- who lived (and slaved) on her father's selection, +near the township corner of the run on which Andy was a general "hand". +He had been in the habit for several years of calling casually +at the selector's house, as he rode to and fro between +the station and the town, to get a drink of water and exchange the time of day +with old Porter and his "missus". The conversation concerned the drought, +and the likelihood or otherwise of their ever going to get a little rain; +or about Porter's cattle, with an occasional enquiry concerning, +or reference to, a stray cow belonging to the selection, +but preferring the run; a little, plump, saucy, white cow, by-the-way, +practically pure white, but referred to by Andy -- who had eyes +like a blackfellow -- as "old Speckledy". No one else +could detect a spot or speckle on her at a casual glance. +Then after a long bovine silence, which would have been painfully embarrassing +in any other society, and a tilting of his cabbage-tree hat forward, +which came of tickling and scratching the sun-blotched nape of his neck +with his little finger, Andy would slowly say: "Ah, well. I must be gettin'. +So-long, Mr. Porter. So-long, Mrs. Porter." And, if SHE were in evidence +-- as she generally was on such occasions -- "So-long, Lizzie." +And they'd shout: "So-long, Andy," as he galloped off from the jump. +Strange that those shy, quiet, gentle-voiced bushmen seem +the hardest and most reckless riders. + +But of late his horse had been seen hanging up outside Porter's +for an hour or so after sunset. He smoked, talked over +the results of the last drought (if it happened to rain), +and the possibilities of the next one, and played cards with old Porter; +who took to winking, automatically, at his "old woman", and nudging, +and jerking his thumb in the direction of Lizzie when her back was turned, +and Andy was scratching the nape of his neck and staring at the cards. + +Lizzie told a lady friend of mine, years afterwards, how Andy +popped the question; told it in her quiet way -- you know Lizzie's quiet way +(something of the old, privileged house-cat about her); +never a sign in expression or tone to show whether she herself +saw or appreciated the humour of anything she was telling, +no matter how comical it might be. She had witnessed two tragedies, +and had found a dead man in the bush, and related the incidents +as though they were common-place. + +It happened one day -- after Andy had been coming two or three times a week +for about a year -- that she found herself sitting with him +on a log of the woodheap, in the cool of the evening, +enjoying the sunset breeze. Andy's arm had got round her -- +just as it might have gone round a post he happened to be leaning against. +They hadn't been talking about anything in particular. Andy said +he wouldn't be surprised if they had a thunderstorm before mornin' -- +it had been so smotherin' hot all day. + +Lizzie said, "Very likely." + +Andy smoked a good while, then he said: "Ah, well! It's a weary world." + +Lizzie didn't say anything. + +By-and-bye Andy said: "Ah, well; it's a lonely world, Lizzie." + +"Do you feel lonely, Andy?" asked Lizzie, after a while. + +"Yes, Lizzie; I do." + +Lizzie let herself settle, a little, against him, without either +seeming to notice it, and after another while she said, softly: +"So do I, Andy." + +Andy knocked the ashes from his pipe very slowly and deliberately, +and put it away; then he seemed to brighten suddenly, and said briskly: +"Well, Lizzie! Are you satisfied!" + +"Yes, Andy; I'm satisfied." + +"Quite sure, now?" + +"Yes; I'm quite sure, Andy. I'm perfectly satisfied." + +"Well, then, Lizzie -- it's settled!" + + . . . . . + +But to-day -- a couple of months after the proposal described above -- +Andy had trouble on his mind, and the trouble was connected +with Lizzie Porter. He was putting up a two-rail fence +along the old log-paddock on the frontage, and working like a man in trouble, +trying to work it off his mind; and evidently not succeeding -- +for the last two panels were out of line. He was ramming a post -- +Andy rammed honestly, from the bottom of the hole, not the last few shovelfuls +below the surface, as some do. He was ramming the last layer of clay +when a cloud of white dust came along the road, paused, +and drifted or poured off into the scrub, leaving long Dave Bentley, +the horse-breaker, on his last victim. + +"'Ello, Andy! Graftin'?" + +"I want to speak to you, Dave," said Andy, in a strange voice. + +"All -- all right!" said Dave, rather puzzled. He got down, +wondering what was up, and hung his horse to the last post but one. + +Dave was Andy's opposite in one respect: he jumped to conclusions, +as women do; but, unlike women, he was mostly wrong. He was +an old chum and mate of Andy's who had always liked, admired, and trusted him. +But now, to his helpless surprise, Andy went on scraping the earth +from the surface with his long-handled shovel, and heaping it conscientiously +round the butt of the post, his face like a block of wood, +and his lips set grimly. Dave broke out first (with bush oaths): + +"What's the matter with you? Spit it out! What have I been doin' to you? +What's yer got yer rag out about, anyway?" + +Andy faced him suddenly, with hatred for "funny business" +flashing in his eyes. + +"What did you say to my sister Mary about Lizzie Porter?" + +Dave started; then he whistled long and low. "Spit it all out, Andy!" +he advised. + +"You said she was travellin' with a feller!" + +"Well, what's the harm in that? Everybody knows that --" + +"If any crawler says a word about Lizzie Porter -- look here, +me and you's got to fight, Dave Bentley!" Then, with still greater vehemence, +as though he had a share in the garment: "Take off that coat!" + +"Not if I know it!" said Dave, with the sudden quietness that comes +to brave but headstrong and impulsive men at a critical moment: +"Me and you ain't goin' to fight, Andy; and" (with sudden energy) +"if you try it on I'll knock you into jim-rags!" + +Then, stepping close to Andy and taking him by the arm: +"Andy, this thing will have to be fixed up. Come here; +I want to talk to you." And he led him some paces aside, +inside the boundary line, which seemed a ludicrously unnecessary precaution, +seeing that there was no one within sight or hearing save Dave's horse. + +"Now, look here, Andy; let's have it over. What's the matter +with you and Lizzie Porter?" + +"I'M travellin' with her, that's all; and we're going to get married +in two years!" + +Dave gave vent to another long, low whistle. He seemed to think +and make up his mind. + +"Now, look here, Andy: we're old mates, ain't we?" + +"Yes; I know that." + +"And do you think I'd tell you a blanky lie, or crawl behind your back? +Do you? Spit it out!" + +"N--no, I don't!" + +"I've always stuck up for you, Andy, and -- why, I've fought for you +behind your back!" + +"I know that, Dave." + +"There's my hand on it!" + +Andy took his friend's hand mechanically, but gripped it hard. + +"Now, Andy, I'll tell you straight: It's Gorstruth about Lizzie Porter!" + +They stood as they were for a full minute, hands clasped; +Andy with his jaw dropped and staring in a dazed sort of way at Dave. +He raised his disengaged hand helplessly to his thatch, gulped suspiciously, +and asked in a broken voice: + +"How -- how do you know it, Dave?" + +"Know it? Andy, I SEEN 'EM MESELF!" + +"You did, Dave?" in a tone that suggested sorrow more than anger +at Dave's part in the seeing of them. + +"Gorstruth, Andy!" + + . . . . . + +"Tell me, Dave, who was the feller? That's all I want to know." + +"I can't tell you that. I only seen them when I was canterin' past +in the dusk." + +"Then how'd you know it was a man at all?" + +"It wore trousers, anyway, and was as big as you; so it couldn't +have been a girl. I'm pretty safe to swear it was Mick Kelly. +I saw his horse hangin' up at Porter's once or twice. +But I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll find out for you, Andy. +And, what's more, I'll job him for you if I catch him!" + +Andy said nothing; his hands clenched and his chest heaved. +Dave laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. + +"It's red hot, Andy, I know. Anybody else but you and I wouldn't have cared. +But don't be a fool; there's any Gorsquantity of girls knockin' round. +You just give it to her straight and chuck her, and have done with it. +You must be bad off to bother about her. Gorstruth! she ain't much +to look at anyway! I've got to ride like blazes to catch the coach. +Don't knock off till I come back; I won't be above an hour. +I'm goin' to give you some points in case you've got to fight Mick; +and I'll have to be there to back you!" And, thus taking +the right moment instinctively, he jumped on his horse and galloped on +towards the town. + +His dust-cloud had scarcely disappeared round a corner of the paddocks +when Andy was aware of another one coming towards him. He had a dazed idea +that it was Dave coming back, but went on digging another post-hole, +mechanically, until a spring-cart rattled up, and stopped opposite him. +Then he lifted his head. It was Lizzie herself, driving home from town. +She turned towards him with her usual faint smile. Her small features +were "washed out" and rather haggard. + +"'Ello, Andy!" + +But, at the sight of her, all his hatred of "funny business" +-- intensified, perhaps, by a sense of personal injury -- came to a head, +and he exploded: + +"Look here, Lizzie Porter! I know all about you. You needn't think +you're goin' to cotton on with me any more after this! +I wouldn't be seen in a paddock with yer! I'm satisfied about you! +Get on out of this!" + +The girl stared at him for a moment thunderstruck; then she +lammed into the old horse with a stick she carried in place of a whip. + +She cried, and wondered what she'd done, and trembled so +that she could scarcely unharness the horse, and wondered if Andy +had got a touch of the sun, and went in and sat down and cried again; +and pride came to her aid and she hated Andy; thought of her big brother, +away droving, and made a cup of tea. She shed tears over the tea, +and went through it all again. + +Meanwhile Andy was suffering a reaction. He started to fill the hole +before he put the post in; then to ram the post before the rails +were in position. Dubbing off the ends of the rails, +he was in danger of amputating a toe or a foot with every stroke of the adze. +And, at last, trying to squint along the little lumps of clay +which he had placed in the centre of the top of each post +for several panels back -- to assist him to take a line -- +he found that they swam and doubled, and ran off in watery angles, +for his eyes were too moist to see straight and single. + +Then he threw down the tools hopelessly, and was standing helplessly undecided +whether to go home or go down to the creek and drown himself, +when Dave turned up again. + +"Seen her?" asked Dave. + +"Yes," said Andy. + +"Did you chuck her?" + +"Look here, Dave; are you sure the feller was Mick Kelly?" + +"I never said I was. How was I to know? It was dark. You don't expect +I'd `fox' a feller I see doing a bit of a bear-up to a girl, do you? +It might have been you, for all I knowed. I suppose she's been +talking you round?" + +"No, she ain't," said Andy. "But, look here, Dave; I was properly gone +on that girl, I was, and -- and I want to be sure I'm right." + +The business was getting altogether too psychological for Dave Bentley. +"You might as well," he rapped out, "call me a liar at once!" + +"'Taint that at all, Dave. I want to get at who the feller is; +that's what I want to get at now. Where did you see them, and when?" + +"I seen them Anniversary night, along the road, near Ross' farm; +and I seen 'em Sunday night afore that -- in the trees near the old culvert -- +near Porter's sliprails; and I seen 'em one night outside Porter's, +on a log near the woodheap. They was thick that time, and bearin' up proper, +and no mistake. So I can swear to her. Now, are you satisfied about her?" + +But Andy was wildly pitchforking his thatch under his hat with all ten fingers +and staring at Dave, who began to regard him uneasily; +then there came to Andy's eyes an awful glare, which caused Dave +to step back hastily. + +"Good God, Andy! Are yer goin' ratty?" + +"No!" cried Andy, wildly. + +"Then what the blazes is the matter with you? You'll have rats +if you don't look out!" + +"JIMMINY FROTH! -- It was ME all the time!" + +"What?" + +"It was me that was with her all them nights. It was me that you seen. +WHY, I POPPED ON THE WOODHEAP!" + +Dave was taken too suddenly to whistle this time. + +"And you went for her just now?" + +"Yes!" yelled Andy. + +"Well -- you've done it!" + +"Yes," said Andy, hopelessly; "I've done it!" + +Dave whistled now -- a very long, low whistle. "Well, you're a bloomin' goat, +Andy, after this. But this thing'll have to be fixed up!" +and he cantered away. Poor Andy was too badly knocked to notice +the abruptness of Dave's departure, or to see that he turned +through the sliprails on to the track that led to Porter's. + + . . . . . + +Half an hour later Andy appeared at Porter's back door, with an expression +on his face as though the funeral was to start in ten minutes. +In a tone befitting such an occasion, he wanted to see Lizzie. + +Dave had been there with the laudable determination of fixing the business up, +and had, of course, succeeded in making it much worse than it was before. +But Andy made it all right. + + + + +The Iron-Bark Chip + + + +Dave Regan and party -- bush-fencers, tank-sinkers, rough carpenters, &c. -- +were finishing the third and last culvert of their contract +on the last section of the new railway line, and had already sent in +their vouchers for the completed contract, so that there might be no excuse +for extra delay in connection with the cheque. + +Now it had been expressly stipulated in the plans and specifications that +the timber for certain beams and girders was to be iron-bark and no other, +and Government inspectors were authorised to order the removal from the ground +of any timber or material they might deem inferior, or not in accordance +with the stipulations. The railway contractor's foreman +and inspector of sub-contractors was a practical man and a bushman, +but he had been a timber-getter himself; his sympathies were bushy, +and he was on winking terms with Dave Regan. Besides, extended time +was expiring, and the contractors were in a hurry to complete the line. +But the Government inspector was a reserved man who poked round +on his independent own and appeared in lonely spots at unexpected times +-- with apparently no definite object in life -- like a grey kangaroo +bothered by a new wire fence, but unsuspicious of the presence of humans. +He wore a grey suit, rode, or mostly led, an ashen-grey horse; +the grass was long and grey, so he was seldom spotted +until he was well within the horizon and bearing leisurely down +on a party of sub-contractors, leading his horse. + +Now iron-bark was scarce and distant on those ridges, and another timber, +similar in appearance, but much inferior in grain and "standing" quality, +was plentiful and close at hand. Dave and party were "about full of" +the job and place, and wanted to get their cheque and be gone +to another "spec" they had in view. So they came to reckon +they'd get the last girder from a handy tree, and have it squared, in place, +and carefully and conscientiously tarred before the inspector happened along, +if he did. But they didn't. They got it squared, and ready to be lifted +into its place; the kindly darkness of tar was ready to cover a fraud +that took four strong men with crowbars and levers to shift; and now +(such is the regular cussedness of things) as the fraudulent piece of timber +lay its last hour on the ground, looking and smelling, +to their guilty imaginations like anything but iron-bark, +they were aware of the Government inspector drifting down upon them obliquely, +with something of the atmosphere of a casual Bill or Jim +who had dropped out of his easy-going track to see how they were getting on, +and borrow a match. They had more than half hoped that, +as he had visited them pretty frequently during the progress of the work, +and knew how near it was to completion, he wouldn't bother coming any more. +But it's the way with the Government. You might move heaven and earth +in vain endeavour to get the "Guvermunt" to flutter an eyelash over something +of the most momentous importance to yourself and mates and the district -- +even to the country; but just when you are leaving authority severely alone, +and have strong reasons for not wanting to worry or interrupt it, +and not desiring it to worry about you, it will take a fancy into its head +to come along and bother. + +"It's always the way!" muttered Dave to his mates. "I knew the beggar +would turn up! . . . And the only cronk log we've had, too!" he added, +in an injured tone. "If this had 'a' been the only blessed iron-bark +in the whole contract, it would have been all right. . . . +Good-day, sir!" (to the inspector). "It's hot?" + +The inspector nodded. He was not of an impulsive nature. +He got down from his horse and looked at the girder in an abstracted way; +and presently there came into his eyes a dreamy, far-away, +sad sort of expression, as if there had been a very sad and painful occurrence +in his family, way back in the past, and that piece of timber +in some way reminded him of it and brought the old sorrow home to him. +He blinked three times, and asked, in a subdued tone: + +"Is that iron-bark?" + +Jack Bentley, the fluent liar of the party, caught his breath with a jerk +and coughed, to cover the gasp and gain time. "I--iron-bark? +Of course it is! I thought you would know iron-bark, mister." +(Mister was silent.) "What else d'yer think it is?" + +The dreamy, abstracted expression was back. The inspector, by-the-way, +didn't know much about timber, but he had a great deal of instinct, +and went by it when in doubt. + +"L--look here, mister!" put in Dave Regan, in a tone of innocent puzzlement +and with a blank bucolic face. "B--but don't the plans and specifications +say iron-bark? Ours does, anyway. I--I'll git the papers from the tent +and show yer, if yer like." + +It was not necessary. The inspector admitted the fact slowly. He stooped, +and with an absent air picked up a chip. He looked at it abstractedly +for a moment, blinked his threefold blink; then, seeming to recollect +an appointment, he woke up suddenly and asked briskly: + +"Did this chip come off that girder?" + +Blank silence. The inspector blinked six times, divided in threes, rapidly, +mounted his horse, said "Day," and rode off. + +Regan and party stared at each other. + +"Wha--what did he do that for?" asked Andy Page, the third in the party. + +"Do what for, you fool?" enquired Dave. + +"Ta--take that chip for?" + +"He's taking it to the office!" snarled Jack Bentley. + +"What--what for? What does he want to do that for?" + +"To get it blanky well analysed! You ass! Now are yer satisfied?" +And Jack sat down hard on the timber, jerked out his pipe, and said to Dave, +in a sharp, toothache tone: + +"Gimmiamatch!" + +"We--well! what are we to do now?" enquired Andy, who was the hardest grafter, +but altogether helpless, hopeless, and useless in a crisis like this. + +"Grain and varnish the bloomin' culvert!" snapped Bentley. + +But Dave's eyes, that had been ruefully following the inspector, +suddenly dilated. The inspector had ridden a short distance along the line, +dismounted, thrown the bridle over a post, laid the chip +(which was too big to go in his pocket) on top of it, got through the fence, +and was now walking back at an angle across the line +in the direction of the fencing party, who had worked up on the other side, +a little more than opposite the culvert. + +Dave took in the lay of the country at a glance and thought rapidly. + +"Gimme an iron-bark chip!" he said suddenly. + +Bentley, who was quick-witted when the track was shown him, +as is a kangaroo dog (Jack ran by sight, not scent), +glanced in the line of Dave's eyes, jumped up, and got a chip +about the same size as that which the inspector had taken. + +Now the "lay of the country" sloped generally to the line from both sides, +and the angle between the inspector's horse, the fencing party, +and the culvert was well within a clear concave space; +but a couple of hundred yards back from the line and parallel to it +(on the side on which Dave's party worked their timber) +a fringe of scrub ran to within a few yards of a point +which would be about in line with a single tree on the cleared slope, +the horse, and the fencing party. + +Dave took the iron-bark chip, ran along the bed of the water-course +into the scrub, raced up the siding behind the bushes, got safely, +though without breathing, across the exposed space, and brought the tree +into line between him and the inspector, who was talking to the fencers. +Then he began to work quickly down the slope towards the tree +(which was a thin one), keeping it in line, his arms close to his sides, +and working, as it were, down the trunk of the tree, as if the fencing party +were kangaroos and Dave was trying to get a shot at them. +The inspector, by-the-bye, had a habit of glancing now and then +in the direction of his horse, as though under the impression +that it was flighty and restless and inclined to bolt on opportunity. +It was an anxious moment for all parties concerned -- except the inspector. +They didn't want HIM to be perturbed. And, just as Dave +reached the foot of the tree, the inspector finished what he had to say +to the fencers, turned, and started to walk briskly back to his horse. +There was a thunderstorm coming. Now was the critical moment -- +there were certain prearranged signals between Dave's party and the fencers +which might have interested the inspector, but none to meet a case like this. + +Jack Bentley gasped, and started forward with an idea +of intercepting the inspector and holding him for a few minutes +in bogus conversation. Inspirations come to one at a critical moment, +and it flashed on Jack's mind to send Andy instead. Andy looked +as innocent and guileless as he was, but was uncomfortable +in the vicinity of "funny business", and must have an honest excuse. +"Not that that mattered," commented Jack afterwards; "it would have +taken the inspector ten minutes to get at what Andy was driving at, +whatever it was." + +"Run, Andy! Tell him there's a heavy thunderstorm coming and he'd better stay +in our humpy till it's over. Run! Don't stand staring like a blanky fool. +He'll be gone!" + +Andy started. But just then, as luck would have it, one of the fencers +started after the inspector, hailing him as "Hi, mister!" +He wanted to be set right about the survey or something +-- or to pretend to want to be set right -- from motives of policy +which I haven't time to explain here. + +That fencer explained afterwards to Dave's party that he "seen what you coves +was up to," and that's why he called the inspector back. +But he told them that after they had told their yarn -- which was a mistake. + +"Come back, Andy!" cried Jack Bentley. + +Dave Regan slipped round the tree, down on his hands and knees, +and made quick time through the grass which, luckily, grew pretty tall +on the thirty or forty yards of slope between the tree and the horse. +Close to the horse, a thought struck Dave that pulled him up, +and sent a shiver along his spine and a hungry feeling under it. +The horse would break away and bolt! But the case was desperate. +Dave ventured an interrogatory "Cope, cope, cope?" The horse +turned its head wearily and regarded him with a mild eye, +as if he'd expected him to come, and come on all fours, +and wondered what had kept him so long; then he went on thinking. +Dave reached the foot of the post; the horse obligingly leaning over +on the other leg. Dave reared head and shoulders cautiously behind the post, +like a snake; his hand went up twice, swiftly -- the first time +he grabbed the inspector's chip, and the second time he put the iron-bark one +in its place. He drew down and back, and scuttled off for the tree +like a gigantic tailless "goanna". + +A few minutes later he walked up to the culvert from along the creek, +smoking hard to settle his nerves. + +The sky seemed to darken suddenly; the first great drops of the thunderstorm +came pelting down. The inspector hurried to his horse, and cantered off +along the line in the direction of the fettlers' camp. + +He had forgotten all about the chip, and left it on top of the post! + +Dave Regan sat down on the beam in the rain and swore comprehensively. + + + + +"Middleton's Peter" + + + + I. + + The First Born + + +The struggling squatter is to be found in Australia as well as +the "struggling farmer". The Australian squatter is not always +the mighty wool king that English and American authors and other +uninformed people apparently imagine him to be. Squatting, at the best, +is but a game of chance. It depends mainly on the weather, +and that, in New South Wales at least, depends on nothing. + +Joe Middleton was a struggling squatter, with a station some distance +to the westward of the furthest line reached by the ordinary "new chum". +His run, at the time of our story, was only about six miles square, +and his stock was limited in proportion. The hands on Joe's run +consisted of his brother Dave, a middle-aged man known only +as "Middleton's Peter" (who had been in the service of the Middleton family +ever since Joe Middleton could remember), and an old black shepherd, +with his gin and two boys. + +It was in the first year of Joe's marriage. He had married +a very ordinary girl, as far as Australian girls go, but in his eyes +she was an angel. He really worshipped her. + +One sultry afternoon in midsummer all the station hands, +with the exception of Dave Middleton, were congregated about +the homestead door, and it was evident from their solemn faces +that something unusual was the matter. They appeared +to be watching for something or someone across the flat, +and the old black shepherd, who had been listening intently with bent head, +suddenly straightened himself up and cried: + +"I can hear the cart. I can see it!" + +You must bear in mind that our blackfellows do not always talk the gibberish +with which they are credited by story writers. + +It was not until some time after Black Bill had spoken +that the white -- or, rather, the brown -- portion of the party +could see or even hear the approaching vehicle. At last, +far out through the trunks of the native apple-trees, +the cart was seen approaching; and as it came nearer it was evident that +it was being driven at a break-neck pace, the horses cantering all the way, +while the motion of the cart, as first one wheel and then the other +sprang from a root or a rut, bore a striking resemblance +to the Highland Fling. There were two persons in the cart. +One was Mother Palmer, a stout, middle-aged party (who sometimes did +the duties of a midwife), and the other was Dave Middleton, Joe's brother. + +The cart was driven right up to the door with scarcely any abatement of speed, +and was stopped so suddenly that Mrs. Palmer was sent sprawling +on to the horse's rump. She was quickly helped down, +and, as soon as she had recovered sufficient breath, she followed Black Mary +into the bedroom where young Mrs. Middleton was lying, +looking very pale and frightened. The horse which had been driven so cruelly +had not done blowing before another cart appeared, also driven very fast. +It contained old Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, who lived comfortably on a small farm +not far from Palmer's place. + +As soon as he had dumped Mrs. Palmer, Dave Middleton left the cart and, +mounting a fresh horse which stood ready saddled in the yard, +galloped off through the scrub in a different direction. + +Half an hour afterwards Joe Middleton came home on a horse +that had been almost ridden to death. His mother came out +at the sound of his arrival, and he anxiously asked her: + +"How is she?" + +"Did you find Doc. Wild?" asked the mother. + +"No, confound him!" exclaimed Joe bitterly. "He promised me faithfully +to come over on Wednesday and stay until Maggie was right again. +Now he has left Dean's and gone -- Lord knows where. I suppose +he is drinking again. How is Maggie?" + +"It's all over now -- the child is born. It's a boy; but she is very weak. +Dave got Mrs. Palmer here just in time. I had better tell you at once +that Mrs. Palmer says if we don't get a doctor here to-night +poor Maggie won't live." + +"Good God! and what am I to do?" cried Joe desperately. + +"Is there any other doctor within reach?" + +"No; there is only the one at B----; that's forty miles away, +and he is laid up with the broken leg he got in the buggy accident. +Where's Dave?" + +"Gone to Black's shanty. One of Mrs. Palmer's sons thought +he remembered someone saying that Doc. Wild was there last week. +That's fifteen miles away." + +"But it is our only hope," said Joe dejectedly. "I wish to God +that I had taken Maggie to some civilised place a month ago." + +Doc. Wild was a well-known character among the bushmen of New South Wales, +and although the profession did not recognise him, and denounced him +as an empiric, his skill was undoubted. Bushmen had great faith in him, +and would often ride incredible distances in order to bring him +to the bedside of a sick friend. He drank fearfully, +but was seldom incapable of treating a patient; he would, however, +sometimes be found in an obstinate mood and refuse to travel +to the side of a sick person, and then the devil himself +could not make the doctor budge. But for all this he was very generous -- +a fact that could, no doubt, be testified to by many a grateful sojourner +in the lonely bush. + + + + II. + + The Only Hope + + +Night came on, and still there was no change in the condition +of the young wife, and no sign of the doctor. Several stockmen +from the neighbouring stations, hearing that there was trouble +at Joe Middleton's, had ridden over, and had galloped off +on long, hopeless rides in search of a doctor. Being generally free +from sickness themselves, these bushmen look upon it as a serious business +even in its mildest form; what is more, their sympathy is always practical +where it is possible for it to be so. One day, while out on the run +after an "outlaw", Joe Middleton was badly thrown from his horse, +and the break-neck riding that was done on that occasion +from the time the horse came home with empty saddle until the rider +was safe in bed and attended by a doctor was something extraordinary, +even for the bush. + +Before the time arrived when Dave Middleton might reasonably have been +expected to return, the station people were anxiously watching for him, +all except the old blackfellow and the two boys, who had gone +to yard the sheep. + +The party had been increased by Jimmy Nowlett, the bullocky, +who had just arrived with a load of fencing wire and provisions for Middleton. +Jimmy was standing in the moonlight, whip in hand, looking as anxious +as the husband himself, and endeavouring to calculate by mental arithmetic +the exact time it ought to take Dave to complete his double journey, +taking into consideration the distance, the obstacles in the way, +and the chances of horse-flesh. + +But the time which Jimmy fixed for the arrival came without Dave. + +Old Peter (as he was generally called, though he was not really old) +stood aside in his usual sullen manner, his hat drawn down +over his brow and eyes, and nothing visible but a thick and very horizontal +black beard, from the depth of which emerged large clouds of very strong +tobacco smoke, the product of a short, black, clay pipe. + +They had almost given up all hope of seeing Dave return that night, +when Peter slowly and deliberately removed his pipe and grunted: + +"He's a-comin'." + +He then replaced the pipe, and smoked on as before. + +All listened, but not one of them could hear a sound. + +"Yer ears must be pretty sharp for yer age, Peter. We can't hear him," +remarked Jimmy Nowlett. + +"His dog ken," said Peter. + +The pipe was again removed and its abbreviated stem pointed +in the direction of Dave's cattle dog, who had risen beside his kennel +with pointed ears, and was looking eagerly in the direction +from which his master was expected to come. + +Presently the sound of horse's hoofs was distinctly heard. + +"I can hear two horses," cried Jimmy Nowlett excitedly. + +"There's only one," said old Peter quietly. + +A few moments passed, and a single horseman appeared +on the far side of the flat. + +"It's Doc. Wild on Dave's horse," cried Jimmy Nowlett. +"Dave don't ride like that." + +"It's Dave," said Peter, replacing his pipe and looking more unsociable +than ever. + +Dave rode up and, throwing himself wearily from the saddle, +stood ominously silent by the side of his horse. + +Joe Middleton said nothing, but stood aside with an expression +of utter hopelessness on his face. + +"Not there?" asked Jimmy Nowlett at last, addressing Dave. + +"Yes, he's there," answered Dave, impatiently. + +This was not the answer they expected, but nobody seemed surprised. + +"Drunk?" asked Jimmy. + +"Yes." + +Here old Peter removed his pipe, and pronounced the one word -- "How?" + +"What the hell do you mean by that?" muttered Dave, whose patience +had evidently been severely tried by the clever but intemperate bush doctor. + +"How drunk?" explained Peter, with great equanimity. + +"Stubborn drunk, blind drunk, beastly drunk, dead drunk, +and damned well drunk, if that's what you want to know!" + +"What did Doc. say?" asked Jimmy. + +"Said he was sick -- had lumbago -- wouldn't come for the Queen of England; +said he wanted a course of treatment himself. Curse him! I have no patience +to talk about him." + +"I'd give him a course of treatment," muttered Jimmy viciously, +trailing the long lash of his bullock-whip through the grass +and spitting spitefully at the ground. + +Dave turned away and joined Joe, who was talking earnestly to his mother +by the kitchen door. He told them that he had spent an hour +trying to persuade Doc. Wild to come, and, that before he had left the shanty, +Black had promised him faithfully to bring the doctor over +as soon as his obstinate mood wore off. + +Just then a low moan was heard from the sick room, followed by +the sound of Mother Palmer's voice calling old Mrs. Middleton, +who went inside immediately. + +No one had noticed the disappearance of Peter, and when he presently returned +from the stockyard, leading the only fresh horse that remained, +Jimmy Nowlett began to regard him with some interest. +Peter transferred the saddle from Dave's horse to the other, +and then went into a small room off the kitchen, which served him +as a bedroom; from it he soon returned with a formidable-looking revolver, +the chambers of which he examined in the moonlight in full view +of all the company. They thought for a moment the man had gone mad. +Old Middleton leaped quickly behind Nowlett, and Black Mary, +who had come out to the cask at the corner for a dipper of water, +dropped the dipper and was inside like a shot. One of the black boys +came softly up at that moment; as soon as his sharp eye "spotted" the weapon, +he disappeared as though the earth had swallowed him. + +"What the mischief are yer goin' ter do, Peter?" asked Jimmy. + +"Goin' to fetch him," said Peter, and, after carefully emptying his pipe +and replacing it in a leather pouch at his belt, he mounted and rode off +at an easy canter. + +Jimmy watched the horse until it disappeared at the edge of the flat, and then +after coiling up the long lash of his bullock-whip in the dust until it looked +like a sleeping snake, he prodded the small end of the long pine handle +into the middle of the coil, as though driving home a point, +and said in a tone of intense conviction: + +"He'll fetch him." + + + + III. + + Doc. Wild + + +Peter gradually increased his horse's speed along the rough bush track +until he was riding at a good pace. It was ten miles to the main road, +and five from there to the shanty kept by Black. + +For some time before Peter started the atmosphere had been +very close and oppressive. The great black edge of a storm-cloud had risen +in the east, and everything indicated the approach of a thunderstorm. +It was not long coming. Before Peter had completed six miles of his journey, +the clouds rolled over, obscuring the moon, and an Australian thunderstorm +came on with its mighty downpour, its blinding lightning, +and its earth-shaking thunder. Peter rode steadily on, +only pausing now and then until a flash revealed the track in front of him. + +Black's shanty -- or, rather, as the sign had it, "Post Office +and General Store" -- was, as we have said, five miles along the main road +from the point where Middleton's track joined it. The building +was of the usual style of bush architecture. About two hundred yards +nearer the creek, which crossed the road further on, +stood a large bark and slab stable, large enough to have met +the requirements of a legitimate bush "public". + +The reader may doubt that a "sly grog shop" could openly carry on business +on a main Government road along which mounted troopers +were continually passing. But then, you see, mounted troopers get thirsty +like other men; moreover, they could always get their thirst quenched `gratis' +at these places; so the reader will be prepared to hear that +on this very night two troopers' horses were stowed snugly away in the stable, +and two troopers were stowed snugly away in the back room of the shanty, +sleeping off the effects of their cheap but strong potations. + +There were two rooms, of a sort, attached to the stables -- one at each end. +One was occupied by a man who was "generally useful", and the other +was the surgery, office, and bedroom `pro tem.' of Doc. Wild. + +Doc. Wild was a tall man, of spare proportions. He had a cadaverous face, +black hair, bushy black eyebrows, eagle nose, and eagle eyes. +He never slept while he was drinking. On this occasion +he sat in front of the fire on a low three-legged stool. +His knees were drawn up, his toes hooked round the front legs of the stool, +one hand resting on one knee, and one elbow (the hand supporting the chin) +resting on the other. He was staring intently into the fire, +on which an old black saucepan was boiling and sending forth +a pungent odour of herbs. There seemed something uncanny about the doctor +as the red light of the fire fell on his hawk-like face and gleaming eyes. +He might have been Mephistopheles watching some infernal brew. + +He had sat there some time without stirring a finger, when the door +suddenly burst open and Middleton's Peter stood within, dripping wet. +The doctor turned his black, piercing eyes upon the intruder +(who regarded him silently) for a moment, and then asked quietly: + +"What the hell do you want?" + +"I want you," said Peter. + +"And what do you want me for?" + +"I want you to come to Joe Middleton's wife. She's bad," said Peter calmly. + +"I won't come," shouted the doctor. "I've brought enough horse-stealers +into the world already. If any more want to come they can go to blazes +for me. Now, you get out of this!" + +"Don't get yer rag out," said Peter quietly. "The hoss-stealer's come, +an' nearly killed his mother ter begin with; an' if yer don't get +yer physic-box an' come wi' me, by the great God I'll ----" + +Here the revolver was produced and pointed at Doc. Wild's head. +The sight of the weapon had a sobering effect upon the doctor. He rose, +looked at Peter critically for a moment, knocked the weapon out of his hand, +and said slowly and deliberately: + +"Wall, ef the case es as serious as that, I (hic) reckon I'd better come." + +Peter was still of the same opinion, so Doc. Wild proceeded +to get his medicine chest ready. He explained afterwards, +in one of his softer moments, that the shooter didn't frighten him so much +as it touched his memory -- "sorter put him in mind of the old days +in California, and made him think of the man he might have been," +he'd say, -- "kinder touched his heart and slid the durned old panorama +in front of him like a flash; made him think of the time +when he slipped three leaden pills into `Blue Shirt' for winking at a new chum +behind his (the Doc.'s) back when he was telling a truthful yarn, +and charged the said `Blue Shirt' a hundred dollars for extracting +the said pills." + +Joe Middleton's wife is a grandmother now. + +Peter passed after the manner of his sort; he was found dead in his bunk. + +Poor Doc. Wild died in a shepherd's hut at the Dry Creeks. +The shepherds (white men) found him, "naked as he was born and with the hide +half burned off him with the sun," rounding up imaginary snakes +on a dusty clearing, one blazing hot day. The hut-keeper had +some "quare" (queer) experiences with the doctor during the next three days +and used, in after years, to tell of them, between the puffs of his pipe, +calmly and solemnly and as if the story was rather to the doctor's credit +than otherwise. The shepherds sent for the police and a doctor, +and sent word to Joe Middleton. Doc. Wild was sensible towards the end. +His interview with the other doctor was characteristic. "And, now you see +how far I am," he said in conclusion -- "have you brought the brandy?" +The other doctor had. Joe Middleton came with his waggonette, +and in it the softest mattress and pillows the station afforded. +He also, in his innocence, brought a dozen of soda-water. +Doc. Wild took Joe's hand feebly, and, a little later, he "passed out" +(as he would have said) murmuring "something that sounded like poetry", +in an unknown tongue. Joe took the body to the home station. +"Who's the boss bringin'?" asked the shearers, seeing the waggonette +coming very slowly and the boss walking by the horses' heads. +"Doc. Wild," said a station hand. "Take yer hats off." + +They buried him with bush honours, and chiselled his name +on a slab of bluegum -- a wood that lasts. + + + + +The Mystery of Dave Regan + + + +"And then there was Dave Regan," said the traveller. "Dave used to die +oftener than any other bushman I knew. He was always being reported dead +and turnin' up again. He seemed to like it -- except once, when his brother +drew his money and drank it all to drown his grief at what he called +Dave's `untimely end'. Well, Dave went up to Queensland once with cattle, +and was away three years and reported dead, as usual. +He was drowned in the Bogan this time while tryin' to swim his horse +acrost a flood -- and his sweetheart hurried up and got spliced to a worse man +before Dave got back. + +"Well, one day I was out in the bush lookin' for timber, +when the biggest storm ever knowed in that place come on. +There was hail in it, too, as big as bullets, and if I hadn't +got behind a stump and crouched down in time I'd have been riddled +like a -- like a bushranger. As it was, I got soakin' wet. +The storm was over in a few minutes, the water run off down the gullies, +and the sun come out and the scrub steamed -- and stunk +like a new pair of moleskin trousers. I went on along the track, +and presently I seen a long, lanky chap get on to a long, lanky horse +and ride out of a bush yard at the edge of a clearin'. +I knowed it was Dave d'reckly I set eyes on him. + +"Dave used to ride a tall, holler-backed thoroughbred with a body and limbs +like a kangaroo dog, and it would circle around you and sidle away +as if it was frightened you was goin' to jab a knife into it. + +"`'Ello! Dave!' said I, as he came spurrin' up. `How are yer!' + +"`'Ello, Jim!' says he. `How are you?' + +"`All right!' says I. `How are yer gettin' on?' + +"But, before we could say any more, that horse shied away and broke off +through the scrub to the right. I waited, because I knowed +Dave would come back again if I waited long enough; and in about ten minutes +he came sidlin' in from the scrub to the left. + +"`Oh, I'm all right,' says he, spurrin' up sideways; `How are you?' + +"`Right!' says I. `How's the old people?' + +"`Oh, I ain't been home yet,' says he, holdin' out his hand; +but, afore I could grip it, the cussed horse sidled off +to the south end of the clearin' and broke away again through the scrub. + +"I heard Dave swearin' about the country for twenty minutes or so, +and then he came spurrin' and cursin' in from the other end of the clearin'. + +"`Where have you been all this time?' I said, as the horse came curvin' up +like a boomerang. + +"`Gulf country,' said Dave. + +"`That was a storm, Dave,' said I. + +"`My oath!' says Dave. + +"`Get caught in it?' + +"`Yes.' + +"`Got to shelter?' + +"`No.' + +"`But you're as dry's a bone, Dave!' + +"Dave grinned. `------ and ------ and ------ the --------!' he yelled. + +"He said that to the horse as it boomeranged off again and broke away +through the scrub. I waited; but he didn't come back, +and I reckoned he'd got so far away before he could pull up +that he didn't think it worth while comin' back; so I went on. +By-and-bye I got thinkin'. Dave was as dry as a bone, +and I knowed that he hadn't had time to get to shelter, +for there wasn't a shed within twelve miles. He wasn't only dry, +but his coat was creased and dusty too -- same as if he'd been sleepin' +in a holler log; and when I come to think of it, his face seemed +thinner and whiter than it used ter, and so did his hands and wrists, +which always stuck a long way out of his coat-sleeves; and there was blood +on his face -- but I thought he'd got scratched with a twig. +(Dave used to wear a coat three or four sizes too small for him, +with sleeves that didn't come much below his elbows and a tail +that scarcely reached his waist behind.) And his hair seemed dark and lank, +instead of bein' sandy and stickin' out like an old fibre brush, +as it used ter. And then I thought his voice sounded different, too. +And, when I enquired next day, there was no one heard of Dave, +and the chaps reckoned I must have been drunk, or seen his ghost. + +"It didn't seem all right at all -- it worried me a lot. I couldn't make out +how Dave kept dry; and the horse and saddle and saddle-cloth was wet. +I told the chaps how he talked to me and what he said, and how he swore +at the horse; but they only said it was Dave's ghost and nobody else's. +I told 'em about him bein' dry as a bone after gettin' caught in that storm; +but they only laughed and said it was a dry place where Dave went to. +I talked and argued about it until the chaps began to +tap their foreheads and wink -- then I left off talking. +But I didn't leave off thinkin' -- I always hated a mystery. +Even Dave's father told me that Dave couldn't be alive or else his ghost +wouldn't be round -- he said he knew Dave better than that. +One or two fellers did turn up afterwards that had seen Dave +about the time that I did -- and then the chaps said they was sure +that Dave was dead. + +"But one fine day, as a lot of us chaps was playin' pitch and toss +at the shanty, one of the fellers yelled out: + +"`By Gee! Here comes Dave Regan!' + +"And I looked up and saw Dave himself, sidlin' out of a cloud of dust +on a long lanky horse. He rode into the stockyard, got down, +hung his horse up to a post, put up the rails, and then come +slopin' towards us with a half-acre grin on his face. +Dave had long, thin bow-legs, and when he was on the ground +he moved as if he was on roller skates. + +"`'El-lo, Dave!' says I. `How are yer?' + +"`'Ello, Jim!' said he. `How the blazes are you?' + +"`All right!' says I, shakin' hands. `How are yer?' + +"`Oh! I'm all right!' he says. `How are yer poppin' up!' + +"Well, when we'd got all that settled, and the other chaps had asked +how he was, he said: `Ah, well! Let's have a drink.' + +"And all the other chaps crawfished up and flung themselves round the corner +and sidled into the bar after Dave. We had a lot of talk, and he told us +that he'd been down before, but had gone away without seein' any of us, +except me, because he'd suddenly heard of a mob of cattle at a station +two hundred miles away; and after a while I took him aside and said: + +"`Look here, Dave! Do you remember the day I met you after the storm?' + +"He scratched his head. + +"`Why, yes,' he says. + +"`Did you get under shelter that day?' + +"`Why -- no.' + +"`Then how the blazes didn't yer get wet?' + +"Dave grinned; then he says: + +"`Why, when I seen the storm coming I took off me clothes +and stuck 'em in a holler log till the rain was over.' + +"`Yes,' he says, after the other coves had done laughin', +but before I'd done thinking; `I kept my clothes dry and got +a good refreshin' shower-bath into the bargain.' + +"Then he scratched the back of his neck with his little finger, +and dropped his jaw, and thought a bit; then he rubbed +the top of his head and his shoulder, reflective-like, and then he said: + +"`But I didn't reckon for them there blanky hailstones.'" + + + + +Mitchell on Matrimony + + + +"I suppose your wife will be glad to see you," said Mitchell to his mate +in their camp by the dam at Hungerford. They were overhauling their swags, +and throwing away the blankets, and calico, and old clothes, +and rubbish they didn't want -- everything, in fact, +except their pocket-books and letters and portraits, +things which men carry about with them always, that are found on them +when they die, and sent to their relations if possible. +Otherwise they are taken in charge by the constable who officiates +at the inquest, and forwarded to the Minister of Justice +along with the depositions. + +It was the end of the shearing season. Mitchell and his mate +had been lucky enough to get two good sheds in succession, +and were going to take the coach from Hungerford to Bourke +on their way to Sydney. The morning stars were bright yet, +and they sat down to a final billy of tea, two dusty Johnny-cakes, +and a scrag of salt mutton. + +"Yes," said Mitchell's mate, "and I'll be glad to see her too." + +"I suppose you will," said Mitchell. He placed his pint-pot between his feet, +rested his arm against his knee, and stirred the tea meditatively +with the handle of his pocket-knife. It was vaguely understood +that Mitchell had been married at one period of his chequered career. + +"I don't think we ever understood women properly," he said, +as he took a cautious sip to see if his tea was cool and sweet enough, +for his lips were sore; "I don't think we ever will -- we never took +the trouble to try, and if we did it would be only wasted brain power +that might just as well be spent on the blackfellow's lingo; +because by the time you've learnt it they'll be extinct, +and woman 'll be extinct before you've learnt her. . . . +The morning star looks bright, doesn't it?" + +"Ah, well," said Mitchell after a while, "there's many little things +we might try to understand women in. I read in a piece of newspaper +the other day about how a man changes after he's married; +how he gets short, and impatient, and bored (which is only natural), +and sticks up a wall of newspaper between himself and his wife +when he's at home; and how it comes like a cold shock to her, +and all her air-castles vanish, and in the end she often thinks +about taking the baby and the clothes she stands in, and going home +for sympathy and comfort to mother. + +"Perhaps she never got a word of sympathy from her mother in her life, +nor a day's comfort at home before she was married; but that doesn't make +the slightest difference. It doesn't make any difference in your case either, +if you haven't been acting like a dutiful son-in-law. + +"Somebody wrote that a woman's love is her whole existence, while a man's love +is only part of his -- which is true, and only natural and reasonable, +all things considered. But women never consider as a rule. A man can't go on +talking lovey-dovey talk for ever, and listening to his young wife's prattle +when he's got to think about making a living, and nursing her and answering +her childish questions and telling her he loves his little ownest +every minute in the day, while the bills are running up, and rent mornings +begin to fly round and hustle and crowd him. + +"He's got her and he's satisfied; and if the truth is known +he loves her really more than he did when they were engaged, +only she won't be satisfied about it unless he tells her so +every hour in the day. At least that's how it is for the first few months. + +"But a woman doesn't understand these things -- she never will, she can't -- +and it would be just as well for us to try and understand +that she doesn't and can't understand them." + +Mitchell knocked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin against his boot, +and reached for the billy. + +"There's many little things we might do that seem mere trifles and nonsense +to us, but mean a lot to her; that wouldn't be any trouble or sacrifice to us, +but might help to make her life happy. It's just because we never think about +these little things -- don't think them worth thinking about, in fact -- +they never enter our intellectual foreheads. + +"For instance, when you're going out in the morning you might +put your arms round her and give her a hug and a kiss, without her having +to remind you. You may forget about it and never think any more of it -- +but she will. + +"It wouldn't be any trouble to you, and would only take a couple of seconds, +and would give her something to be happy about when you're gone, +and make her sing to herself for hours while she bustles about her work +and thinks up what she'll get you for dinner." + +Mitchell's mate sighed, and shifted the sugar-bag over towards Mitchell. +He seemed touched and bothered over something. + +"Then again," said Mitchell, "it mightn't be convenient for you +to go home to dinner -- something might turn up during the morning -- +you might have some important business to do, or meet some chaps +and get invited to lunch and not be very well able to refuse, +when it's too late, or you haven't a chance to send a message to your wife. +But then again, chaps and business seem very big things to you, +and only little things to the wife; just as lovey-dovey talk +is important to her and nonsense to you. And when you come to analyse it, +one is not so big, nor the other so small, after all; +especially when you come to think that chaps can always wait, +and business is only an inspiration in your mind, nine cases out of ten. + +"Think of the trouble she takes to get you a good dinner, +and how she keeps it hot between two plates in the oven, +and waits hour after hour till the dinner gets dried up, +and all her morning's work is wasted. Think how it hurts her, +and how anxious she'll be (especially if you're inclined to booze) +for fear that something has happened to you. You can't get it +out of the heads of some young wives that you're liable to get run over, +or knocked down, or assaulted, or robbed, or get into one of the fixes +that a woman is likely to get into. But about the dinner waiting. +Try and put yourself in her place. Wouldn't you get mad +under the same circumstances? I know I would. + +"I remember once, only just after I was married, I was invited unexpectedly +to a kidney pudding and beans -- which was my favourite grub at the time -- +and I didn't resist, especially as it was washing day and I told the wife +not to bother about anything for dinner. I got home an hour or so late, +and had a good explanation thought out, when the wife met me with a smile +as if we had just been left a thousand pounds. She'd got her washing finished +without assistance, though I'd told her to get somebody to help her, +and she had a kidney pudding and beans, with a lot of extras thrown in, +as a pleasant surprise for me. + +"Well, I kissed her, and sat down, and stuffed till I thought every mouthful +would choke me. I got through with it somehow, but I've never cared +for kidney pudding or beans since." + +Mitchell felt for his pipe with a fatherly smile in his eyes. + +"And then again," he continued, as he cut up his tobacco, +"your wife might put on a new dress and fix herself up and look well, +and you might think so and be satisfied with her appearance and be proud +to take her out; but you want to tell her so, and tell her so +as often as you think about it -- and try to think a little oftener +than men usually do, too." + + . . . . . + +"You should have made a good husband, Jack," said his mate, +in a softened tone. + +"Ah, well, perhaps I should," said Mitchell, rubbing up his tobacco; +then he asked abstractedly: "What sort of a husband did you make, Joe?" + +"I might have made a better one than I did," said Joe seriously, +and rather bitterly, "but I know one thing, I'm going to try +and make up for it when I go back this time." + +"We all say that," said Mitchell reflectively, filling his pipe. +"She loves you, Joe." + +"I know she does," said Joe. + +Mitchell lit up. + +"And so would any man who knew her or had seen her letters to you," +he said between the puffs. "She's happy and contented enough, I believe?" + +"Yes," said Joe, "at least while I was there. She's never easy when I'm away. +I might have made her a good deal more happy and contented +without hurting myself much." + +Mitchell smoked long, soft, measured puffs. + +His mate shifted uneasily and glanced at him a couple of times, +and seemed to become impatient, and to make up his mind about something; +or perhaps he got an idea that Mitchell had been "having" him, +and felt angry over being betrayed into maudlin confidences; +for he asked abruptly: + +"How is your wife now, Mitchell?" + +"I don't know," said Mitchell calmly. + +"Don't know?" echoed the mate. "Didn't you treat her well?" + +Mitchell removed his pipe and drew a long breath. + +"Ah, well, I tried to," he said wearily. + +"Well, did you put your theory into practice?" + +"I did," said Mitchell very deliberately. + +Joe waited, but nothing came. + +"Well?" he asked impatiently, "How did it act? Did it work well?" + +"I don't know," said Mitchell (puff); "she left me." + +"What!" + +Mitchell jerked the half-smoked pipe from his mouth, +and rapped the burning tobacco out against the toe of his boot. + +"She left me," he said, standing up and stretching himself. +Then, with a vicious jerk of his arm, "She left me for -- +another kind of a fellow!" + +He looked east towards the public-house, where they were taking +the coach-horses from the stable. + +"Why don't you finish your tea, Joe? The billy's getting cold." + + + + +Mitchell on Women + + + +"All the same," said Mitchell's mate, continuing an argument by the camp-fire; +"all the same, I think that a woman can stand cold water better than a man. +Why, when I was staying in a boarding-house in Dunedin, one very cold winter, +there was a lady lodger who went down to the shower-bath first thing +every morning; never missed one; sometimes went in freezing weather +when I wouldn't go into a cold bath for a fiver; and sometimes +she'd stay under the shower for ten minutes at a time." + +"How'd you know?" + +"Why, my room was near the bath-room, and I could hear +the shower and tap going, and her floundering about." + +"Hear your grandmother!" exclaimed Mitchell, contemptuously. +"You don't know women yet. Was this woman married? Did she have +a husband there?" + +"No; she was a young widow." + +"Ah! well, it would have been the same if she was a young girl -- +or an old one. Were there some passable men-boarders there?" + +"_I_ was there." + +"Oh, yes! But I mean, were there any there beside you?" + +"Oh, yes, there were three or four; there was -- a clerk and a ----" + +"Never mind, as long as there was something with trousers on. +Did it ever strike you that she never got into the bath at all?" + +"Why, no! What would she want to go there at all for, in that case?" + +"To make an impression on the men," replied Mitchell promptly. +"She wanted to make out she was nice, and wholesome, and well-washed, +and particular. Made an impression on YOU, it seems, +or you wouldn't remember it." + +"Well, yes, I suppose so; and, now I come to think of it, +the bath didn't seem to injure her make-up or wet her hair; +but I supposed she held her head from under the shower somehow." + +"Did she make-up so early in the morning?" asked Mitchell. + +"Yes -- I'm sure." + +"That's unusual; but it might have been so where there was a lot of boarders. +And about the hair -- that didn't count for anything, because washing-the-head +ain't supposed to be always included in a lady's bath; it's only supposed +to be washed once a fortnight, and some don't do it once a month. +The hair takes so long to dry; it don't matter so much +if the woman's got short, scraggy hair; but if a girl's hair +was down to her waist it would take hours to dry." + +"Well, how do they manage it without wetting their heads?" + +"Oh, that's easy enough. They have a little oilskin cap that fits tight +over the forehead, and they put it on, and bunch their hair up in it +when they go under the shower. Did you ever see a woman sit in a sunny place +with her hair down after having a wash?" + +"Yes, I used to see one do that regular where I was staying; +but I thought she only did it to show off." + +"Not at all -- she was drying her hair; though perhaps she was showing off +at the same time, for she wouldn't sit where you -- or even a Chinaman -- +could see her, if she didn't think she had a good head of hair. +Now, I'LL tell you a yarn about a woman's bath. I was stopping +at a shabby-genteel boarding-house in Melbourne once, and one +very cold winter, too; and there was a rather good-looking woman there, +looking for a husband. She used to go down to the bath every morning, +no matter how cold it was, and flounder and splash about as if she enjoyed it, +till you'd feel as though you'd like to go and catch hold of her +and wrap her in a rug and carry her in to the fire and nurse her +till she was warm again." + +Mitchell's mate moved uneasily, and crossed the other leg; +he seemed greatly interested. + +"But she never went into the water at all!" continued Mitchell. +"As soon as one or two of the men was up in the morning she'd come down +from her room in a dressing-gown. It was a toney dressing-gown, too, +and set her off properly. She knew how to dress, anyway; +most of that sort of women do. The gown was a kind of green colour, +with pink and white flowers all over it, and red lining, +and a lot of coffee-coloured lace round the neck and down the front. +Well, she'd come tripping downstairs and along the passage, holding up +one side of the gown to show her little bare white foot in a slipper; +and in the other hand she carried her tooth-brush and bath-brush, +and soap -- like this -- so's we all could see 'em; trying to make out +she was too particular to use soap after anyone else. +She could afford to buy her own soap, anyhow; it was hardly ever wet. + +"Well, she'd go into the bathroom and turn on the tap and shower; +when she got about three inches of water in the bath, she'd step in, +holding up her gown out of the water, and go slithering and kicking +up and down the bath, like this, making a tremendous splashing. +Of course she'd turn off the shower first, and screw it off very tight -- +wouldn't do to let that leak, you know; she might get wet; +but she'd leave the other tap on, so as to make all the more noise." + +"But how did you come to know all about this?" + +"Oh, the servant girl told me. One morning she twigged her +through a corner of the bathroom window that the curtain didn't cover." + +"You seem to have been pretty thick with servant girls." + +"So do you with landladies! But never mind -- let me finish the yarn. +When she thought she'd splashed enough, she'd get out, wipe her feet, wash her +face and hands, and carefully unbutton the two top buttons of her gown; +then throw a towel over her head and shoulders, and listen at the door +till she thought she heard some of the men moving about. +Then she'd start for her room, and, if she met one of the men-boarders +in the passage or on the stairs, she'd drop her eyes, and pretend to see +for the first time that the top of her dressing-gown wasn't buttoned -- +and she'd give a little start and grab the gown and scurry off to her room +buttoning it up. + +"And sometimes she'd come skipping into the breakfast-room late, +looking awfully sweet in her dressing-gown; and if she saw any of us there, +she'd pretend to be much startled, and say that she thought +all the men had gone out, and make as though she was going to clear; +and someone 'd jump up and give her a chair, while someone else said, +`Come in, Miss Brown! come in! Don't let us frighten you. Come right in, +and have your breakfast before it gets cold.' So she'd flutter a bit +in pretty confusion, and then make a sweet little girly-girly dive +for her chair, and tuck her feet away under the table; and she'd blush, too, +but I don't know how she managed that. + +"I know another trick that women have; it's mostly played by private barmaids. +That is, to leave a stocking by accident in the bathroom for the gentlemen +to find. If the barmaid's got a nice foot and ankle, she uses +one of her own stockings; but if she hasn't she gets hold of a stocking +that belongs to a girl that has. Anyway, she'll have one readied up somehow. +The stocking must be worn and nicely darned; one that's been worn +will keep the shape of the leg and foot -- at least till it's washed again. +Well, the barmaid generally knows what time the gentlemen go to bath, +and she'll make it a point of going down just as a gentleman's going. +Of course he'll give her the preference -- let her go first, you know -- +and she'll go in and accidentally leave the stocking in a place +where he's sure to see it, and when she comes out he'll go in and find it; +and very likely he'll be a jolly sort of fellow, and when they're all +sitting down to breakfast he'll come in and ask them to guess what he's found, +and then he'll hold up the stocking. The barmaid likes this sort of thing; +but she'll hold down her head, and pretend to be confused, and keep her eyes +on her plate, and there'll be much blushing and all that sort of thing, +and perhaps she'll gammon to be mad at him, and the landlady'll say, +`Oh, Mr. Smith! how can yer? At the breakfast table, too!' +and they'll all laugh and look at the barmaid, and she'll get more embarrassed +than ever, and spill her tea, and make out as though the stocking +didn't belong to her." + + + + +No Place for a Woman + + + +He had a selection on a long box-scrub siding of the ridges, +about half a mile back and up from the coach road. There were no neighbours +that I ever heard of, and the nearest "town" was thirty miles away. +He grew wheat among the stumps of his clearing, sold the crop standing +to a Cockie who lived ten miles away, and had some surplus sons; +or, some seasons, he reaped it by hand, had it thrashed +by travelling "steamer" (portable steam engine and machine), +and carried the grain, a few bags at a time, into the mill +on his rickety dray. + +He had lived alone for upwards of 15 years, and was known +to those who knew him as "Ratty Howlett". + +Trav'lers and strangers failed to see anything uncommonly ratty about him. +It was known, or, at least, it was believed, without question, +that while at work he kept his horse saddled and bridled, +and hung up to the fence, or grazing about, with the saddle on -- or, anyway, +close handy for a moment's notice -- and whenever he caught sight, +over the scrub and through the quarter-mile break in it, +of a traveller on the road, he would jump on his horse and make after him. +If it was a horseman he usually pulled him up inside of a mile. +Stories were told of unsuccessful chases, misunderstandings, and complications +arising out of Howlett's mania for running down and bailing up travellers. +Sometimes he caught one every day for a week, sometimes not one for weeks -- +it was a lonely track. + +The explanation was simple, sufficient, and perfectly natural -- +from a bushman's point of view. Ratty only wanted to have a yarn. +He and the traveller would camp in the shade for half an hour or so +and yarn and smoke. The old man would find out where the traveller came from, +and how long he'd been there, and where he was making for, +and how long he reckoned he'd be away; and ask if there had been any rain +along the traveller's back track, and how the country looked +after the drought; and he'd get the traveller's ideas on abstract questions -- +if he had any. If it was a footman (swagman), and he was short of tobacco, +old Howlett always had half a stick ready for him. Sometimes, +but very rarely, he'd invite the swagman back to the hut for a pint of tea, +or a bit of meat, flour, tea, or sugar, to carry him along the track. + +And, after the yarn by the road, they said, the old man would ride back, +refreshed, to his lonely selection, and work on into the night +as long as he could see his solitary old plough horse, +or the scoop of his long-handled shovel. + +And so it was that I came to make his acquaintance -- or, rather, +that he made mine. I was cantering easily along the track +-- I was making for the north-west with a pack horse -- when about a mile +beyond the track to the selection I heard, "Hi, Mister!" and saw a dust cloud +following me. I had heard of "Old Ratty Howlett" casually, +and so was prepared for him. + +A tall gaunt man on a little horse. He was clean-shaven, +except for a frill beard round under his chin, and his long wavy, dark hair +was turning grey; a square, strong-faced man, and reminded me +of one full-faced portrait of Gladstone more than any other face I had seen. +He had large reddish-brown eyes, deep set under heavy eyebrows, +and with something of the blackfellow in them -- the sort of eyes +that will peer at something on the horizon that no one else can see. +He had a way of talking to the horizon, too -- more than to his companion; +and he had a deep vertical wrinkle in his forehead that no smile could lessen. + +I got down and got out my pipe, and we sat on a log and yarned awhile +on bush subjects; and then, after a pause, he shifted uneasily, +it seemed to me, and asked rather abruptly, and in an altered tone, +if I was married. A queer question to ask a traveller; more especially +in my case, as I was little more than a boy then. + +He talked on again of old things and places where we had both been, +and asked after men he knew, or had known -- drovers and others -- +and whether they were living yet. Most of his inquiries went back +before my time; but some of the drovers, one or two overlanders +with whom he had been mates in his time, had grown old into mine, +and I knew them. I notice now, though I didn't then -- and if I had +it would not have seemed strange from a bush point of view -- +that he didn't ask for news, nor seem interested in it. + +Then after another uneasy pause, during which he scratched crosses in the dust +with a stick, he asked me, in the same queer tone and without +looking at me or looking up, if I happened to know anything about doctoring -- +if I'd ever studied it. + +I asked him if anyone was sick at his place. He hesitated, and said "No." +Then I wanted to know why he had asked me that question, +and he was so long about answering that I began to think +he was hard of hearing, when, at last, he muttered something about my face +reminding him of a young fellow he knew of who'd gone to Sydney +to "study for a doctor". That might have been, and looked natural enough; +but why didn't he ask me straight out if I was the chap he "knowed of"? +Travellers do not like beating about the bush in conversation. + +He sat in silence for a good while, with his arms folded, +and looking absently away over the dead level of the great scrubs +that spread from the foot of the ridge we were on to where +a blue peak or two of a distant range showed above the bush on the horizon. + +I stood up and put my pipe away and stretched. Then he seemed to wake up. +"Better come back to the hut and have a bit of dinner," he said. +"The missus will about have it ready, and I'll spare you a handful of hay +for the horses." + +The hay decided it. It was a dry season. I was surprised to hear of a wife, +for I thought he was a hatter -- I had always heard so; +but perhaps I had been mistaken, and he had married lately; +or had got a housekeeper. The farm was an irregularly-shaped clearing +in the scrub, with a good many stumps in it, with a broken-down two-rail fence +along the frontage, and logs and "dog-leg" the rest. It was about +as lonely-looking a place as I had seen, and I had seen some out-of-the-way, +God-forgotten holes where men lived alone. The hut was in the top corner, +a two-roomed slab hut, with a shingle roof, which must have been +uncommon round there in the days when that hut was built. +I was used to bush carpentering, and saw that the place had been put up +by a man who had plenty of life and hope in front of him, and for someone else +beside himself. But there were two unfinished skilling rooms +built on to the back of the hut; the posts, sleepers, and wall-plates +had been well put up and fitted, and the slab walls were up, +but the roof had never been put on. There was nothing but burrs and nettles +inside those walls, and an old wooden bullock plough and a couple of yokes +were dry-rotting across the back doorway. The remains of a straw-stack, +some hay under a bark humpy, a small iron plough, and an old stiff +coffin-headed grey draught horse, were all that I saw about the place. + +But there was a bit of a surprise for me inside, in the shape of +a clean white tablecloth on the rough slab table which stood on stakes +driven into the ground. The cloth was coarse, but it was a tablecloth +-- not a spare sheet put on in honour of unexpected visitors -- +and perfectly clean. The tin plates, pannikins, and jam tins +that served as sugar bowls and salt cellars were polished brightly. +The walls and fireplace were whitewashed, the clay floor swept, +and clean sheets of newspaper laid on the slab mantleshelf +under the row of biscuit tins that held the groceries. +I thought that his wife, or housekeeper, or whatever she was, +was a clean and tidy woman about a house. I saw no woman; but on the sofa +-- a light, wooden, batten one, with runged arms at the ends -- +lay a woman's dress on a lot of sheets of old stained and faded newspapers. +He looked at it in a puzzled way, knitting his forehead, +then took it up absently and folded it. I saw then that it was +a riding skirt and jacket. He bundled them into the newspapers +and took them into the bedroom. + +"The wife was going on a visit down the creek this afternoon," +he said rapidly and without looking at me, but stooping as if +to have another look through the door at those distant peaks. +"I suppose she got tired o' waitin', and went and took the daughter with her. +But, never mind, the grub is ready." There was a camp-oven +with a leg of mutton and potatoes sizzling in it on the hearth, +and billies hanging over the fire. I noticed the billies had been scraped, +and the lids polished. + +There seemed to be something queer about the whole business, +but then he and his wife might have had a "breeze" during the morning. +I thought so during the meal, when the subject of women came up, +and he said one never knew how to take a woman, etc.; +but there was nothing in what he said that need necessarily +have referred to his wife or to any woman in particular. +For the rest he talked of old bush things, droving, digging, +and old bushranging -- but never about live things and living men, +unless any of the old mates he talked about happened to be alive by accident. +He was very restless in the house, and never took his hat off. + +There was a dress and a woman's old hat hanging on the wall near the door, +but they looked as if they might have been hanging there for a lifetime. +There seemed something queer about the whole place -- something wanting; +but then all out-of-the-way bush homes are haunted by that something wanting, +or, more likely, by the spirits of the things that should have been there, +but never had been. + +As I rode down the track to the road I looked back and saw old Howlett +hard at work in a hole round a big stump with his long-handled shovel. + +I'd noticed that he moved and walked with a slight list to port, +and put his hand once or twice to the small of his back, +and I set it down to lumbago, or something of that sort. + +Up in the Never Never I heard from a drover who had known Howlett +that his wife had died in the first year, and so this mysterious woman, +if she was his wife, was, of course, his second wife. +The drover seemed surprised and rather amused at the thought of old Howlett +going in for matrimony again. + + . . . . . + +I rode back that way five years later, from the Never Never. +It was early in the morning -- I had ridden since midnight. +I didn't think the old man would be up and about; and, besides, +I wanted to get on home, and have a look at the old folk, and the mates +I'd left behind -- and the girl. But I hadn't got far past the point +where Howlett's track joined the road, when I happened to look back, +and saw him on horseback, stumbling down the track. I waited till he came up. + +He was riding the old grey draught horse this time, and it looked +very much broken down. I thought it would have come down every step, +and fallen like an old rotten humpy in a gust of wind. +And the old man was not much better off. I saw at once +that he was a very sick man. His face was drawn, and he bent forward +as if he was hurt. He got down stiffly and awkwardly, like a hurt man, +and as soon as his feet touched the ground he grabbed my arm, +or he would have gone down like a man who steps off a train in motion. +He hung towards the bank of the road, feeling blindly, as it were, +for the ground, with his free hand, as I eased him down. +I got my blanket and calico from the pack saddle to make him comfortable. + +"Help me with my back agen the tree," he said. "I must sit up -- +it's no use lyin' me down." + +He sat with his hand gripping his side, and breathed painfully. + +"Shall I run up to the hut and get the wife?" I asked. + +"No." He spoke painfully. "No!" Then, as if the words +were jerked out of him by a spasm: "She ain't there." + +I took it that she had left him. + +"How long have you been bad? How long has this been coming on?" + +He took no notice of the question. I thought it was +a touch of rheumatic fever, or something of that sort. +"It's gone into my back and sides now -- the pain's worse in me back," +he said presently. + +I had once been mates with a man who died suddenly of heart disease, +while at work. He was washing a dish of dirt in the creek +near a claim we were working; he let the dish slip into the water, +fell back, crying, "O, my back!" and was gone. And now I felt by instinct +that it was poor old Howlett's heart that was wrong. A man's heart +is in his back as well as in his arms and hands. + +The old man had turned pale with the pallor of a man who turns faint +in a heat wave, and his arms fell loosely, and his hands rocked helplessly +with the knuckles in the dust. I felt myself turning white, too, +and the sick, cold, empty feeling in my stomach, for I knew the signs. +Bushmen stand in awe of sickness and death. + +But after I'd fixed him comfortably and given him a drink from the water bag +the greyness left his face, and he pulled himself together a bit; +he drew up his arms and folded them across his chest. +He let his head rest back against the tree -- his slouch hat had fallen off +revealing a broad, white brow, much higher than I expected. +He seemed to gaze on the azure fin of the range, showing above +the dark blue-green bush on the horizon. + +Then he commenced to speak -- taking no notice of me when I asked him +if he felt better now -- to talk in that strange, absent, far-away tone +that awes one. He told his story mechanically, monotonously -- +in set words, as I believe now, as he had often told it before; +if not to others, then to the loneliness of the bush. +And he used the names of people and places that I had never heard of -- +just as if I knew them as well as he did. + +"I didn't want to bring her up the first year. It was no place for a woman. +I wanted her to stay with her people and wait till I'd got the place +a little more ship-shape. The Phippses took a selection down the creek. +I wanted her to wait and come up with them so's she'd have some company -- +a woman to talk to. They came afterwards, but they didn't stop. +It was no place for a woman. + +"But Mary would come. She wouldn't stop with her people down country. +She wanted to be with me, and look after me, and work and help me." + +He repeated himself a great deal -- said the same thing +over and over again sometimes. He was only mad on one track. +He'd tail off and sit silent for a while; then he'd become aware of me +in a hurried, half-scared way, and apologise for putting me +to all that trouble, and thank me. "I'll be all right d'reckly. +Best take the horses up to the hut and have some breakfast; +you'll find it by the fire. I'll foller you, d'reckly. +The wife'll be waitin' an' ----" He would drop off, +and be going again presently on the old track: -- + +"Her mother was coming up to stay awhile at the end of the year, +but the old man hurt his leg. Then her married sister was coming, +but one of the youngsters got sick and there was trouble at home. +I saw the doctor in the town -- thirty miles from here -- +and fixed it up with him. He was a boozer -- I'd 'a shot him afterwards. +I fixed up with a woman in the town to come and stay. I thought Mary +was wrong in her time. She must have been a month or six weeks out. +But I listened to her. . . . Don't argue with a woman. +Don't listen to a woman. Do the right thing. We should have had +a mother woman to talk to us. But it was no place for a woman!" + +He rocked his head, as if from some old agony of mind, against the tree-trunk. + +"She was took bad suddenly one night, but it passed off. False alarm. +I was going to ride somewhere, but she said to wait till daylight. +Someone was sure to pass. She was a brave and sensible girl, +but she had a terror of being left alone. It was no place for a woman! + +"There was a black shepherd three or four miles away. I rode over +while Mary was asleep, and started the black boy into town. +I'd 'a shot him afterwards if I'd 'a caught him. The old black gin was dead +the week before, or Mary would a' bin alright. She was tied up in a bunch +with strips of blanket and greenhide, and put in a hole. +So there wasn't even a gin near the place. It was no place for a woman! + +"I was watchin' the road at daylight, and I was watchin' the road at dusk. +I went down in the hollow and stooped down to get the gap agen the sky, +so's I could see if anyone was comin' over. . . . I'd get on the horse +and gallop along towards the town for five miles, but something would +drag me back, and then I'd race for fear she'd die before I got to the hut. +I expected the doctor every five minutes. + +"It come on about daylight next morning. I ran back'ards and for'ards +between the hut and the road like a madman. And no one come. +I was running amongst the logs and stumps, and fallin' over them, +when I saw a cloud of dust agen sunrise. It was her mother an' sister +in the spring-cart, an' just catchin' up to them was the doctor in his buggy +with the woman I'd arranged with in town. The mother and sister +was staying at the town for the night, when they heard of the black boy. +It took him a day to ride there. I'd 'a shot him if I'd 'a caught him +ever after. The doctor'd been on the drunk. If I'd had the gun and known +she was gone I'd have shot him in the buggy. They said she was dead. +And the child was dead, too. + +"They blamed me, but I didn't want her to come; it was no place for a woman. +I never saw them again after the funeral. I didn't want to see them +any more." + +He moved his head wearily against the tree, and presently drifted on again +in a softer tone -- his eyes and voice were growing more absent and dreamy +and far away. + +"About a month after -- or a year, I lost count of the time long ago -- +she came back to me. At first she'd come in the night, then sometimes +when I was at work -- and she had the baby -- it was a girl -- in her arms. +And by-and-bye she came to stay altogether. . . . I didn't blame her +for going away that time -- it was no place for a woman. . . . +She was a good wife to me. She was a jolly girl when I married her. +The little girl grew up like her. I was going to send her down country +to be educated -- it was no place for a girl. + +"But a month, or a year, ago, Mary left me, and took the daughter, +and never came back till last night -- this morning, I think it was. +I thought at first it was the girl with her hair done up, +and her mother's skirt on, to surprise her old dad. But it was Mary, +my wife -- as she was when I married her. She said she couldn't stay, +but she'd wait for me on the road; on -- the road. . . ." + +His arms fell, and his face went white. I got the water-bag. +"Another turn like that and you'll be gone," I thought, as he came to again. +Then I suddenly thought of a shanty that had been started, +when I came that way last, ten or twelve miles along the road, +towards the town. There was nothing for it but to leave him +and ride on for help, and a cart of some kind. + +"You wait here till I come back," I said. "I'm going for the doctor." + +He roused himself a little. "Best come up to the hut and get some grub. +The wife'll be waiting. . . ." He was off the track again. + +"Will you wait while I take the horse down to the creek?" + +"Yes -- I'll wait by the road." + +"Look!" I said, "I'll leave the water-bag handy. Don't move +till I come back." + +"I won't move -- I'll wait by the road," he said. + +I took the packhorse, which was the freshest and best, +threw the pack-saddle and bags into a bush, left the other horse +to take care of itself, and started for the shanty, leaving the old man +with his back to the tree, his arms folded, and his eyes on the horizon. + +One of the chaps at the shanty rode on for the doctor at once, +while the other came back with me in a spring-cart. He told me +that old Howlett's wife had died in child-birth the first year +on the selection -- "she was a fine girl he'd heered!" He told me the story +as the old man had told it, and in pretty well the same words, +even to giving it as his opinion that it was no place for a woman. +"And he `hatted' and brooded over it till he went ratty." + +I knew the rest. He not only thought that his wife, or the ghost of his wife, +had been with him all those years, but that the child had lived and grown up, +and that the wife did the housework; which, of course, +he must have done himself. + +When we reached him his knotted hands had fallen for the last time, +and they were at rest. I only took one quick look at his face, +but could have sworn that he was gazing at the blue fin of the range +on the horizon of the bush. + +Up at the hut the table was set as on the first day I saw it, +and breakfast in the camp-oven by the fire. + + + + +Mitchell's Jobs + + + +"I'm going to knock off work and try to make some money," said Mitchell, +as he jerked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin and reached for the billy. +"It's been the great mistake of my life -- if I hadn't wasted +all my time and energy working and looking for work I might have been +an independent man to-day." + +"Joe!" he added in a louder voice, condescendingly adapting his language +to my bushed comprehension. "I'm going to sling graft and try and get +some stuff together." + +I didn't feel in a responsive humour, but I lit up and settled back +comfortably against the tree, and Jack folded his arms on his knees +and presently continued, reflectively: + +"I remember the first time I went to work. I was a youngster then. +Mother used to go round looking for jobs for me. She reckoned, perhaps, +that I was too shy to go in where there was a boy wanted +and barrack for myself properly, and she used to help me and see me through +to the best of her ability. I'm afraid I didn't always feel +as grateful to her as I should have felt. I was a thankless kid +at the best of times -- most kids are -- but otherwise +I was a straight enough little chap as nippers go. Sometimes I almost wish +I hadn't been. My relations would have thought a good deal more of me +and treated me better -- and, besides, it's a comfort, at times, +to sit and watch the sun going down in the bed of the bush, +and think of your wicked childhood and wasted life, and the way +you treated your parents and broke their hearts, and feel just properly +repentant and bitter and remorseful and low-spirited about it +when it's too late. + +"Ah, well! . . . I generally did feel a bit backward in going in +when I came to the door of an office or shop where there was a `Strong Lad', +or a `Willing Youth', wanted inside to make himself generally useful. +I was a strong lad and a willing youth enough, in some things, +for that matter; but I didn't like to see it written up on a card +in a shop window, and I didn't want to make myself generally useful +in a close shop in a hot dusty street on mornings when +the weather was fine and the great sunny rollers were coming in grand +on the Bondi Beach and down at Coogee, and I could swim. . . . +I'd give something to be down along there now." + +Mitchell looked away out over the sultry sandy plain that we were to tackle +next day, and sighed. + +"The first job I got was in a jam factory. They only had `Boy Wanted' +on the card in the window, and I thought it would suit me. They set me +to work to peel peaches, and, as soon as the foreman's back was turned, +I picked out a likely-looking peach and tried it. They soaked those peaches +in salt or acid or something -- it was part of the process -- +and I had to spit it out. Then I got an orange from a boy +who was slicing them, but it was bitter, and I couldn't eat it. +I saw that I'd been had properly. I was in a fix, and had to get out of it +the best way I could. I'd left my coat down in the front shop, +and the foreman and boss were there, so I had to work in that place +for two mortal hours. It was about the longest two hours +I'd ever spent in my life. At last the foreman came up, +and I told him I wanted to go down to the back for a minute. +I slipped down, watched my chance till the boss' back was turned, +got my coat, and cleared. + +"The next job I got was in a mat factory; at least, Aunt got that for me. +I didn't want to have anything to do with mats or carpets. +The worst of it was the boss didn't seem to want me to go, +and I had a job to get him to sack me, and when he did +he saw some of my people and took me back again next week. +He sacked me finally the next Saturday. + +"I got the next job myself. I didn't hurry; I took my time and picked out +a good one. It was in a lolly factory. I thought it would suit me -- +and it did, for a while. They put me on stirring up and mixing stuff +in the jujube department; but I got so sick of the smell of it +and so full of jujube and other lollies that I soon wanted a change; +so I had a row with the chief of the jujube department +and the boss gave me the sack. + +"I got a job in a grocery then. I thought I'd have more variety there. +But one day the boss was away, sick or something, all the afternoon, +and I sold a lot of things too cheap. I didn't know. When a customer +came in and asked for something I'd just look round in the window +till I saw a card with the price written up on it, and sell the best quality +according to that price; and once or twice I made a mistake +the other way about and lost a couple of good customers. +It was a hot, drowsy afternoon, and by-and-bye I began to feel +dull and sleepy. So I looked round the corner and saw a Chinaman coming. +I got a big tin garden syringe and filled it full of brine +from the butter keg, and, when he came opposite the door, +I let him have the full force of it in the ear. + +"That Chinaman put down his baskets and came for me. I was strong for my age, +and thought I could fight, but he gave me a proper mauling. + +"It was like running up against a thrashing machine, +and it wouldn't have been well for me if the boss of the shop next door +hadn't interfered. He told my boss, and my boss gave me the sack at once. + +"I took a spell of eighteen months or so after that, +and was growing up happy and contented when a married sister of mine +must needs come to live in town and interfere. I didn't like married sisters, +though I always got on grand with my brothers-in-law, +and wished there were more of them. The married sister +comes round and cleans up the place and pulls your things about +and finds your pipe and tobacco and things, and cigarette portraits, +and "Deadwood Dicks", that you've got put away all right, +so's your mother and aunt wouldn't find them in a generation of cats, +and says: + +"`Mother, why don't you make that boy go to work. It's a scandalous shame +to see a big boy like that growing up idle. He's going to the bad +before your eyes.' And she's always trying to make out that you're a liar, +and trying to make mother believe it, too. My married sister got me a job +with a chemist, whose missus she knew. + +"I got on pretty well there, and by-and-bye I was put upstairs +in the grinding and mixing department; but, after a while, +they put another boy that I was chummy with up there with me, +and that was a mistake. I didn't think so at the time, +but I can see it now. We got up to all sorts of tricks. We'd get +mixing together chemicals that weren't related to see how they'd agree, +and we nearly blew up the shop several times, and set it on fire once. +But all the chaps liked us, and fixed things up for us. +One day we got a big black dog -- that we meant to take home that evening -- +and sneaked him upstairs and put him on a flat roof outside the laboratory. +He had a touch of the mange and didn't look well, so we gave him +a dose of something; and he scrambled over the parapet and slipped down +a steep iron roof in front, and fell on a respected townsman +that knew my people. We were awfully frightened, and didn't say anything. +Nobody saw it but us. The dog had the presence of mind to leave at once, +and the respected townsman was picked up and taken home in a cab; +and he got it hot from his wife, too, I believe, for being in that drunken, +beastly state in the main street in the middle of the day. + +"I don't think he was ever quite sure that he hadn't been drunk +or what had happened, for he had had one or two that morning; +so it didn't matter much. Only we lost the dog. + +"One day I went downstairs to the packing-room and saw a lot of phosphorus +in jars of water. I wanted to fix up a ghost for Billy, my mate, +so I nicked a bit and slipped it into my trouser pocket. + +"I stood under the tap and let it pour on me. The phosphorus burnt +clean through my pocket and fell on the ground. I was sent home that night +with my leg dressed with lime-water and oil, and a pair of the boss's pants on +that were about half a yard too long for me, and I felt miserable enough, too. +They said it would stop my tricks for a while, and so it did. +I'll carry the mark to my dying day -- and for two or three days after, +for that matter." + + . . . . . + +I fell asleep at this point, and left Mitchell's cattle pup to hear it out. + + + + +Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster + + + +"When we were up country on the selection, we had a rooster at our place, +named Bill," said Mitchell; "a big mongrel of no particular breed, +though the old lady said he was a `brammer' -- and many an argument +she had with the old man about it too; she was just as stubborn and obstinate +in her opinion as the governor was in his. But, anyway, we called him Bill, +and didn't take any particular notice of him till a cousin of some of us +came from Sydney on a visit to the country, and stayed at our place +because it was cheaper than stopping at a pub. Well, somehow this chap +got interested in Bill, and studied him for two or three days, +and at last he says: + +"`Why, that rooster's a ventriloquist!' + +"`A what?' + +"`A ventriloquist!' + +"`Go along with yer!' + +"`But he is. I've heard of cases like this before; but this is the first +I've come across. Bill's a ventriloquist right enough.' + +"Then we remembered that there wasn't another rooster within five miles +-- our only neighbour, an Irishman named Page, didn't have one at the time -- +and we'd often heard another cock crow, but didn't think to take +any notice of it. We watched Bill, and sure enough he WAS a ventriloquist. +The `ka-cocka' would come all right, but the `co-ka-koo-oi-oo' +seemed to come from a distance. And sometimes the whole crow would go wrong, +and come back like an echo that had been lost for a year. +Bill would stand on tiptoe, and hold his elbows out, and curve his neck, +and go two or three times as if he was swallowing nest-eggs, +and nearly break his neck and burst his gizzard; and then there'd be +no sound at all where he was -- only a cock crowing in the distance. + +"And pretty soon we could see that Bill was in great trouble about it himself. +You see, he didn't know it was himself -- thought it was another rooster +challenging him, and he wanted badly to find that other bird. He would get up +on the wood-heap, and crow and listen -- crow and listen again -- +crow and listen, and then he'd go up to the top of the paddock, +and get up on the stack, and crow and listen there. Then down +to the other end of the paddock, and get up on a mullock-heap, +and crow and listen there. Then across to the other side and up on a log +among the saplings, and crow 'n' listen some more. He searched +all over the place for that other rooster, but, of course, couldn't find him. +Sometimes he'd be out all day crowing and listening all over the country, +and then come home dead tired, and rest and cool off in a hole +that the hens had scratched for him in a damp place +under the water-cask sledge. + +"Well, one day Page brought home a big white rooster, and when he let it go +it climbed up on Page's stack and crowed, to see if there was +any more roosters round there. Bill had come home tired; it was a hot day, +and he'd rooted out the hens, and was having a spell-oh under the cask +when the white rooster crowed. Bill didn't lose any time getting out +and on to the wood-heap, and then he waited till he heard the crow again; +then he crowed, and the other rooster crowed again, and they crowed +at each other for three days, and called each other all the wretches +they could lay their tongues to, and after that they implored each other +to come out and be made into chicken soup and feather pillows. +But neither'd come. You see, there were THREE crows -- there was +Bill's crow, and the ventriloquist crow, and the white rooster's crow -- +and each rooster thought that there was TWO roosters in the opposition camp, +and that he mightn't get fair play, and, consequently, both were afraid +to put up their hands. + +"But at last Bill couldn't stand it any longer. He made up his mind +to go and have it out, even if there was a whole agricultural show +of prize and honourable-mention fighting-cocks in Page's yard. +He got down from the wood-heap and started off across the ploughed field, +his head down, his elbows out, and his thick awkward legs +prodding away at the furrows behind for all they were worth. + +"I wanted to go down badly and see the fight, and barrack for Bill. +But I daren't, because I'd been coming up the road late the night before +with my brother Joe, and there was about three panels of turkeys roosting +along on the top rail of Page's front fence; and we brushed 'em with a bough, +and they got up such a blessed gobbling fuss about it +that Page came out in his shirt and saw us running away; and I knew +he was laying for us with a bullock whip. Besides, there was friction +between the two families on account of a thoroughbred bull +that Page borrowed and wouldn't lend to us, and that got into our paddock +on account of me mending a panel in the party fence, and carelessly leaving +the top rail down after sundown while our cows was moving round there +in the saplings. + +"So there was too much friction for me to go down, but I climbed a tree +as near the fence as I could and watched. Bill reckoned he'd found +that rooster at last. The white rooster wouldn't come down from the stack, +so Bill went up to him, and they fought there till they tumbled down +the other side, and I couldn't see any more. Wasn't I wild? +I'd have given my dog to have seen the rest of the fight. +I went down to the far side of Page's fence and climbed a tree there, +but, of course, I couldn't see anything, so I came home the back way. +Just as I got home Page came round to the front and sung out, `Insoid there!' +And me and Jim went under the house like snakes and looked out round a pile. +But Page was all right -- he had a broad grin on his face, +and Bill safe under his arm. He put Bill down on the ground very carefully, +and says he to the old folks: + +"`Yer rooster knocked the stuffin' out of my rooster, but I bear no malice. +'Twas a grand foight.' + +"And then the old man and Page had a yarn, and got pretty friendly after that. +And Bill didn't seem to bother about any more ventriloquism; +but the white rooster spent a lot of time looking for that other rooster. +Perhaps he thought he'd have better luck with him. But Page +was on the look-out all the time to get a rooster that would lick ours. +He did nothing else for a month but ride round and enquire about roosters; +and at last he borrowed a game-bird in town, left five pounds deposit on him, +and brought him home. And Page and the old man agreed to have a match -- +about the only thing they'd agreed about for five years. +And they fixed it up for a Sunday when the old lady and the girls and kids +were going on a visit to some relations, about fifteen miles away -- +to stop all night. The guv'nor made me go with them on horseback; +but I knew what was up, and so my pony went lame about a mile along the road, +and I had to come back and turn him out in the top paddock, +and hide the saddle and bridle in a hollow log, and sneak home and climb up +on the roof of the shed. It was a awful hot day, and I had to keep climbing +backward and forward over the ridge-pole all the morning +to keep out of sight of the old man, for he was moving about a good deal. + +"Well, after dinner, the fellows from roundabout began to ride in +and hang up their horses round the place till it looked as if +there was going to be a funeral. Some of the chaps saw me, of course, +but I tipped them the wink, and they gave me the office +whenever the old man happened around. + +"Well, Page came along with his game-rooster. Its name was Jim. It wasn't +much to look at, and it seemed a good deal smaller and weaker than Bill. +Some of the chaps were disgusted, and said it wasn't a game-rooster at all; +Bill'd settle it in one lick, and they wouldn't have any fun. + +"Well, they brought the game one out and put him down near the wood-heap, +and rousted Bill out from under his cask. He got interested at once. +He looked at Jim, and got up on the wood-heap and crowed and looked +at Jim again. He reckoned THIS at last was the fowl +that had been humbugging him all along. Presently his trouble caught him, +and then he'd crow and take a squint at the game 'un, and crow again, +and have another squint at gamey, and try to crow and keep his eye +on the game-rooster at the same time. But Jim never committed himself, +until at last he happened to gape just after Bill's whole crow went wrong, +and Bill spotted him. He reckoned he'd caught him this time, +and he got down off that wood-heap and went for the foe. But Jim ran away -- +and Bill ran after him. + +"Round and round the wood-heap they went, and round the shed, +and round the house and under it, and back again, and round the wood-heap +and over it and round the other way, and kept it up for close on an hour. +Bill's bill was just within an inch or so of the game-rooster's tail feathers +most of the time, but he couldn't get any nearer, do how he liked. +And all the time the fellers kept chyackin Page and singing out, +`What price yer game 'un, Page! Go it, Bill! Go it, old cock!' +and all that sort of thing. Well, the game-rooster went +as if it was a go-as-you-please, and he didn't care if it lasted a year. +He didn't seem to take any interest in the business, but Bill got excited, +and by-and-by he got mad. He held his head lower and lower and his wings +further and further out from his sides, and prodded away harder and harder +at the ground behind, but it wasn't any use. Jim seemed to keep ahead +without trying. They stuck to the wood-heap towards the last. +They went round first one way for a while, and then the other for a change, +and now and then they'd go over the top to break the monotony; +and the chaps got more interested in the race than they would have been +in the fight -- and bet on it, too. But Bill was handicapped with his weight. +He was done up at last; he slowed down till he couldn't waddle, +and then, when he was thoroughly knocked up, that game-rooster turned on him, +and gave him the father of a hiding. + +"And my father caught me when I'd got down in the excitement, +and wasn't thinking, and HE gave ME the step-father of a hiding. +But he had a lively time with the old lady afterwards, over the cock-fight. + +"Bill was so disgusted with himself that he went under the cask and died." + + + + +Bush Cats + + + +"Domestic cats" we mean -- the descendants of cats who came +from the northern world during the last hundred odd years. +We do not know the name of the vessel in which the first Thomas and his Maria +came out to Australia, but we suppose that it was one of the ships +of the First Fleet. Most likely Maria had kittens on the voyage +-- two lots, perhaps -- the majority of which were buried at sea; +and no doubt the disembarkation caused her much maternal anxiety. + + . . . . . + +The feline race has not altered much in Australia, from a physical +point of view -- not yet. The rabbit has developed into something +like a cross between a kangaroo and a possum, but the bush has not begun +to develop the common cat. She is just as sedate and motherly +as the mummy cats of Egypt were, but she takes longer strolls of nights, +climbs gum-trees instead of roofs, and hunts stranger vermin +than ever came under the observation of her northern ancestors. +Her views have widened. She is mostly thinner than the English farm cat -- +which is, they say, on account of eating lizards. + +English rats and English mice -- we say "English" because +everything which isn't Australian in Australia, IS English (or British) -- +English rats and English mice are either rare or non-existent in the bush; +but the hut cat has a wider range for game. She is always dragging in things +which are unknown in the halls of zoology; ugly, loathsome, crawling abortions +which have not been classified yet -- and perhaps could not be. + +The Australian zoologist ought to rake up some more dead languages, +and then go Out Back with a few bush cats. + +The Australian bush cat has a nasty, unpleasant habit of dragging +a long, wriggling, horrid, black snake -- she seems to prefer black snakes -- +into a room where there are ladies, proudly laying it down +in a conspicuous place (usually in front of the exit), +and then looking up for approbation. She wonders, perhaps, +why the visitors are in such a hurry to leave. + +Pussy doesn't approve of live snakes round the place, especially if +she has kittens; and if she finds a snake in the vicinity of her progeny -- +well, it is bad for that particular serpent. + +This brings recollections of a neighbour's cat who went out in the scrub, +one midsummer's day, and found a brown snake. Her name +-- the cat's name -- was Mary Ann. She got hold of the snake all right, +just within an inch of its head; but it got the rest of its length +wound round her body and squeezed about eight lives out of her. +She had the presence of mind to keep her hold; but it struck her +that she was in a fix, and that if she wanted to save her ninth life, +it wouldn't be a bad idea to go home for help. So she started home, +snake and all. + +The family were at dinner when Mary Ann came in, and, although she stood +on an open part of the floor, no one noticed her for a while. +She couldn't ask for help, for her mouth was too full of snake. +By-and-bye one of the girls glanced round, and then went over the table, +with a shriek, and out of the back door. The room was cleared very quickly. +The eldest boy got a long-handled shovel, and in another second +would have killed more cat than snake; but his father interfered. +The father was a shearer, and Mary Ann was a favourite cat with him. +He got a pair of shears from the shelf and deftly shore off the snake's head, +and one side of Mary Ann's whiskers. She didn't think it safe to let go yet. +She kept her teeth in the neck until the selector snipped +the rest of the snake off her. The bits were carried out on a shovel +to die at sundown. Mary Ann had a good drink of milk, +and then got her tongue out and licked herself back into the proper shape +for a cat; after which she went out to look for that snake's mate. +She found it, too, and dragged it home the same evening. + +Cats will kill rabbits and drag them home. We knew a fossicker +whose cat used to bring him a bunny nearly every night. +The fossicker had rabbits for breakfast until he got sick of them, +and then he used to swap them with a butcher for meat. +The cat was named Ingersoll, which indicates his sex and gives an inkling +to his master's religious and political opinions. Ingersoll used to +prospect round in the gloaming until he found some rabbit holes +which showed encouraging indications. He would shepherd one hole +for an hour or so every evening until he found it was a duffer, +or worked it out; then he would shift to another. One day he prospected +a big hollow log with a lot of holes in it, and more going down underneath. +The indications were very good, but Ingersoll had no luck. +The game had too many ways of getting out and in. He found +that he could not work that claim by himself, so he floated it into a company. +He persuaded several cats from a neighbouring selection to take shares, +and they watched the holes together, or in turns -- they worked shifts. +The dividends more than realised even their wildest expectations, +for each cat took home at least one rabbit every night for a week. + +A selector started a vegetable garden about the time +when rabbits were beginning to get troublesome up country. +The hare had not shown itself yet. The farmer kept quite a regiment of cats +to protect his garden -- and they protected it. He would shut the cats up +all day with nothing to eat, and let them out about sundown; +then they would mooch off to the turnip patch like farm-labourers +going to work. They would drag the rabbits home to the back door, +and sit there and watch them until the farmer opened the door +and served out the ration of milk. Then the cats would turn in. +He nearly always found a semi-circle of dead rabbits and watchful cats +round the door in the morning. They sold the product of their labour +direct to the farmer for milk. It didn't matter if one cat had been unlucky +-- had not got a rabbit -- each had an equal share in the general result. +They were true socialists, those cats. + +One of those cats was a mighty big Tom, named Jack. He was death on rabbits; +he would work hard all night, laying for them and dragging them home. +Some weeks he would graft every night, and at other times every other night, +but he was generally pretty regular. When he reckoned he had done +an extra night's work, he would take the next night off and go three miles +to the nearest neighbour's to see his Maria and take her out for a stroll. +Well, one evening Jack went into the garden and chose a place +where there was good cover, and lay low. He was a bit earlier than usual, +so he thought he would have a doze till rabbit time. +By-and-bye he heard a noise, and slowly, cautiously opening one eye, +he saw two big ears sticking out of the leaves in front of him. +He judged that it was an extra big bunny, so he put some extra style +into his manoeuvres. In about five minutes he made his spring. +He must have thought (if cats think) that it was a whopping, old-man rabbit, +for it was a pioneer hare -- not an ordinary English hare, +but one of those great coarse, lanky things which the bush is breeding. +The selector was attracted by an unusual commotion and a cloud of dust +among his cabbages, and came along with his gun in time to witness the fight. +First Jack would drag the hare, and then the hare would drag Jack; +sometimes they would be down together, and then Jack would use his hind claws +with effect; finally he got his teeth in the right place, and triumphed. +Then he started to drag the corpse home, but he had to give it best +and ask his master to lend a hand. The selector took up the hare, +and Jack followed home, much to the family's surprise. He did not go back +to work that night; he took a spell. He had a drink of milk, +licked the dust off himself, washed it down with another drink, +and sat in front of the fire and thought for a goodish while. +Then he got up, walked over to the corner where the hare was lying, +had a good look at it, came back to the fire, sat down again, +and thought hard. He was still thinking when the family retired. + + + + +Meeting Old Mates + + + + I. + + Tom Smith + + +You are getting well on in the thirties, and haven't left off +being a fool yet. You have been away in another colony or country +for a year or so, and have now come back again. Most of your chums +have gone away or got married, or, worse still, signed the pledge -- +settled down and got steady; and you feel lonely and desolate +and left-behind enough for anything. While drifting aimlessly round town +with an eye out for some chance acquaintance to have a knock round with, +you run against an old chum whom you never dreamt of meeting, +or whom you thought to be in some other part of the country -- +or perhaps you knock up against someone who knows the old chum in question, +and he says: + +"I suppose you know Tom Smith's in Sydney?" + +"Tom Smith! Why, I thought he was in Queensland! I haven't seen him +for more than three years. Where's the old joker hanging out at all? +Why, except you, there's no one in Australia I'd sooner see than Tom Smith. +Here I've been mooning round like an unemployed for three weeks, +looking for someone to have a knock round with, and Tom in Sydney +all the time. I wish I'd known before. Where'll I run against him -- +where does he live?" + +"Oh, he's living at home." + +"But where's his home? I was never there." + +"Oh, I'll give you his address. . . . There, I think that's it. +I'm not sure about the number, but you'll soon find out in that street -- +most of 'em'll know Tom Smith." + +"Thanks! I rather think they will. I'm glad I met you. +I'll hunt Tom up to-day." + +So you put a few shillings in your pocket, tell your landlady +that you're going to visit an old aunt of yours or a sick friend, +and mayn't be home that night; and then you start out to hunt up Tom Smith +and have at least one more good night, if you die for it. + + . . . . . + +This is the first time you have seen Tom at home; you knew of +his home and people in the old days, but only in a vague, +indefinite sort of way. Tom has changed! He is stouter and older-looking; +he seems solemn and settled down. You intended to give him a surprise +and have a good old jolly laugh with him, but somehow things +get suddenly damped at the beginning. He grins and grips your hand +right enough, but there seems something wanting. You can't help +staring at him, and he seems to look at you in a strange, disappointing way; +it doesn't strike you that you also have changed, and perhaps more in his eyes +than he in yours. He introduces you to his mother and sisters and brothers, +and the rest of the family; or to his wife, as the case may be; +and you have to suppress your feelings and be polite and talk common-place. +You hate to be polite and talk common-place. You aren't built that way -- +and Tom wasn't either, in the old days. The wife (or the mother and sisters) +receives you kindly, for Tom's sake, and makes much of you; +but they don't know you yet. You want to get Tom outside, +and have a yarn and a drink and a laugh with him -- you are bursting +to tell him all about yourself, and get him to tell you all about himself, +and ask him if he remembers things; and you wonder if he is bursting +the same way, and hope he is. The old lady and sisters (or the wife) +bore you pretty soon, and you wonder if they bore Tom; you almost fancy, +from his looks, that they do. You wonder whether Tom is coming out to-night, +whether he wants to get out, and if he wants to and wants to get out +by himself, whether he'll be able to manage it; but you daren't +broach the subject, it wouldn't be polite. You've got to be polite. +Then you get worried by the thought that Tom is bursting to get out with you +and only wants an excuse; is waiting, in fact, and hoping +for you to ask him in an off-hand sort of way to come out for a stroll. +But you're not quite sure; and besides, if you were, +you wouldn't have the courage. By-and-bye you get tired of it all, thirsty, +and want to get out in the open air. You get tired of saying, +"Do you really, Mrs. Smith?" or "Do you think so, Miss Smith?" +or "You were quite right, Mrs. Smith," and "Well, I think so too, Mrs. Smith," +or, to the brother, "That's just what I thought, Mr. Smith." You don't want +to "talk pretty" to them, and listen to their wishy-washy nonsense; +you want to get out and have a roaring spree with Tom, +as you had in the old days; you want to make another night of it +with your old mate, Tom Smith; and pretty soon you get the blues badly, +and feel nearly smothered in there, and you've got to get out +and have a beer anyway -- Tom or no Tom; and you begin to feel wild +with Tom himself; and at last you make a bold dash for it and chance Tom. +You get up, look at your hat, and say: "Ah, well, I must be going, Tom; +I've got to meet someone down the street at seven o'clock. +Where'll I meet you in town next week?" + +But Tom says: + +"Oh, dash it; you ain't going yet. Stay to tea, Joe, stay to tea. +It'll be on the table in a minute. Sit down -- sit down, man! +Here, gimme your hat." + +And Tom's sister, or wife, or mother comes in with an apron on +and her hands all over flour, and says: + +"Oh, you're not going yet, Mr. Brown? Tea'll be ready in a minute. +Do stay for tea." And if you make excuses, she cross-examines you +about the time you've got to keep that appointment down the street, +and tells you that their clock is twenty minutes fast, and that you have got +plenty of time, and so you have to give in. But you are mightily encouraged +by a winksome expression which you see, or fancy you see, +on your side of Tom's face; also by the fact of his having accidentally +knocked his foot against your shins. So you stay. + +One of the females tells you to "Sit there, Mr. Brown," +and you take your place at the table, and the polite business goes on. +You've got to hold your knife and fork properly, and mind your p's and q's, +and when she says, "Do you take milk and sugar, Mr. Brown?" +you've got to say, "Yes, please, Miss Smith -- thanks -- that's plenty." +And when they press you, as they will, to have more, +you've got to keep on saying, "No, thanks, Mrs. Smith; +no, thanks, Miss Smith; I really couldn't; I've done very well, thank you; +I had a very late dinner, and so on" -- bother such tommy-rot. +And you don't seem to have any appetite, anyway. And you think of the days +out on the track when you and Tom sat on your swags under a mulga at mid-day, +and ate mutton and johnny-cake with clasp-knives, and drank by turns +out of the old, battered, leaky billy. + +And after tea you have to sit still while the precious minutes are wasted, +and listen and sympathize, while all the time you are on the fidget +to get out with Tom, and go down to a private bar where you know some girls. + +And perhaps by-and-bye the old lady gets confidential, +and seizes an opportunity to tell you what a good steady young fellow Tom is +now that he never touches drink, and belongs to a temperance society +(or the Y.M.C.A.), and never stays out of nights. + +Consequently you feel worse than ever, and lonelier, and sorrier +that you wasted your time coming. You are encouraged again +by a glimpse of Tom putting on a clean collar and fixing himself up a bit; +but when you are ready to go, and ask him if he's coming +a bit down the street with you, he says he thinks he will +in such a disinterested, don't-mind-if-I-do sort of tone, +that he makes you mad. + +At last, after promising to "drop in again, Mr. Brown, +whenever you're passing," and to "don't forget to call," and thanking them +for their assurance that they'll "be always glad to see you," and telling them +that you've spent a very pleasant evening and enjoyed yourself, +and are awfully sorry you couldn't stay -- you get away with Tom. + +You don't say much to each other till you get round the corner +and down the street a bit, and then for a while your conversation +is mostly common-place, such as, "Well, how have you been getting on +all this time, Tom?" "Oh, all right. How have you been getting on?" +and so on. + +But presently, and perhaps just as you have made up your mind +to chance the alleged temperance business and ask Tom in to have a drink, +he throws a glance up and down the street, nudges your shoulder, +says "Come on," and disappears sideways into a pub. + + . . . . . + +"What's yours, Tom?" "What's yours, Joe?" "The same for me." +"Well, here's luck, old man." "Here's luck." You take a drink, +and look over your glass at Tom. Then the old smile spreads over his face, +and it makes you glad -- you could swear to Tom's grin in a hundred years. +Then something tickles him -- your expression, perhaps, +or a recollection of the past -- and he sets down his glass on the bar +and laughs. Then you laugh. Oh, there's no smile like the smile +that old mates favour each other with over the tops of their glasses +when they meet again after years. It is eloquent, because of the memories +that give it birth. + +"Here's another. Do you remember ----? Do you remember ----?" +Oh, it all comes back again like a flash. Tom hasn't changed a bit; +just the same good-hearted, jolly idiot he always was. Old times back again! +"It's just like old times," says Tom, after three or four more drinks. + + . . . . . + +And so you make a night of it and get uproariously jolly. +You get as "glorious" as Bobby Burns did in the part of Tam O'Shanter, +and have a better "time" than any of the times you had in the old days. +And you see Tom as nearly home in the morning as you dare, +and he reckons he'll get it hot from his people -- which no doubt he will -- +and he explains that they are very particular up at home +-- church people, you know -- and, of course, especially if he's married, +it's understood between you that you'd better not call for him up at home +after this -- at least, not till things have cooled down a bit. +It's always the way. The friend of the husband always gets the blame +in cases like this. But Tom fixes up a yarn to tell them, +and you aren't to "say anything different" in case you run against +any of them. And he fixes up an appointment with you for next Saturday night, +and he'll get there if he gets divorced for it. But he MIGHT +have to take the wife out shopping, or one of the girls somewhere; +and if you see her with him you've got to lay low, and be careful, and wait +-- at another hour and place, perhaps, all of which is arranged -- +for if she sees you she'll smell a rat at once, and he won't be able +to get off at all. + +And so, as far as you and Tom are concerned, the "old times" have come back +once more. + + . . . . . + +But, of course (and we almost forgot it), you might chance +to fall in love with one of Tom's sisters, in which case there would be +another and a totally different story to tell. + + + + II. + + Jack Ellis + + +Things are going well with you. You have escaped from "the track", +so to speak, and are in a snug, comfortable little billet in the city. +Well, while doing the block you run against an old mate of other days +-- VERY other days -- call him Jack Ellis. Things have gone hard with Jack. +He knows you at once, but makes no advance towards a greeting; +he acts as though he thinks you might cut him -- which, of course, +if you are a true mate, you have not the slightest intention of doing. +His coat is yellow and frayed, his hat is battered and green, +his trousers "gone" in various places, his linen very cloudy, and his boots +burst and innocent of polish. You try not to notice these things +-- or rather, not to seem to notice them -- but you cannot help doing so, +and you are afraid he'll notice that you see these things, +and put a wrong construction on it. How men will misunderstand each other! +You greet him with more than the necessary enthusiasm. In your anxiety +to set him at his ease and make him believe that nothing -- not even money -- +can make a difference in your friendship, you over-act the business; +and presently you are afraid that he'll notice that too, +and put a wrong construction on it. You wish that your collar +was not so clean, nor your clothes so new. Had you known you would meet him, +you would have put on some old clothes for the occasion. + +You are both embarrassed, but it is YOU who feel ashamed -- +you are almost afraid to look at him lest he'll think +you are looking at his shabbiness. You ask him in to have a drink, +but he doesn't respond so heartily as you wish, as he did in the old days; +he doesn't like drinking with anybody when he isn't "fixed", as he calls it -- +when he can't shout. + +It didn't matter in the old days who held the money so long as there was +plenty of "stuff" in the camp. You think of the days when Jack stuck to you +through thick and thin. You would like to give him money now, +but he is so proud; he always was; he makes you mad with his beastly pride. +There wasn't any pride of that sort on the track or in the camp in those days; +but times have changed -- your lives have drifted too widely apart -- +you have taken different tracks since then; and Jack, without intending to, +makes you feel that it is so. + +You have a drink, but it isn't a success; it falls flat, +as far as Jack is concerned; he won't have another; he doesn't "feel on", +and presently he escapes under plea of an engagement, +and promises to see you again. + +And you wish that the time was come when no one could have +more or less to spend than another. + + . . . . . + +P.S. -- I met an old mate of that description once, +and so successfully persuaded him out of his beastly pride +that he borrowed two pounds off me till Monday. I never got it back since, +and I want it badly at the present time. In future I'll leave old mates +with their pride unimpaired. + + + + +Two Larrikins + + + +"Y'orter do something, Ernie. Yer know how I am. YOU don't seem to care. +Y'orter to do something." + +Stowsher slouched at a greater angle to the greasy door-post, +and scowled under his hat-brim. It was a little, low, frowsy room +opening into Jones' Alley. She sat at the table, sewing -- +a thin, sallow girl with weak, colourless eyes. She looked as frowsy +as her surroundings. + +"Well, why don't you go to some of them women, and get fixed up?" + +She flicked the end of the table-cloth over some tiny, +unfinished articles of clothing, and bent to her work. + +"But you know very well I haven't got a shilling, Ernie," she said, quietly. +"Where am I to get the money from?" + +"Who asked yer to get it?" + +She was silent, with the exasperating silence of a woman +who has determined to do a thing in spite of all reasons and arguments +that may be brought against it. + +"Well, wot more do yer want?" demanded Stowsher, impatiently. + +She bent lower. "Couldn't we keep it, Ernie?" + +"Wot next?" asked Stowsher, sulkily -- he had half suspected what was coming. +Then, with an impatient oath, "You must be gettin' ratty." + +She brushed the corner of the cloth further over the little clothes. + +"It wouldn't cost anything, Ernie. I'd take a pride in him, +and keep him clean, and dress him like a little lord. He'll be different +from all the other youngsters. He wouldn't be like those dirty, +sickly little brats out there. He'd be just like you, Ernie; I know he would. +I'll look after him night and day, and bring him up well and strong. +We'd train his little muscles from the first, Ernie, and he'd be able +to knock 'em all out when he grew up. It wouldn't cost much, +and I'd work hard and be careful if you'd help me. And you'd be proud of him, +too, Ernie -- I know you would." + +Stowsher scraped the doorstep with his foot; but whether he was "touched", +or feared hysterics and was wisely silent, was not apparent. + +"Do you remember the first day I met you, Ernie?" she asked, presently. + +Stowsher regarded her with an uneasy scowl: "Well -- wot o' that?" + +"You came into the bar-parlour at the `Cricketers' Arms' +and caught a push of 'em chyacking your old man." + +"Well, I altered that." + +"I know you did. You done for three of them, one after another, +and two was bigger than you." + +"Yes! and when the push come up we done for the rest," said Stowsher, +softening at the recollection. + +"And the day you come home and caught the landlord bullying your old mother +like a dog ----" + +"Yes; I got three months for that job. But it was worth it!" he reflected. +"Only," he added, "the old woman might have had the knocker +to keep away from the lush while I was in quod. . . . But wot's all this +got to do with it?" + +"HE might barrack and fight for you, some day, Ernie," she said softly, +"when you're old and out of form and ain't got no push to back you." + +The thing was becoming decidedly embarrassing to Stowsher; +not that he felt any delicacy on the subject, but because he hated +to be drawn into a conversation that might be considered "soft". + +"Oh, stow that!" he said, comfortingly. "Git on yer hat, +and I'll take yer for a trot." + +She rose quickly, but restrained herself, recollecting that +it was not good policy to betray eagerness in response +to an invitation from Ernie. + +"But -- you know -- I don't like to go out like this. You can't -- +you wouldn't like to take me out the way I am, Ernie!" + +"Why not? Wot rot!" + +"The fellows would see me, and -- and ----" + +"And . . . wot?" + +"They might notice ----" + +"Well, wot o' that? I want 'em to. Are yer comin' or are yer ain't? +Fling round now. I can't hang on here all day." + +They walked towards Flagstaff Hill. + +One or two, slouching round a pub. corner, saluted with "Wotcher, Stowsher!" + +"Not too stinkin'," replied Stowsher. "Soak yer heads." + +"Stowsher's goin' to stick," said one privately. + +"An' so he orter," said another. "Wish I had the chanst." + +The two turned up a steep lane. + +"Don't walk so fast up hill, Ernie; I can't, you know." + +"All right, Liz. I forgot that. Why didn't yer say so before?" + +She was contentedly silent most of the way, warned by instinct, +after the manner of women when they have gained their point by words. + +Once he glanced over his shoulder with a short laugh. "Gorblime!" he said, +"I nearly thought the little beggar was a-follerin' along behind!" + +When he left her at the door he said: "Look here, Liz. 'Ere's half a quid. +Git what yer want. Let her go. I'm goin' to graft again in the mornin', +and I'll come round and see yer to-morrer night." + +Still she seemed troubled and uneasy. + +"Ernie." + +"Well. Wot now?" + +"S'posin' it's a girl, Ernie." + +Stowsher flung himself round impatiently. + +"Oh, for God's sake, stow that! Yer always singin' out before yer hurt. . . . +There's somethin' else, ain't there -- while the bloomin' shop's open?" + +"No, Ernie. Ain't you going to kiss me? . . . I'm satisfied." + +"Satisfied! Yer don't want the kid to be arst 'oo 'is father was, do yer? +Yer'd better come along with me some day this week and git spliced. +Yer don't want to go frettin' or any of that funny business while it's on." + +"Oh, Ernie! do you really mean it?" -- and she threw her arms round his neck, +and broke down at last. + + . . . . . + +"So-long, Liz. No more funny business now -- I've had enough of it. +Keep yer pecker up, old girl. To-morrer night, mind." +Then he added suddenly: "Yer might have known I ain't that sort of a bloke" +-- and left abruptly. + +Liz was very happy. + + + + +Mr. Smellingscheck + + + +I met him in a sixpenny restaurant -- "All meals, 6d. -- Good beds, 1s." +That was before sixpenny restaurants rose to a third-class position, +and became possibly respectable places to live in, through the establishment, +beneath them, of fourpenny hash-houses (good beds, 6d.), +and, beneath THEM again, of THREE-penny "dining-rooms -- CLEAN beds, 4d." + +There were five beds in our apartment, the head of one +against the foot of the next, and so on round the room, +with a space where the door and washstand were. I chose the bed +the head of which was near the foot of his, because he looked like a man +who took his bath regularly. I should like, in the interests of sentiment, +to describe the place as a miserable, filthy, evil-smelling garret; +but I can't -- because it wasn't. The room was large and airy; +the floor was scrubbed and the windows cleaned at least once a week, +and the beds kept fresh and neat, which is more -- a good deal more -- +than can be said of many genteel private boarding-houses. The lodgers +were mostly respectable unemployed, and one or two -- fortunate men! -- +in work; it was the casual boozer, the professional loafer, +and the occasional spieler -- the one-shilling-bed-men -- +who made the place objectionable, not the hard-working people +who paid ten pounds a week for the house; and, but for the one-night lodgers +and the big gilt black-and-red bordered and "shaded" "6d." in the window +-- which made me glance guiltily up and down the street, like a burglar +about to do a job, before I went in -- I was pretty comfortable there. + +They called him "Mr. Smellingscheck", and treated him +with a peculiar kind of deference, the reason for which +they themselves were doubtless unable to explain or even understand. +The haggard woman who made the beds called him "Mr. Smell-'is-check". +Poor fellow! I didn't think, by the look of him, that he'd smelt his cheque, +or anyone else's, or that anyone else had smelt his, for many a long day. +He was a fat man, slow and placid. He looked like a typical monopolist +who had unaccountably got into a suit of clothes belonging to +a Domain unemployed, and hadn't noticed, or had entirely forgotten, +the circumstance in his business cares -- if such a word as care +could be connected with such a calm, self-contained nature. +He wore a suit of cheap slops of some kind of shoddy "tweed". +The coat was too small and the trousers too short, and they were drawn up +to meet the waistcoat -- which they did with painful difficulty, +now and then showing, by way of protest, two pairs of brass buttons +and the ends of the brace-straps; and they seemed to blame +the irresponsive waistcoat or the wearer for it all. Yet he never gave way +to assist them. A pair of burst elastic-sides were in full evidence, +and a rim of cloudy sock, with a hole in it, showed at every step. + +But he put on his clothes and wore them like -- like a gentleman. +He had two white shirts, and they were both dirty. He'd lay them out +on the bed, turn them over, regard them thoughtfully, choose that +which appeared to his calm understanding to be the cleaner, and put it on, +and wear it until it was unmistakably dirtier than the other; +then he'd wear the other till it was dirtier than the first. +He managed his three collars the same way. His handkerchiefs were washed +in the bathroom, and dried, without the slightest disguise, in the bedroom. +He never hurried in anything. The way he cleaned his teeth, shaved, +and made his toilet almost transformed the place, in my imagination, +into a gentleman's dressing-room. + +He talked politics and such things in the abstract -- always in the abstract +-- calmly in the abstract. He was an old-fashioned Conservative +of the Sir Leicester Deadlock style. When he was moved +by an extra shower of aggressive democratic cant -- which was seldom -- +he defended Capital, but only as if it needed no defence, +and as if its opponents were merely thoughtless, ignorant children +whom he condescended to set right because of their inexperience +and for their own good. He stuck calmly to his own order -- the order which +had dropped him like a foul thing when the bottom dropped out of his boom, +whatever that was. He never talked of his misfortunes. + +He took his meals at the little greasy table in the dark corner downstairs, +just as if he were dining at the Exchange. He had a chop +-- rather well-done -- and a sheet of the `Herald' for breakfast. +He carried two handkerchiefs; he used one for a handkerchief and the other +for a table-napkin, and sometimes folded it absently and laid it on the table. +He rose slowly, putting his chair back, took down his battered old green hat, +and regarded it thoughtfully -- as though it had just occurred to him +in a calm, casual way that he'd drop into his hatter's, if he had time, +on his way down town, and get it blocked, or else send the messenger +round with it during business hours. He'd draw his stick out +from behind the next chair, plant it, and, if you hadn't quite finished +your side of the conversation, stand politely waiting until you were done. +Then he'd look for a suitable reply into his hat, put it on, +give it a twitch to settle it on his head -- as gentlemen do +a "chimney-pot" -- step out into the gangway, turn his face to the door, +and walk slowly out on to the middle of the pavement -- +looking more placidly well-to-do than ever. The saying is that clothes +make a man, but HE made his almost respectable just by wearing them. +Then he'd consult his watch -- (he stuck to the watch all through, +and it seemed a good one -- I often wondered why he didn't pawn it); +then he'd turn slowly, right turn, and look down the street. +Then slowly back, left-about turn, and take a cool survey in that direction, +as if calmly undecided whether to take a cab and drive to the Exchange, +or (as it was a very fine morning, and he had half an hour to spare) +walk there and drop in at his club on the way. He'd conclude to walk. +I never saw him go anywhere in particular, but he walked and stood +as if he could. + +Coming quietly into the room one day, I surprised him sitting at the table +with his arms lying on it and his face resting on them. +I heard something like a sob. He rose hastily, and gathered up some papers +which were on the table; then he turned round, rubbing his forehead and eyes +with his forefinger and thumb, and told me that he suffered from -- something, +I forget the name of it, but it was a well-to-do ailment. +His manner seemed a bit jolted and hurried for a minute or so, +and then he was himself again. He told me he was leaving for Melbourne +next day. He left while I was out, and left an envelope downstairs for me. +There was nothing in it except a pound note. + +I saw him in Brisbane afterwards, well-dressed, getting out of a cab +at the entrance of one of the leading hotels. But his manner +was no more self-contained and well-to-do than it had been +in the old sixpenny days -- because it couldn't be. We had +a well-to-do whisky together, and he talked of things in the abstract. +He seemed just as if he'd met me in the Australia. + + + + +"A Rough Shed" + + + +A hot, breathless, blinding sunrise -- the sun having appeared suddenly +above the ragged edge of the barren scrub like a great disc of molten steel. +No hint of a morning breeze before it, no sign on earth or sky +to show that it is morning -- save the position of the sun. + +A clearing in the scrub -- bare as though the surface of the earth +were ploughed and harrowed, and dusty as the road. Two oblong huts +-- one for the shearers and one for the rouseabouts -- +in about the centre of the clearing (as if even the mongrel scrub +had shrunk away from them) built end-to-end, of weatherboards, +and roofed with galvanised iron. Little ventilation; no verandah; +no attempt to create, artificially, a breath of air through the buildings. +Unpainted, sordid -- hideous. Outside, heaps of ashes still hot and smoking. +Close at hand, "butcher's shop" -- a bush and bag breakwind in the dust, +under a couple of sheets of iron, with offal, grease and clotted blood +blackening the surface of the ground about it. Greasy, stinking sheepskins +hanging everywhere with blood-blotched sides out. Grease inches deep +in great black patches about the fireplace ends of the huts, +where wash-up and "boiling" water is thrown. + +Inside, a rough table on supports driven into the black, greasy ground floor, +and formed of flooring boards, running on uneven lines +the length of the hut from within about 6ft. of the fire-place. +Lengths of single six-inch boards or slabs on each side, +supported by the projecting ends of short pieces of timber +nailed across the legs of the table to serve as seats. + +On each side of the hut runs a rough framework, like the partitions +in a stable; each compartment battened off to about the size of a manger, +and containing four bunks, one above the other, on each side -- +their ends, of course, to the table. Scarcely breathing space +anywhere between. Fireplace, the full width of the hut in one end, +where all the cooking and baking for forty or fifty men is done, +and where flour, sugar, etc., are kept in open bags. +Fire, like a very furnace. Buckets of tea and coffee on roasting beds +of coals and ashes on the hearth. Pile of "brownie" on the bare black boards +at the end of the table. Unspeakable aroma of forty or fifty men +who have little inclination and less opportunity to wash their skins, +and who soak some of the grease out of their clothes +-- in buckets of hot water -- on Saturday afternoons or Sundays. +And clinging to all, and over all, the smell of the dried, stale yolk of wool +-- the stink of rams! + + . . . . . + +"I am a rouseabout of the rouseabouts. I have fallen so far that it is +beneath me to try to climb to the proud position of `ringer' of the shed. +I had that ambition once, when I was the softest of green hands; +but then I thought I could work out my salvation and go home. +I've got used to hell since then. I only get twenty-five shillings a week +(less station store charges) and tucker here. I have been seven years +west of the Darling and never shore a sheep. Why don't I learn to shear, +and so make money? What should I do with more money? +Get out of this and go home? I would never go home +unless I had enough money to keep me for the rest of my life, +and I'll never make that Out Back. Otherwise, what should I do at home? +And how should I account for the seven years, if I were to go home? +Could I describe shed life to them and explain how I lived. They think +shearing only takes a few days of the year -- at the beginning of summer. +They'd want to know how I lived the rest of the year. Could I explain +that I `jabbed trotters' and was a `tea-and-sugar burglar' between sheds. +They'd think I'd been a tramp and a beggar all the time. +Could I explain ANYTHING so that they'd understand? +I'd have to be lying all the time and would soon be tripped up and found out. +For, whatever else I have been I was never much of a liar. +No, I'll never go home. + +"I become momentarily conscious about daylight. The flies on the track +got me into that habit, I think; they start at day-break -- +when the mosquitoes give over. + +"The cook rings a bullock bell. + +"The cook is fire-proof. He is as a fiend from the nethermost sheol +and needs to be. No man sees him sleep, for he makes bread +-- or worse, brownie -- at night, and he rings a bullock bell loudly +at half-past five in the morning to rouse us from our animal torpors. +Others, the sheep-ho's or the engine-drivers at the shed or wool-wash, +call him, if he does sleep. They manage it in shifts, somehow, +and sleep somewhere, sometime. We haven't time to know. +The cook rings the bullock bell and yells the time. It was the same time +five minutes ago -- or a year ago. No time to decide which. +I dash water over my head and face and slap handfuls on my eyelids +-- gummed over aching eyes -- still blighted by the yolk o' wool -- +grey, greasy-feeling water from a cut-down kerosene tin +which I sneaked from the cook and hid under my bunk and had the foresight +to refill from the cask last night, under cover of warm, still, +suffocating darkness. Or was it the night before last? Anyhow, it will be +sneaked from me to-day, and from the crawler who will collar it to-morrow, +and `touched' and `lifted' and `collared' and recovered by the cook, +and sneaked back again, and cause foul language, and fights, maybe, +till we `cut-out'. + +"No; we didn't have sweet dreams of home and mother, gentle poet -- +nor yet of babbling brooks and sweethearts, and love's young dream. +We are too dirty and dog-tired when we tumble down, and have too little time +to sleep it off. We don't want to dream those dreams out here -- +they'd only be nightmares for us, and we'd wake to remember. +We MUSTN'T remember here. + +"At the edge of the timber a great galvanised-iron shed, nearly all roof, +coming down to within 6ft. 6in. of the `board' over the `shoots'. +Cloud of red dust in the dead timber behind, going up -- noon-day dust. +Fence covered with skins; carcases being burned; blue smoke going straight up +as in noonday. Great glossy (greasy-glossy) black crows `flopping' around. + +"The first syren has gone. We hurry in single files +from opposite ends of rouseabouts' and shearers' huts +(as the paths happen to run to the shed) gulping hot tea or coffee +from a pint-pot in one hand and biting at a junk of brownie in the other. + +"Shed of forty hands. Shearers rush the pens and yank out sheep +and throw them like demons; grip them with their knees, take up machines, +jerk the strings; and with a rattling whirring roar the great machine-shed +starts for the day. + +"`Go it, you ---- tigers!' yells a tar-boy. `Wool away!' `Tar!' `Sheep Ho!' +We rush through with a whirring roar till breakfast time. + +"We seize our tin plate from the pile, knife and fork from the candle-box, +and crowd round the camp-oven to jab out lean chops, dry as chips, +boiled in fat. Chops or curry-and-rice. There is some growling and cursing. +We slip into our places without removing our hats. There's no time +to hunt for mislaid hats when the whistle goes. Row of hat brims, level, +drawn over eyes, or thrust back -- according to characters or temperaments. +Thrust back denotes a lucky absence of brains, I fancy. Row of forks +going up, or jabbing, or poised, loaded, waiting for last mouthful +to be bolted. + +"We pick up, sweep, tar, sew wounds, catch sheep that break from the pens, +jump down and pick up those that can't rise at the bottom of the shoots, +`bring-my-combs-from-the-grinder-will-yer,' laugh at dirty jokes, +and swear -- and, in short, are the `will-yer' slaves, body and soul, +of seven, six, five, or four shearers, according to the distance +from the rolling tables. + +"The shearer on the board at the shed is a demon. He gets so much a hundred; +we, 25s. a week. He is not supposed, by the rules of the shed, the Union, +and humanity, to take a sheep out of the pen AFTER the bell goes +(smoke-ho, meals, or knock-off), but his watch is hanging on the post, +and he times himself to get so many sheep out of the pen BEFORE +the bell goes, and ONE MORE -- the `bell-sheep' -- as it is ringing. +We have to take the last fleece to the table and leave our board clean. +We go through the day of eight hours in runs of about an hour and 20 minutes +between smoke-ho's -- from 6 to 6. If the shearers shore 200 instead of 100, +they'd get 2 Pounds a day instead of 1 Pound, and we'd have twice as much +work to do for our 25s. per week. But the shearers are racing each other +for tallies. And it's no use kicking. There is no God here and no Unionism +(though we all have tickets). But what am I growling about? +I've worked from 6 to 6 with no smoke-ho's for half the wages, +and food we wouldn't give the sheep-ho dog. It's the bush growl, +born of heat, flies, and dust. I'd growl now if I had a thousand a year. +We MUST growl, swear, and some of us drink to d.t.'s, or go mad sober. + +"Pants and shirts stiff with grease as though a couple of pounds +of soft black putty were spread on with a painter's knife. + +"No, gentle bard! -- we don't sing at our work. Over the whirr and roar +and hum all day long, and with iteration that is childish and irritating +to the intelligent greenhand, float unthinkable adjectives and adverbs, +addressed to jumbucks, jackaroos, and mates indiscriminately. And worse words +for the boss over the board -- behind his back. + +"I came of a Good Christian Family -- perhaps that's why I went to the Devil. +When I came out here I'd shrink from the man who used foul language. +In a short time I used it with the worst. I couldn't help it. + +"That's the way of it. If I went back to a woman's country again +I wouldn't swear. I'd forget this as I would a nightmare. +That's the way of it. There's something of the larrikin about us. +We don't exist individually. Off the board, away from the shed +(and each other) we are quiet -- even gentle. + +"A great-horned ram, in poor condition, but shorn of a heavy fleece, +picks himself up at the foot of the `shoot', and hesitates, +as if ashamed to go down to the other end where the ewes are. +The most ridiculous object under Heaven. + +"A tar-boy of fifteen, of the bush, with a mouth so vile that a street-boy, +same age (up with a shearing uncle), kicks him behind -- +having proved his superiority with his fists before the shed started. +Of which unspeakable little fiend the roughest shearer of a rough shed +was heard to say, in effect, that if he thought there was +the slightest possibility of his becoming the father of such a boy +he'd ---- take drastic measures to prevent the possibility of his becoming +a proud parent at all. + +"Twice a day the cooks and their familiars carry buckets +of oatmeal-water and tea to the shed, two each on a yoke. +We cry, `Where are you coming to, my pretty maids?' + +"In ten minutes the surfaces of the buckets are black with flies. +We have given over trying to keep them clear. We stir the living cream aside +with the bottoms of the pints, and guzzle gallons, and sweat it out again. +Occasionally a shearer pauses and throws the perspiration from his forehead +in a rain. + +"Shearers live in such a greedy rush of excitement that often +a strong man will, at a prick of the shears, fall in a death-like faint +on the board. + +"We hate the Boss-of-the-Board as the shearers' `slushy' hates +the shearers' cook. I don't know why. He's a very fair boss. + +"He refused to put on a traveller yesterday, and the traveller +knocked him down. He walked into the shed this morning +with his hat back and thumbs in waistcoat -- a tribute to man's weakness. +He threatened to dismiss the traveller's mate, a bigger man, +for rough shearing -- a tribute to man's strength. The shearer said nothing. +We hate the boss because he IS boss, but we respect him +because he is a strong man. He is as hard up as any of us, I hear, +and has a sick wife and a large, small family in Melbourne. God judge us all! + +"There is a gambling-school here, headed by the shearers' cook. +After tea they head-'em, and advance cheques are passed from hand to hand, +and thrown in the dust until they are black. When it's too dark to see +with nose to the ground, they go inside and gamble with cards. +Sometimes they start on Saturday afternoon, heading 'em till dark, +play cards all night, start again heading 'em Sunday afternoon, +play cards all Sunday night, and sleep themselves sane on Monday, +or go to work ghastly -- like dead men. + +"Cry of `Fight'; we all rush out. But there isn't much fighting. +Afraid of murdering each other. I'm beginning to think that most bush crime +is due to irritation born of dust, heat, and flies. + +"The smothering atmosphere shudders when the sun goes down. +We call it the sunset breeze. + +"Saturday night or Sunday we're invited into the shearers' hut. +There are songs that are not hymns and recitations and speeches +that are not prayers. + +"Last Sunday night: Slush lamps at long intervals on table. +Men playing cards, sewing on patches -- (nearly all smoking) -- +some writing, and the rest reading Deadwood Dick. At one end of the table +a Christian Endeavourer endeavouring; at the other a cockney Jew, +from the hawker's boat, trying to sell rotten clothes. +In response to complaints, direct and not chosen generally for Sunday, +the shearers' rep. requests both apostles to shut up or leave. + +"He couldn't be expected to take the Christian and leave the Jew, +any more than he could take the Jew and leave the Christian. +We are just amongst ourselves in our hell. + + . . . . . + +"Fiddle at the end of rouseabouts' hut. Voice of Jackeroo, +from upper bunk with apologetic oaths: `For God's sake chuck that up; +it makes a man think of blanky old things!' + +"A lost soul laughs (mine) and dreadful night smothers us." + + + + +Payable Gold + + + +Among the crowds who left the Victorian side for New South Wales +about the time Gulgong broke out was an old Ballarat digger +named Peter McKenzie. He had married and retired from the mining +some years previously and had made a home for himself and family +at the village of St. Kilda, near Melbourne; but, as was often +the case with old diggers, the gold fever never left him, +and when the fields of New South Wales began to blaze he mortgaged +his little property in order to raise funds for another campaign, +leaving sufficient behind him to keep his wife and family in comfort +for a year or so. + +As he often remarked, his position was now very different +from what it had been in the old days when he first arrived from Scotland, +in the height of the excitement following on the great discovery. +He was a young man then with only himself to look out for, +but now that he was getting old and had a family to provide for +he had staked too much on this venture to lose. His position +did certainly look like a forlorn hope, but he never seemed to think so. + +Peter must have been very lonely and low-spirited at times. +A young or unmarried man can form new ties, and even make new sweethearts +if necessary, but Peter's heart was with his wife and little ones at home, +and they were mortgaged, as it were, to Dame Fortune. +Peter had to lift this mortgage off. + +Nevertheless he was always cheerful, even at the worst of times, +and his straight grey beard and scrubby brown hair encircled a smile +which appeared to be a fixture. He had to make an effort +in order to look grave, such as some men do when they want to force a smile. + +It was rumoured that Peter had made a vow never to return home until +he could take sufficient wealth to make his all-important family comfortable, +or, at least, to raise the mortgage from the property, +for the sacrifice of which to his mad gold fever he never forgave himself. +But this was one of the few things which Peter kept to himself. + +The fact that he had a wife and children at St. Kilda was well known +to all the diggers. They had to know it, and if they did not know the age, +complexion, history and peculiarities of every child and of the "old woman" +it was not Peter's fault. + +He would cross over to our place and talk to the mother for hours +about his wife and children. And nothing pleased him better +than to discover peculiarities in us children wherein we resembled his own. +It pleased us also for mercenary reasons. "It's just the same +with my old woman," or "It's just the same with my youngsters," +Peter would exclaim boisterously, for he looked upon any little similarity +between the two families as a remarkable coincidence. He liked us all, +and was always very kind to us, often standing between our backs +and the rod that spoils the child -- that is, I mean, if it isn't used. +I was very short-tempered, but this failing was more than condoned +by the fact that Peter's "eldest" was given that way also. +Mother's second son was very good-natured; so was Peter's third. +Her "third" had a great aversion for any duty that threatened +to increase his muscles; so had Peter's "second". Our baby +was very fat and heavy and was given to sucking her own thumb vigorously, +and, according to the latest bulletins from home, it was just the same +with Peter's "last". + +I think we knew more about Peter's family than we did about our own. +Although we had never seen them, we were as familiar with their features +as the photographer's art could make us, and always knew +their domestic history up to the date of the last mail. + +We became interested in the McKenzie family. Instead of getting bored by them +as some people were, we were always as much pleased when Peter got +a letter from home as he was himself, and if a mail were missed, +which seldom happened -- we almost shared his disappointment and anxiety. +Should one of the youngsters be ill, we would be quite uneasy, +on Peter's account, until the arrival of a later bulletin removed his anxiety, +and ours. + +It must have been the glorious power of a big true heart that gained for Peter +the goodwill and sympathy of all who knew him. + +Peter's smile had a peculiar fascination for us children. +We would stand by his pointing forge when he'd be sharpening picks +in the early morning, and watch his face for five minutes at a time, +wondering sometimes whether he was always SMILING INSIDE, +or whether the smile went on externally irrespective of any variation +in Peter's condition of mind. + +I think it was the latter case, for often when he had received +bad news from home we have heard his voice quaver with anxiety, +while the old smile played on his round, brown features just the same. + +Little Nelse (one of those queer old-man children who seem +to come into the world by mistake, and who seldom stay long) used to say +that Peter "cried inside". + +Once, on Gulgong, when he attended the funeral of an old Ballarat mate, +a stranger who had been watching his face curiously remarked +that McKenzie seemed as pleased as though the dead digger +had bequeathed him a fortune. But the stranger had soon reason +to alter his opinion, for when another old mate began in a tremulous voice +to repeat the words "Ashes to ashes, an' dust to dust," two big tears +suddenly burst from Peter's eyes, and hurried down to get entrapped +in his beard. + +Peter's goldmining ventures were not successful. He sank +three duffers in succession on Gulgong, and the fourth shaft, +after paying expenses, left a little over a hundred to each party, +and Peter had to send the bulk of his share home. He lived in a tent +(or in a hut when he could get one) after the manner of diggers, +and he "did for himself", even to washing his own clothes. +He never drank nor "played", and he took little enjoyment of any kind, +yet there was not a digger on the field who would dream of calling +old Peter McKenzie "a mean man". He lived, as we know +from our own observations, in a most frugal manner. He always tried +to hide this, and took care to have plenty of good things for us +when he invited us to his hut; but children's eyes are sharp. +Some said that Peter half-starved himself, but I don't think his family +ever knew, unless he told them so afterwards. + +Ah, well! the years go over. Peter was now three years from home, +and he and Fortune were enemies still. Letters came by the mail, +full of little home troubles and prayers for Peter's return, +and letters went back by the mail, always hopeful, always cheerful. +Peter never gave up. When everything else failed he would work by the day +(a sad thing for a digger), and he was even known to do a job of fencing +until such time as he could get a few pounds and a small party together +to sink another shaft. + +Talk about the heroic struggles of early explorers in a hostile country; +but for dogged determination and courage in the face of poverty, illness, +and distance, commend me to the old-time digger -- the truest soldier +Hope ever had! + +In the fourth year of his struggle Peter met with a terrible disappointment. +His party put down a shaft called the Forlorn Hope near Happy Valley, +and after a few weeks' fruitless driving his mates jibbed on it. +Peter had his own opinion about the ground -- an old digger's opinion, +and he used every argument in his power to induce his mates +to put a few days' more work in the claim. In vain he pointed out +that the quality of the wash and the dip of the bottom +exactly resembled that of the "Brown Snake", a rich Victorian claim. +In vain he argued that in the case of the abovementioned claim, +not a colour could be got until the payable gold was actually reached. +Home Rule and The Canadian and that cluster of fields were going ahead, +and his party were eager to shift. They remained obstinate, +and at last, half-convinced against his opinion, Peter left with them +to sink the "Iawatha", in Log Paddock, which turned out a rank duffer -- +not even paying its own expenses. + +A party of Italians entered the old claim and, after driving it +a few feet further, made their fortune. + + . . . . . + +We all noticed the change in Peter McKenzie when he came to "Log Paddock", +whither we had shifted before him. The old smile still flickered, +but he had learned to "look" grave for an hour at a time without much effort. +He was never quite the same after the affair of Forlorn Hope, +and I often think how he must have "cried" sometimes "inside". + +However, he still read us letters from home, and came and smoked +in the evening by our kitchen-fire. He showed us some +new portraits of his family which he had received by a late mail, +but something gave me the impression that the portraits made him uneasy. +He had them in his possession for nearly a week before showing them to us, +and to the best of our knowledge he never showed them to anybody else. +Perhaps they reminded him of the flight of time -- perhaps he would +have preferred his children to remain just as he left them until he returned. + +But stay! there was one portrait that seemed to give Peter infinite pleasure. +It was the picture of a chubby infant of about three years or more. +It was a fine-looking child taken in a sitting position on a cushion, +and arrayed in a very short shirt. On its fat, soft, white face, +which was only a few inches above the ten very podgy toes, was a smile +something like Peter's. Peter was never tired of looking at and showing +the picture of his child -- the child he had never seen. +Perhaps he cherished a wild dream of making his fortune and returning home +before THAT child grew up. + + . . . . . + +McKenzie and party were sinking a shaft at the upper end of Log Paddock, +generally called "The other end". We were at the lower end. + +One day Peter came down from "the other end" and told us +that his party expected to "bottom" during the following week, +and if they got no encouragement from the wash they intended to go prospecting +at the "Happy Thought", near Specimen Flat. + +The shaft in Log Paddock was christened "Nil Desperandum". +Towards the end of the week we heard that the wash in the "Nil" +was showing good colours. + +Later came the news that "McKenzie and party" had bottomed on payable gold, +and the red flag floated over the shaft. Long before the first load of dirt +reached the puddling machine on the creek, the news was all round +the diggings. The "Nil Desperandum" was a "Golden Hole"! + + . . . . . + +We will not forget the day when Peter went home. He hurried down +in the morning to have an hour or so with us before Cobb and Co. went by. +He told us all about his little cottage by the bay at St. Kilda. +He had never spoken of it before, probably because of the mortgage. +He told us how it faced the bay -- how many rooms it had, +how much flower garden, and how on a clear day he could see from the window +all the ships that came up to the Yarra, and how with a good telescope +he could even distinguish the faces of the passengers on the big ocean liners. + +And then, when the mother's back was turned, he hustled us children +round the corner, and surreptitiously slipped a sovereign +into each of our dirty hands, making great pantomimic show for silence, +for the mother was very independent. + +And when we saw the last of Peter's face setting like a good-humoured sun +on the top of Cobb and Co.'s, a great feeling of discontent and loneliness +came over all our hearts. Little Nelse, who had been Peter's favourite, +went round behind the pig-stye, where none might disturb him, +and sat down on the projecting end of a trough to "have a cry", +in his usual methodical manner. But old "Alligator Desolation", the dog, +had suspicions of what was up, and, hearing the sobs, +went round to offer whatever consolation appertained +to a damp and dirty nose and a pair of ludicrously doleful yellow eyes. + + + + +An Oversight of Steelman's + + + +Steelman and Smith -- professional wanderers -- were making back +for Wellington, down through the wide and rather dreary-looking Hutt Valley. +They were broke. They carried their few remaining belongings +in two skimpy, amateurish-looking swags. Steelman had fourpence left. +They were very tired and very thirsty -- at least Steelman was, +and he answered for both. It was Smith's policy to feel and think +just exactly as Steelman did. Said Steelman: + +"The landlord of the next pub. is not a bad sort. I won't go in -- +he might remember me. You'd best go in. You've been tramping round +in the Wairarapa district for the last six months, looking for work. +You're going back to Wellington now, to try and get on +the new corporation works just being started there -- the sewage works. +You think you've got a show. You've got some mates in Wellington, +and they're looking out for a chance for you. You did get a job last week +on a sawmill at Silverstream, and the boss sacked you after three days +and wouldn't pay you a penny. That's just his way. I know him -- +at least a mate of mine does. I've heard of him often enough. +His name's Cowman. Don't forget the name, whatever you do. +The landlord here hates him like poison; he'll sympathize with you. +Tell him you've got a mate with you; he's gone ahead -- took a short cut +across the paddocks. Tell him you've got only fourpence left, +and see if he'll give you a drop in a bottle. Says you: `Well, boss, +the fact is we've only got fourpence, but you might let us have a drop +in a bottle'; and very likely he'll stand you a couple of pints +in a gin-bottle. You can fling the coppers on the counter, +but the chances are he won't take them. He's not a bad sort. +Beer's fourpence a pint out here, same's in Wellington. See that gin-bottle +lying there by the stump; get it and we'll take it down to the river with us +and rinse it out." + +They reached the river bank. + +"You'd better take my swag -- it looks more decent," said Steelman. +"No, I'll tell you what we'll do: we'll undo both swags and make them +into one -- one decent swag, and I'll cut round through the lanes +and wait for you on the road ahead of the pub." + +He rolled up the swag with much care and deliberation +and considerable judgment. He fastened Smith's belt round one end of it, +and the handkerchiefs round the other, and made a towel +serve as a shoulder-strap. + +"I wish we had a canvas bag to put it in," he said, "or a cover of some sort. +But never mind. The landlord's an old Australian bushman, +now I come to think of it; the swag looks Australian enough, +and it might appeal to his feelings, you know -- bring up old recollections. +But you'd best not say you come from Australia, because he's been there, +and he'd soon trip you up. He might have been where you've been, you know, +so don't try to do too much. You always do mug-up the business +when you try to do more than I tell you. You might tell him +your mate came from Australia -- but no, he might want you to bring me in. +Better stick to Maoriland. I don't believe in too much ornamentation. +Plain lies are the best." + +"What's the landlord's name?" asked Smith. + +"Never mind that. You don't want to know that. You are not supposed +to know him at all. It might look suspicious if you called him by his name, +and lead to awkward questions; then you'd be sure to put your foot into it." + +"I could say I read it over the door." + +"Bosh. Travellers don't read the names over the doors, +when they go into pubs. You're an entire stranger to him. +Call him `Boss'. Say `Good-day, Boss,' when you go in, +and swing down your swag as if you're used to it. Ease it down like this. +Then straighten yourself up, stick your hat back, and wipe your forehead, +and try to look as hearty and independent and cheerful as you possibly can. +Curse the Government, and say the country's done. It don't matter +what Government it is, for he's always against it. I never knew +a real Australian that wasn't. Say that you're thinking about +trying to get over to Australia, and then listen to him talking about it -- +and try to look interested, too! Get that damned stone-deaf expression +off your face! . . . He'll run Australia down most likely +(I never knew an Other-sider that had settled down over here who didn't). +But don't you make any mistake and agree with him, because, +although successful Australians over here like to run their own country down, +there's very few of them that care to hear anybody else do it. . . . +Don't come away as soon as you get your beer. Stay and listen to him +for a while, as if you're interested in his yarning, and give him time +to put you on to a job, or offer you one. Give him a chance +to ask how you and your mate are off for tobacco or tucker. +Like as not he'll sling you half a crown when you come away -- that is, +if you work it all right. Now try to think of something to say to him, +and make yourself a bit interesting -- if you possibly can. +Tell him about the fight we saw back at the pub. the other day. +He might know some of the chaps. This is a sleepy hole, +and there ain't much news knocking round. . . . I wish I could go in myself, +but he's sure to remember ME. I'm afraid he got left +the last time I stayed there (so did one or two others); and, besides, +I came away without saying good-bye to him, and he might feel +a bit sore about it. That's the worst of travelling on the old road. +Come on now, wake up!" + +"Bet I'll get a quart," said Smith, brightening up, "and some tucker +for it to wash down." + +"If you don't," said Steelman, "I'll stoush you. Never mind the bottle; +fling it away. It doesn't look well for a traveller to go into a pub. +with an empty bottle in his hand. A real swagman never does. +It looks much better to come out with a couple of full ones. +That's what you've got to do. Now, come along." + +Steelman turned off into a lane, cut across the paddocks to the road again, +and waited for Smith. He hadn't long to wait. + +Smith went on towards the public-house, rehearsing his part as he walked -- +repeating his "lines" to himself, so as to be sure of remembering +all that Steelman had told him to say to the landlord, and adding, +with what he considered appropriate gestures, some fancy touches of his own, +which he determined to throw in in spite of Steelman's advice and warning. +"I'll tell him (this) -- I'll tell him (that). Well, look here, boss, +I'll say you're pretty right and I quite agree with you as far +as that's concerned, but," &c. And so, murmuring and mumbling to himself, +Smith reached the hotel. The day was late, and the bar was small, +and low, and dark. Smith walked in with all the assurance he could muster, +eased down his swag in a corner in what he no doubt considered +the true professional style, and, swinging round to the bar, +said in a loud voice which he intended to be cheerful, independent, +and hearty: + +"Good-day, boss!" + +But it wasn't a "boss". It was about the hardest-faced old woman +that Smith had ever seen. The pub. had changed hands. + +"I -- I beg your pardon, missus," stammered poor Smith. + +It was a knock-down blow for Smith. He couldn't come to time. +He and Steelman had had a landlord in their minds all the time, +and laid their plans accordingly; the possibility of having a she +-- and one like this -- to deal with never entered into their calculations. +Smith had no time to reorganise, even if he had had the brains to do so, +without the assistance of his mate's knowledge of human nature. + +"I -- I beg your pardon, missus," he stammered. + +Painful pause. She sized him up. + +"Well, what do you want?" + +"Well, missus -- I -- the fact is -- will you give me a bottle of beer +for fourpence?" + +"Wha--what?" + +"I mean ----. The fact is, we've only got fourpence left, +and -- I've got a mate outside, and you might let us have a quart or so, +in a bottle, for that. I mean -- anyway, you might let us have a pint. +I'm very sorry to bother you, missus." + +But she couldn't do it. No. Certainly not. Decidedly not! +All her drinks were sixpence. She had her license to pay, and the rent, +and a family to keep. It wouldn't pay out there -- it wasn't worth her while. +It wouldn't pay the cost of carting the liquor out, &c., &c. + +"Well, missus," poor Smith blurted out at last, in sheer desperation, +"give me what you can in a bottle for this. I've -- I've got a mate outside." +And he put the four coppers on the bar. + +"Have you got a bottle?" + +"No -- but ----" + +"If I give you one, will you bring it back? You can't expect me +to give you a bottle as well as a drink." + +"Yes, mum; I'll bring it back directly." + +She reached out a bottle from under the bar, and very deliberately +measured out a little over a pint and poured it into the bottle, +which she handed to Smith without a cork. + +Smith went his way without rejoicing. It struck him forcibly +that he should have saved the money until they reached Petone, or the city, +where Steelman would be sure to get a decent drink. But how was he to know? +He had chanced it, and lost; Steelman might have done the same. +What troubled Smith most was the thought of what Steelman would say; +he already heard him, in imagination, saying: "You're a mug, Smith -- +Smith, you ARE a mug." + +But Steelman didn't say much. He was prepared for the worst +by seeing Smith come along so soon. He listened to his story +with an air of gentle sadness, even as a stern father +might listen to the voluntary confession of a wayward child; +then he held the bottle up to the fading light of departing day, +looked through it (the bottle), and said: + +"Well -- it ain't worth while dividing it." + +Smith's heart shot right down through a hole in the sole of his left boot +into the hard road. + +"Here, Smith," said Steelman, handing him the bottle, "drink it, old man; +you want it. It wasn't altogether your fault; it was an oversight of mine. +I didn't bargain for a woman of that kind, and, of course, +YOU couldn't be expected to think of it. Drink it! Drink it down, Smith. +I'll manage to work the oracle before this night is out." + +Smith was forced to believe his ears, and, recovering from +his surprise, drank. + +"I promised to take back the bottle," he said, with the ghost of a smile. + +Steelman took the bottle by the neck and broke it on the fence. + +"Come on, Smith; I'll carry the swag for a while." + +And they tramped on in the gathering starlight. + + + + +How Steelman told his Story + + + +It was Steelman's humour, in some of his moods, to take Smith +into his confidence, as some old bushmen do their dogs. + +"You're nearly as good as an intelligent sheep-dog to talk to, Smith -- +when a man gets tired of thinking to himself and wants a relief. +You're a bit of a mug and a good deal of an idiot, and the chances are +that you don't know what I'm driving at half the time -- +that's the main reason why I don't mind talking to you. +You ought to consider yourself honoured; it ain't every man +I take into my confidence, even that far." + +Smith rubbed his head. + +"I'd sooner talk to you -- or a stump -- any day than to one of those silent, +suspicious, self-contained, worldly-wise chaps that listen +to everything you say -- sense and rubbish alike -- as if you were trying +to get them to take shares in a mine. I drop the man +who listens to me all the time and doesn't seem to get bored. He isn't safe. +He isn't to be trusted. He mostly wants to grind his axe against yours, +and there's too little profit for me where there are two axes to grind, +and no stone -- though I'd manage it once, anyhow." + +"How'd you do it?" asked Smith. + +"There are several ways. Either you join forces, for instance, +and find a grindstone -- or make one of the other man's axe. +But the last way is too slow, and, as I said, takes too much brain-work -- +besides, it doesn't pay. It might satisfy your vanity or pride, +but I've got none. I had once, when I was younger, but it -- well, +it nearly killed me, so I dropped it. + +"You can mostly trust the man who wants to talk more than you do; +he'll make a safe mate -- or a good grindstone." + +Smith scratched the nape of his neck and sat blinking at the fire, +with the puzzled expression of a woman pondering over a life-question +or the trimming of a hat. Steelman took his chin in his hand +and watched Smith thoughtfully. + +"I -- I say, Steely," exclaimed Smith, suddenly, sitting up +and scratching his head and blinking harder than ever -- "wha--what am I?" + +"How do you mean?" + +"Am I the axe or the grindstone?" + +"Oh! your brain seems in extra good working order to-night, Smith. +Well, you turn the grindstone and I grind." Smith settled. +"If you could grind better than I, I'd turn the stone and let YOU grind, +I'd never go against the interests of the firm -- that's fair enough, +isn't it?" + +"Ye-es," admitted Smith; "I suppose so." + +"So do I. Now, Smith, we've got along all right together for years, +off and on, but you never know what might happen. I might stop breathing, +for instance -- and so might you." + +Smith began to look alarmed. + +"Poetical justice might overtake one or both of us -- such things +have happened before, though not often. Or, say, misfortune or death +might mistake us for honest, hard-working mugs with big families to keep, +and cut us off in the bloom of all our wisdom. You might get into trouble, +and, in that case, I'd be bound to leave you there, on principle; +or I might get into trouble, and you wouldn't have the brains to get me out -- +though I know you'd be mug enough to try. I might make a rise and cut you, +or you might be misled into showing some spirit, and clear out +after I'd stoushed you for it. You might get tired of me calling you a mug, +and bossing you and making a tool or convenience of you, you know. +You might go in for honest graft (you were always a bit weak-minded) +and then I'd have to wash my hands of you (unless you agreed to keep me) +for an irreclaimable mug. Or it might suit me to become +a respected and worthy fellow townsman, and then, if you came +within ten miles of me or hinted that you ever knew me, I'd have you up +for vagrancy, or soliciting alms, or attempting to levy blackmail. +I'd have to fix you -- so I give you fair warning. Or we might get +into some desperate fix (and it needn't be very desperate, either) +when I'd be obliged to sacrifice you for my own personal safety, comfort, +and convenience. Hundreds of things might happen. + +"Well, as I said, we've been at large together for some years, +and I've found you sober, trustworthy, and honest; so, in case we do part +-- as we will sooner or later -- and you survive, I'll give you some advice +from my own experience. + +"In the first place: If you ever happen to get born again +-- and it wouldn't do you much harm -- get born with the strength of a bullock +and the hide of one as well, and a swelled head, and no brains -- +at least no more brains than you've got now. I was born with a skin +like tissue-paper, and brains; also a heart. + +"Get born without relatives, if you can: if you can't help it, +clear out on your own just as soon after you're born as you possibly can. +I hung on. + +"If you have relations, and feel inclined to help them any time +when you're flush (and there's no telling what a weak-minded man like you +might take it into his head to do) -- don't do it. They'll get a down on you +if you do. It only causes family troubles and bitterness. There's no dislike +like that of a dependant. You'll get neither gratitude nor civility +in the end, and be lucky if you escape with a character. +(You've got NO character, Smith; I'm only just supposing you have.) +There's no hatred too bitter for, and nothing too bad to be said of, +the mug who turns. The worst yarns about a man are generally started +by his own tribe, and the world believes them at once on that very account. +Well, the first thing to do in life is to escape from your friends. + +"If you ever go to work -- and miracles have happened before -- +no matter what your wages are, or how you are treated, +you can take it for granted that you're sweated; act on that +to the best of your ability, or you'll never rise in the world. +If you go to see a show on the nod you'll be found a comfortable seat +in a good place; but if you pay the chances are the ticket clerk +will tell you a lie, and you'll have to hustle for standing room. +The man that doesn't ante gets the best of this world; +anything he'll stand is good enough for the man that pays. +If you try to be too sharp you'll get into gaol sooner or later; +if you try to be too honest the chances are that the bailiff +will get into your house -- if you have one -- and make a holy show of you +before the neighbours. The honest softy is more often +mistaken for a swindler, and accused of being one, than the out-and-out scamp; +and the man that tells the truth too much is set down +as an irreclaimable liar. But most of the time crow low and roost high, +for it's a funny world, and you never know what might happen. + +"And if you get married (and there's no accounting for a woman's taste) +be as bad as you like, and then moderately good, and your wife will love you. +If you're bad all the time she can't stand it for ever, +and if you're good all the time she'll naturally treat you with contempt. +Never explain what you're going to do, and don't explain afterwards, +if you can help it. If you find yourself between two stools, strike hard +for your own self, Smith -- strike hard, and you'll be respected more +than if you fought for all the world. Generosity isn't understood nowadays, +and what the people don't understand is either `mad' or `cronk'. +Failure has no case, and you can't build one for it. . . . +I started out in life very young -- and very soft." + + . . . . . + +"I thought you were going to tell me your story, Steely," remarked Smith. + +Steelman smiled sadly. + + + + +[End of original text.] + + + + + +About the author: + + + +Henry Lawson was born near Grenfell, New South Wales, Australia +on 17 June 1867. Although he has since become Australia's +most acclaimed writer, in his own lifetime his writing was often +"on the side" -- his "real" work being whatever he could find. +His writing was frequently 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 at Sydney, 2 September 1922. He is most famous for his short stories. + +"On the Track" and "Over the Sliprails" were both published at Sydney in 1900, +the prefaces being dated March and June respectively -- and so, +though printed separately, a combined edition was printed the same year +(the two separate, complete works were simply put together in one binding); +hence they are sometimes referred to as "On the Track and Over the Sliprails". + + . . . . . + +An incomplete Glossary of Australian terms and concepts +which may prove helpful to understanding this book: + + +Anniversary Day: Alluded to 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. + +Billy: A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil water for tea. + +Cabbage-tree/Cabbage-tree hat: A wide-brimmed hat made with the leaves + of the cabbage tree palm (Livistona australis). It was a common hat + in early colonial days, and later became associated with patriotism. + +Gin: An aboriginal woman; use of the term is analogous to "squaw" + in N. America. May be considered derogatory in modern usage. + +Graft: Work; hard work. + +Humpy: (Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in the bush, + especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. + A gunyah, wurley, or mia-mia. + +Jackeroo/Jackaroo: At the time Lawson wrote, a Jackeroo 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. + +Jumbuck: A sheep. + +Larrikin: A hoodlum. + +Lollies: Candy, sweets. + +'Possum/Possum: In Australia, a class of marsupials that were + originally mistaken for the American animal of the same name. + They are not especially related to the possums of North and South America, + other than 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. + +Push: A group of people sharing something in common; Lawson uses the word + in an older and more particular sense, as a gang of violent city hoodlums. + +Ratty: Shabby, dilapidated; somewhat eccentric, perhaps even slightly mad. + +Selector: A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled land + by lease or license from the government. + +Shout: To buy a round of drinks. + +Sliprails/slip-rails: movable rails, forming a section of fence, + which can be taken down in lieu of a gate. + +Sly grog shop or shanty: An unlicensed bar or liquor-store, + especially one selling cheap or poor-quality liquor. + +Squatter: A person who first settled on land without government permission, + and later continued by lease or license, generally to raise stock; + a wealthy rural landowner. + +Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + +Stoush: Violence; to do violence to. + +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. + + +Also: a hint with the seasons -- remember that the seasons are reversed + from those in the northern hemisphere, hence June may be hot, + but December is even hotter. Australia is at a lower latitude + than the United States, so the winters are not harsh by US standards, + and are not even mild in the north. In fact, large parts of Australia + are governed more by "dry" versus "wet" than by Spring-Summer-Fall-Winter. + + +(Alan Light, Monroe, North Carolina, March 1998.) + + +A few obvious errors in the original text were corrected, +after being confirmed against other editions. + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of On the Track, by Henry Lawson + diff --git a/old/old/ontrk10.zip b/old/old/ontrk10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1abb2c3 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/ontrk10.zip diff --git a/old/old/ontrk10h.htm b/old/old/ontrk10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..94b5e29 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/ontrk10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7109 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<title>New File</title> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= +"text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> +<style type="text/css"> +<!-- +body {margin:10%; text-align:justify} +blockquote {font-size:14pt} +P {font-size:14pt} +--> +</style> +</head> +<body> +<center><b>The Project Gutenberg HTML Etext of On the Track, +byHenryLawson</b><br> +Our 3rd title by Henry Lawson</center> + +<br> +<br> +<p>Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to +check the copyright laws for your country before posting these +files!!</p> + +<p>Please take a look at the important information in this +header. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* +</pre> + +<hr> +<center> +<h1>ON THE TRACK<br> +</h1> + +by Henry Lawson<br> +</center> + +<hr width="80%"> +<a name="Page-vii"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="ToC">Contents</a></h2> +</center> + +<p><a href="#Front">Front Matter</a><br> + <br> + <a href="#Songs">The Songs They used to Sing</a><br> + <a href="#Vision">A Vision of Sandy Blight</a><br> + <a href="#Andy">Andy Page's Rival</a><br> + <a href="#Iron-Bark">The Iron-Bark Chip</a><br> + <a href="#Middleton">"Middleton's Peter"</a><br> + <a href="#Mystery">The Mystery of Dave Regan</a><br> + <a href="#Matrimony">Mitchell on Matrimony</a><br> + <a href="#Women">Mitchell on Women</a><br> + <a href="#NoPlace">No Place for a Woman</a><br> + <a href="#Jobs">Mitchell's Jobs</a><br> + <a href="#Bill">Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster</a><br> + <a href="#Bush">Bush Cats</a><br> + <a href="#Meeting">Meeting Old Mates</a><br> + <a href="#Two">Two Larrikins</a><br> + <a name="Page-viii"><a href="#Smellingscheck">Mr. +Smellingscheck</a><br> + <a href="#Rough">"A Rough Shed"</a><br> + <a href="#Payable">Payable Gold</a><br> + <a href="#Oversight">An Oversight of Steelman's</a><br> + <a href="#How">How Steelman told his Story</a><br> + <br> + <a href="#Notes">About the Author and other Notes</a><br> +</a></p> + +<hr width="80%"> +<center> +<h2><a name="Front">Front Matter</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Front-S1"><a name="Page-iii"></a></a> + +<center> +<h3>On the Track</h3> + +<br> +by Henry Lawson<br> +Author of "While the Billy Boils", and "When the World was +Wide"<br> +<br> +</center> + +<a name="Front-S2"><a name="Page-v"></a></a> + +<center> +<h2>Preface</h2> +</center> + +<p>[Note: The following preface is retained for historical +context only. Some of the periodicals mentioned are now defunct +or have undergone changes to such an extent as would be +unrecognizable to the author. In any case, this entire text is +now public domain, and no longer has any connection with the +journals named. — A. L., 1998.]</p> + +<p>Of the stories in this volume many have already appeared in +the columns of the <cite>Bulletin</cite>, <cite>Town and Country +Journal</cite>, <cite>Freeman's Journal</cite>, and +<cite>Australian Star</cite> (Sydney), and the <cite>West +Australian</cite> and <cite>Western Mail</cite> (Perth), while +several now appear in print for the first time.</p> + +<p>I wish to thank the editors of the papers mentioned for the +right to republish in book form.</p> + +<p>H. L.<br> + <i>Sydney, March 17th, 1900.</i></p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<hr width="80%"> +<a name="Page-1"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Songs">The Songs They used to Sing</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Songs-S1"></a> + +<p>On the diggings up to twenty odd years ago — and as far +back as I can remember — on Lambing Flat, the Pipe Clays, +Gulgong, Home Rule, and so through the roaring list; in bark +huts, tents, public-houses, <a href="#Notes-S21">sly grog +shanties</a>, and — well, the most glorious voice of all +belonged to a bad girl. We were only children and didn't know why +she was bad, but we weren't allowed to play near or go near the +hut she lived in, and we were trained to believe firmly that +something awful would happen to us if we stayed to answer a word, +and didn't run away as fast as our legs could carry us, if she +attempted to speak to us. We had before us the dread example of +one urchin, who got an awful hiding and went on bread and water +for twenty-four hours for allowing her to kiss him and give him +<a href="#Notes-S13">lollies</a>. She didn't look bad — +she looked to us like a grand and beautiful lady-girl — +but we got instilled into us the idea that she was an awful bad +woman, something more terrible even than a drunken man, and one +whose presence was to be feared and fled from. There were two +other girls in the hut with her, also a pretty little girl, who +called her "Auntie", and with whom we were not allowed to <a +name="Page-2">play — for they were all bad; which puzzled +us as much as child-minds can be puzzled. We couldn't make out +how everybody in one house could be bad. We used to wonder why +these bad people weren't hunted away or put in gaol if they were +so bad. And another thing puzzled us. Slipping out after dark, +when the bad girls happened to be singing in their house, we'd +sometimes run against men hanging round the hut by ones and twos +and threes, listening. They seemed mysterious. They were mostly +good men, and we concluded they were listening and watching the +bad women's house to see that they didn't kill anyone, or steal +and run away with any bad little boys — ourselves, for +instance — who ran out after dark; which, as we were +informed, those bad people were always on the lookout for a +chance to do.</a></p> + +<a name="Songs-S2"></a> + +<p>We were told in after years that old Peter McKenzie (a +respectable, married, hard-working <a href= +"#Notes-S6a">digger</a>) would sometimes steal up opposite the +bad door in the dark, and throw in money done up in a piece of +paper, and listen round until the bad girl had sung the "Bonnie +Hills of Scotland" two or three times. Then he'd go and get +drunk, and stay drunk two or three days at a time. And his wife +caught him throwing the money in one night, and there was a +terrible row, and she left him; and people always said it was all +a mistake. But we couldn't see the mistake then.</p> + +<a name="Songs-S3"></a> + +<p>But I can hear that girl's voice through the night, twenty +years ago:</p> + +<blockquote>Oh! the bloomin' heath, and the pale blue bell,<br> + In my bonnet then I wore;<br> + <a name="Page-3">And memory knows no brighter theme<br> + Than those happy days of yore.<br> + Scotland! Land of chief and song!<br> + Oh, what charms to thee belong!</a></blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S4"></a> + +<p>And I am old enough to understand why poor Peter McKenzie +— who was married to a Saxon, and a Tartar — went +and got drunk when the bad girl sang "The Bonnie Hills of +Scotland."</p> + +<blockquote>His anxious eye might look in vain<br> + For some loved form it knew!</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Songs-S5"></a> + +<p>And yet another thing puzzled us greatly at the time. Next +door to the bad girl's house there lived a very respectable +family — a family of good girls with whom we were allowed +to play, and from whom we got lollies (those hard old +red-and-white "fish lollies" that grocers sent home with parcels +of groceries and receipted bills). Now one washing day, they +being as glad to get rid of us at home as we were to get out, we +went over to the good house and found no one at home except the +grown-up daughter, who used to sing for us, and read "Robinson +Crusoe" of nights, "out loud", and give us more lollies than any +of the rest — and with whom we were passionately in love, +notwithstanding the fact that she was engaged to a "grown-up man" +— (we reckoned he'd be dead and out of the way by the time +we were old enough to marry her). She was washing. She had +carried the stool and tub over against the stick fence which +separated her house from the bad house; and, to our astonishment +and dismay, the bad girl had brought <i>her</i> tub over against +her side of the fence. They <a name="Page-4">stood and worked +with their shoulders to the fence between them, and heads bent +down close to it. The bad girl would sing a few words, and the +good girl after her, over and over again. They sang very low, we +thought. Presently the good grown-up girl turned her head and +caught sight of us. She jumped, and her face went flaming red; +she laid hold of the stool and carried it, tub and all, away from +that fence in a hurry. And the bad grown-up girl took her tub +back to her house. The good grown-up girl made us promise never +to tell what we saw — that she'd been talking to a bad +girl — else she would never, never marry us.</a></p> + +<a name="Songs-S6"></a> + +<p>She told me, in after years, when she'd grown up to be a +grandmother, that the bad girl was surreptitiously teaching her +to sing "Madeline" that day.</p> + +<a name="Songs-S7"></a> + +<p>I remember a dreadful story of a digger who went and shot +himself one night after hearing that bad girl sing. We thought +then what a frightfully bad woman she must be. The incident +terrified us; and thereafter we kept carefully and fearfully out +of reach of her voice,</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Songs-S8"></a> + +<p>I have a dreamy recollection of a circus on Gulgong in the +roaring days, more than twenty years ago, and a woman (to my +child-fancy a being from another world) standing in the middle of +the ring, singing:</p> + +<blockquote>Out in the cold world — out in the street +—<br> + Asking a penny from each one I meet;<br> + Cheerless I wander about all the day,<br> + Wearing my young life in sorrow away!</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Page-5"><a name="Songs-S9"></a></a> + +<p>That last line haunted me for many years. I remember being +frightened by women sobbing (and one or two great grown-up +diggers also) that night in that circus.</p> + +<a name="Songs-S10"></a> + +<p>"Father, Dear Father, Come Home with Me Now", was a sacred +song then, not a peg for vulgar parodies and more vulgar +"business" for fourth-rate clowns and corner-men. Then there was +"The Prairie Flower". "Out on the Prairie, in an Early Day" +— I can hear the digger's wife yet: she was the prettiest +girl on the field. They married on the sly and crept into camp +after dark; but the diggers got wind of it and rolled up with +gold-dishes, shovels, &c., &c., and gave them a real good +tinkettling in the old-fashioned style, and a nugget or two to +start housekeeping on. She had a very sweet voice.</p> + +<blockquote>Fair as a lily, joyous and free,<br> + Light of the prairie home was she.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S11"></a> + +<p>She's a "granny" now, no doubt — or dead.</p> + +<a name="Songs-S12"></a> + +<p>And I remember a poor, brutally ill-used little wife, wearing +a black eye mostly, and singing "Love Amongst the Roses" at her +work. And they sang the "Blue Tail Fly", and all the first and +best coon songs — in the days when old John Brown sank a +duffer on the hill.</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Songs-S13"></a> + +<p>The great bark kitchen of Granny Mathews' "Redclay Inn". A +fresh back-log thrown behind the fire, which lights the room +fitfully. Company settled down to pipes, subdued yarning, and +reverie.</p> + +<a name="Songs-S14"></a> + +<p>Flash Jack — red sash, <a href="#Notes-S6">cabbage-tree +hat</a> on back of head with nothing in it, glossy black curls +bunched <a name="Page-6">up in front of brim. Flash Jack +volunteers, without invitation, preparation, or warning, and +through his nose:</a></p> + +<a name="Songs-S15"></a> + +<p>Hoh! —</p> + +<blockquote>There was a wild kerlonial youth,<br> + John Dowlin was his name!<br> + He bountied on his parients,<br> + Who lived in Castlemaine!</blockquote> + +and so on to — + +<blockquote>He took a pistol from his breast<br> + And waved that lit—tle toy —</blockquote> + +"Little toy" with an enthusiastic flourish and great unction on +Flash Jack's part — + +<blockquote>"I'll fight, but I won't surrender!" said<br> + The wild Kerlonial Boy.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S16"></a> + +<p>Even this fails to rouse the company's enthusiasm. "Give us a +song, Abe! Give us the `Lowlands'!" Abe Mathews, bearded and +grizzled, is lying on the broad of his back on a bench, with his +hands clasped under his head — his favourite position for +smoking, reverie, yarning, or singing. He had a strong, deep +voice, which used to thrill me through and through, from hair to +toenails, as a child.</p> + +<a name="Songs-S17"></a> + +<p>They bother Abe till he takes his pipe out of his mouth and +puts it behind his head on the end of the stool:</p> + +<blockquote>The ship was built in Glasgow;<br> + 'Twas the "Golden Vanitee" —</blockquote> + +Lines have dropped out of my memory during the thirty years gone +between — + +<blockquote>And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!</blockquote> + +The <a href="#Notes-S15">public-house</a> people and more diggers +drop into the kitchen, as all do within hearing, when Abe sings. +<br> +<br> + <a name="Page-7"><a name="Songs-S18"></a></a> + +<p>"Now then, boys:</p> + +<blockquote>And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S19"></a> + +<p>"Now, all together!</p> + +<blockquote>The Low Lands! The Low Lands!<br> + And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!"</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S20"></a> + +<p>Toe and heel and flat of foot begin to stamp the clay floor, +and horny hands to slap patched knees in accompaniment.</p> + +<blockquote>"Oh! save me, lads!" he cried,<br> + "I'm drifting with the current,<br> + And I'm drifting with the tide!<br> + And I'm sinking in the Low Lands, Low! <br> + The Low Lands! The Low Lands!" —</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S21"></a> + +<p>The old bark kitchen is a-going now. Heels drumming on +gin-cases under stools; hands, knuckles, pipe-bowls, and +pannikins keeping time on the table.</p> + +<blockquote>And we sewed him in his hammock,<br> + And we slipped him o'er the side,<br> + And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low!<br> + The Low Lands! The Low Lands!<br> + And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low!</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S22"></a> + +<p>Old Boozer Smith — a dirty gin-sodden bundle of rags on +the floor in the corner with its head on a candle box, and +covered by a horse rug — old Boozer Smith is supposed to +have been dead to the universe for hours past, but the chorus +must have disturbed his torpor; for, with a suddenness and +unexpectedness that makes the next man jump, there comes a bellow +from under the horse rug:</p> + +<blockquote>Wot though! — I wear! — a rag! — +ged coat!<br> + I'll wear it like a man!</blockquote> + +and ceases as suddenly as it commenced. He struggles to bring his +ruined head and bloated face <a name="Page-8">above the surface, +glares round; then, no one questioning his manhood, he sinks back +and dies to creation; and subsequent proceedings are only +interrupted by a snore, as far as he is concerned.<br> + <a name="Songs-S23"></a></a> + +<p>Little Jimmy Nowlett, the bullock-driver, is inspired. "Go on, +Jimmy! Give us a song!"</p> + +<blockquote>In the days when we were hard up<br> + For want of wood and wire —</blockquote> + +Jimmy always blunders; it should have been "<i>food and fire</i>" +— + +<blockquote>We used to tie our boots up<br> + With lit—tle bits — er wire;</blockquote> + +and — + +<blockquote>I'm sitting in my lit—tle room,<br> + It measures six by six;<br> + The work-house wall is opposite,<br> + I've counted all the bricks!</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S24"></a> + +<p>"Give us a chorus, Jimmy!"</p> + +<a name="Songs-S25"></a> + +<p>Jimmy does, giving his head a short, jerky nod for nearly +every word, and describing a circle round his crown — as +if he were stirring a pint of hot tea — with his +forefinger, at the end of every line:</p> + +<blockquote>Hall! — Round! — Me — Hat!<br> + I wore a weepin' willer!</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S26"></a> + +<p>Jimmy is a Cockney.</p> + +<a name="Songs-S27"></a> + +<p>"Now then, boys!"</p> + +<blockquote>Hall — round — me hat!</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S28"></a> + +<p>How many old diggers remember it?</p> + +<a name="Songs-S29"></a> + +<p>And:</p> + +<blockquote>A butcher, and a baker, and a quiet-looking +quaker,<br> + All a-courting pretty Jessie at the Railway Bar.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S30"></a> + +<p>I used to wonder as a child what the "railway bar" meant.</p> + +<a name="Page-9"><a name="Songs-S31"></a></a> + +<p>And:</p> + +<blockquote>I would, I would, I would in vain<br> + That I were single once again!<br> + But ah, alas, that will not be<br> + Till apples grow on the willow tree.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S32"></a> + +<p>A drunken gambler's young wife used to sing that song — +to herself.</p> + +<a name="Songs-S33"></a> + +<p>A stir at the kitchen door, and a cry of "Pinter," and old +Poynton, Ballarat digger, appears and is shoved in; he has +several drinks aboard, and they proceed to "git Pinter on the +singin' lay," and at last talk him round. He has a good voice, +but no "theory", and blunders worse than Jimmy Nowlett with the +words. He starts with a howl —</p> + +<blockquote>Hoh!<br> + Way down in Covent Gar-ar-r-dings<br> +A-strolling I did go,<br> + To see the sweetest flow-ow-wers<br> +That e'er in gardings grow.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S34"></a> + +<p>He saw the rose and lily — the red and white and blue +— and he saw the sweetest flow-ow-ers that e'er in +gardings grew; for he saw two lovely maidens (Pinter calls 'em +"virgings") underneath (he must have meant on top of) "<i>a +garding chair</i>", sings Pinter.</p> + +<blockquote>And one was lovely Jessie,<br> + With the jet black eyes and hair,</blockquote> + +roars Pinter, + +<blockquote>And the other was a vir-ir-ging,<br> + I solemn-lye declare!</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S35"></a> + +<p>"Maiden, Pinter!" interjects Mr. Nowlett.</p> + +<a name="Songs-S36"></a> + +<p>"Well, it's all the same," retorts Pinter. "A maiden <i>is</i> +a virging, Jimmy. If you're singing, <a name="Page-10">Jimmy, and +not me, I'll leave off!" Chorus of "Order! Shut up, +Jimmy!"</a></p> + +<blockquote>I quicklye step-ped up to her,<br> +And unto her did sa-a-y:<br> + Do you belong to any young man,<br> +Hoh, tell me that, I pra-a-y?</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S37"></a> + +<p>Her answer, according to Pinter, was surprisingly prompt and +unconventional; also full and concise:</p> + +<blockquote>No; I belong to no young man —<br> +I solemnlye declare!<br> + I mean to live a virging<br> +And still my laurels wear!</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S38"></a> + +<p>Jimmy Nowlett attempts to move an amendment in favour of +"maiden", but is promptly suppressed. It seems that Pinter's suit +has a happy termination, for he is supposed to sing in the +character of a "Sailor Bold", and as he turns to pursue his +stroll in "Covent Gar-ar-dings":</p> + +<blockquote>"Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!" she cried,<br> + "I love a Sailor Bold!"</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S39"></a> + +<p>"Hong-kore, Pinter! Give us the <i>Golden Glove</i>, +Pinter!"</p> + +<a name="Songs-S40"></a> + +<p>Thus warmed up, Pinter starts with an explanatory "spoken" to +the effect that the song he is about to sing illustrates some of +the little ways of woman, and how, no matter what you say or do, +she is bound to have her own way in the end; also how, in one +instance, she set about getting it.</p> + +<a name="Songs-S41"></a> + +<p>Hoh!</p> + +<blockquote>Now, it's of a young squoire near Timworth did +dwell,<br> + Who courted a nobleman's daughter so well —</blockquote> + +The song has little or nothing to do with the "squire", <a name= +"Page-11">except so far as "all friends and relations had given +consent," and —</a> + +<blockquote>The troo-soo was ordered — appointed the +day,<br> + And a farmer were appointed for to give her away +—</blockquote> + +which last seemed a most unusual proceeding, considering the +wedding was a toney affair; but perhaps there were personal +interests — the nobleman might have been hard up, and the +farmer backing him. But there was an extraordinary scene in the +church, and things got mixed. + +<blockquote>For as soon as this maiding this farmer espied:<br> + "Hoh, my heart! Hoh, my heart!<br> + Hoh, my heart!" then she cried.</blockquote> + +Hysterics? Anyway, instead of being wed — + +<blockquote>This maiden took sick and she went to her +bed.</blockquote> + +(N.B. — Pinter sticks to <i>virging</i>.) <br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S42"></a> + +<p>Whereupon friends and relations and guests left the house in a +body (a strange but perhaps a wise proceeding, after all — +maybe they smelt a rat) and left her to recover alone, which she +did promptly. And then:</p> + +<blockquote>Shirt, breeches, and waistcoat this maiding put +on,<br> + And a-hunting she went with her dog and her gun;<br> + She hunted all round where this farmier did dwell,<br> + Because in her own heart she love-ed him well.</blockquote> + +The cat's out of the bag now: + +<blockquote>And often she fired, but no game she killed +—</blockquote> + +which was not surprising — + +<blockquote>Till at last the young farmier came into the field +—</blockquote> + +No wonder. She put it to him straight: + +<blockquote>"Oh, why are you not at the wedding?" she cried,<br> + "For to wait on the squoire, and to give him his +bride."</blockquote> + +<a name="Page-12">He was as prompt and as delightfully +unconventional in his reply as the young lady in Covent +Gardings:</a> + +<blockquote>"Oh, no! and oh, no! For the truth I must sa-a-y,<br> + I love her too well for to give her a-w-a-a-y!"</blockquote> + +which was satisfactory to the disguised "virging". + +<blockquote>". . . . and I'd take sword in hand,<br> + And by honour I'd win her if she would command."</blockquote> + +Which was still more satisfactory. + +<blockquote>Now this virging, being —</blockquote> + +(Jimmy Nowlett: "Maiden, Pinter — Jim is thrown on a stool +and sat on by several diggers.) + +<blockquote>Now this maiding, being please-ed to see him so +bold,<br> + She gave him her glove that was flowered with gold,</blockquote> + +and explained that she found it in his field while hunting around +with her dog and her gun. It is understood that he promised to +look up the owner. Then she went home and put an advertisement in +the local <i>Herald</i>; and that ad. must have caused +considerable sensation. She stated that she had lost her golden +glove, and + +<blockquote>The young man that finds it and brings it to me,<br> + Hoh! that very young man my husband shall be!</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S43"></a> + +<p>She had a saving clause in case the young farmer mislaid the +glove before he saw the ad., and an <i>old</i> bloke got holt of +it and fetched it along. But everything went all right. The young +farmer turned up with the glove. He was a very respectable young +farmer, and expressed his gratitude to her for having +"<i>honour-ed him with her love</i>." They were married, and the +song ends with a picture of the young farmeress milking the cow, +and the young farmer going whistling to plough. The fact that +they lived <a name="Page-13">and <a href="#Notes-S8">grafted</a> +on the selection proves that I hit the right nail on the head +when I guessed, in the first place, that the old nobleman was +"stony".</a></p> + +<a name="Songs-S44"></a> + +<p>In after years,</p> + +<blockquote>. . . she told him of the fun,<br> + How she hunted him up with her dog and her gun.</blockquote> + +But whether he was pleased or otherwise to hear it, after years +of matrimonial experiences, the old song doesn't say, for it ends +there. <br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S45"></a> + +<p>Flash Jack is more successful with "Saint Patrick's Day".</p> + +<blockquote>I come to the river, I jumped it quite clever!<br> + Me wife tumbled in, and I lost her for ever,<br> + St. Patrick's own day in the mornin'!</blockquote> + +This is greatly appreciated by Jimmy Nowlett, who is suspected, +especially by his wife, of being more cheerful when on the roads +than when at home. <br> +<br> + + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Songs-S46"></a> + +<p>"Sam Holt" was a great favourite with Jimmy Nowlett in after +years.</p> + +<blockquote>Oh, do you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt?<br> +Black Alice so dirty and dark —<br> + Who'd a nose on her face — I forget how it goes +—<br> +And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark.</blockquote> + +Sam Holt must have been very hard up for <a href= +"#Notes-S26">tucker</a> as well as beauty then, for + +<blockquote>Do you remember the <a href="#Notes-S14">'possums</a> +and grubs<br> + She baked for you down by the creek?</blockquote> + +Sam Holt was, apparently, a hardened flash Jack. + +<blockquote>You were not quite the cleanly potato, Sam +Holt.</blockquote> + +Reference is made to his "<i>manner of holding a flush</i>", <a +name="Page-14">and he is asked to remember several things which +he, no doubt, would rather forget, including</a> + +<blockquote>. . . the hiding you got from the boys.</blockquote> + +The song is decidedly personal. <br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S47"></a> + +<p>But Sam Holt makes a pile and goes home, leaving many a better +and worse man to pad the hoof Out Back. And — Jim Nowlett +sang this with so much feeling as to make it appear a personal +affair between him and the absent Holt —</p> + +<blockquote>And, don't you remember the fiver, Sam Holt,<br> + You borrowed so careless and free?<br> + I reckon I'll whistle a good many tunes</blockquote> + +(with increasing feeling) + +<blockquote>Ere you think of that fiver and me.</blockquote> + +For the chances will be that Sam Holt's old mate + +<blockquote>Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden Road<br> + To the end of the chapter of fate.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Songs-S48"></a> + +<p>An echo from "The Old Bark Hut", sung in the opposition camp +across the gully:</p> + +<blockquote>You may leave the door ajar, but if you keep it +shut,<br> + There's no need of suffocation in the Ould Barrk Hut.<br> + + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +The tucker's in the gin-case, but you'd better keep it shut +—<br> + For the flies will canther round it in the Ould Bark +Hut.</blockquote> + +However: + +<blockquote>What's out of sight is out of mind, in the Ould Bark +Hut.<br> + + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +We washed our greasy moleskins<br> + On the banks of the Condamine. —</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Page-15"><a name="Songs-S49"></a></a> + +<p>Somebody tackling the "Old Bullock Dray"; it must be over +fifty verses now. I saw a bushman at a country dance start to +sing that song; he'd get up to ten or fifteen verses, break down, +and start afresh. At last he sat down on his heel to it, in the +centre of the clear floor, resting his wrist on his knee, and +keeping time with an index finger. It was very funny, but the +thing was taken seriously all through.</p> + +<a name="Songs-S50"></a> + +<p>Irreverent echo from the old Lambing Flat trouble, from camp +across the gully:</p> + +<blockquote>Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!<br> + No more Chinamen will enter Noo South Wales!</blockquote> + +and + +<blockquote>Yankee Doodle came to town<br> +On a little pony —<br> + Stick a feather in his cap,<br> +And call him Maccaroni!</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S51"></a> + +<p>All the camps seem to be singing to-night:</p> + +<blockquote>Ring the bell, watchman!<br> +Ring! Ring! Ring!<br> + Ring, for the good news<br> +Is now on the wing!</blockquote> + +Good lines, the introduction: + +<blockquote>High on the belfry the old sexton stands,<br> + Grasping the rope with his thin bony hands! . . .<br> + Bon-fires are blazing throughout the land . . .<br> + Glorious and blessed tidings! Ring! Ring the bell!</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Songs-S52"></a> + +<p>Granny Mathews fails to coax her niece into the kitchen, but +persuades her to sing inside. She is the girl who learnt <i>sub +rosâ</i> from the bad girl who sang "Madeline". Such as +have them on instinctively take their hats off. Diggers, &c., +strolling past, halt <a name="Page-16">at the first notes of the +girl's voice, and stand like statues in the moonlight:</a></p> + +<blockquote>Shall we gather at the river,<br> +Where bright angel feet have trod?<br> + The beautiful — the beautiful river<br> +That flows by the throne of God! —</blockquote> + +Diggers wanted to send that girl "Home", but Granny Mathews had +the old-fashioned horror of any of her children becoming "public" +— + +<blockquote>Gather with the saints at the river,<br> +That flows by the throne of God!</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Songs-S53"></a> + +<p>But it grows late, or rather, early. The "Eyetalians" go by in +the frosty moonlight, from their last shift in the claim (for it +is Saturday night), singing a litany.</p> + +<a name="Songs-S54"></a> + +<p>"Get up on one end, Abe! — stand up all!" Hands are +clasped across the kitchen table. Redclay, one of the last of the +alluvial fields, has petered out, and the Roaring Days are dying. +. . . The grand old song that is known all over the world; yet +how many in ten thousand know more than one verse and the chorus? +Let Peter McKenzie lead:</p> + +<blockquote>Should auld acquaintance be forgot,<br> + And never brought to min'?</blockquote> + +And hearts echo from far back in the past and across wide, wide +seas: + +<blockquote>Should auld acquaintance be forgot,<br> + And days o' lang syne?</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Songs-S55"></a> + +<p>Now boys! all together! <a name="Page-17"></a></p> + +<blockquote>For auld lang syne, my dear,<br> +For auld lang syne,<br> + We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,<br> +For auld lang syne.<br> +<br> + We twa hae run about the braes,<br> +And pu'd the gowans fine;<br> + But we've wandered mony a weary foot,<br> +Sin' auld lang syne.</blockquote> + +The world was wide then. + +<blockquote>We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,<br> +Frae mornin' sun till dine:</blockquote> + +the log fire seems to grow watery, for in wide, lonely Australia +— + +<blockquote>But seas between us braid hae roar'd,<br> +Sin' auld lang syne.</blockquote> + +The kitchen grows dimmer, and the forms of the digger-singers +seemed suddenly vague and unsubstantial, fading back rapidly +through a misty veil. But the words ring strong and defiant +through hard years: + +<blockquote>And here's a hand, my trusty frien',<br> +And gie's a grup o' thine;<br> + And we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,<br> +For auld lang syne.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Songs-S56"></a> + +<p>And the nettles have been growing for over twenty years on the +spot where Granny Mathews' big bark kitchen stood.<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-18"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Vision">A Vision of Sandy Blight</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Vision-S1"></a> + +<p>I'd been humping my back, and crouching and groaning for an +hour or so in the darkest corner of the travellers' hut, tortured +by the demon of sandy blight. It was too hot to travel, and there +was no one there except ourselves and Mitchell's cattle pup. We +were waiting till after sundown, for I couldn't have travelled in +the daylight, anyway. Mitchell had tied a wet towel round my +eyes, and led me for the last mile or two by another towel +— one end fastened to his belt behind, and the other in my +hand as I walked in his tracks. And oh! but this was a relief! It +was out of the dust and glare, and the flies didn't come into the +dark hut, and I could hump and stick my knees in my eyes and +groan in comfort. I didn't want a thousand a year, or anything; I +only wanted relief for my eyes — that was all I prayed for +in this world. When the sun got down a bit, Mitchell started +poking round, and presently he found amongst the rubbish a +dirty-looking medicine bottle, corked tight; when he rubbed the +dirt off a piece of notepaper that was pasted on, he saw +"eye-water" written on it. He drew the cork with his teeth, smelt +the water, stuck his little finger in, turned the bottle upside +down, tasted the top of his finger, and reckoned the stuff was +all right.</p> + +<a name="Page-19"><a name="Vision-S2"></a></a> + +<p>"Here! Wake up, Joe!" he shouted. "Here's a bottle of +tears."</p> + +<a name="Vision-S3"></a> + +<p>"A bottler wot?" I groaned.</p> + +<a name="Vision-S4"></a> + +<p>"Eye-water," said Mitchell.</p> + +<a name="Vision-S5"></a> + +<p>"Are you sure it's all right?" I didn't want to be poisoned or +have my eyes burnt out by mistake; perhaps some burning acid had +got into that bottle, or the label had been put on, or left on, +in mistake or carelessness.</p> + +<a name="Vision-S6"></a> + +<p>"I dunno," said Mitchell, "but there's no harm in tryin'."</p> + +<a name="Vision-S7"></a> + +<p>I chanced it. I lay down on my back in a bunk, and Mitchell +dragged my lids up and spilt half a bottle of eye-water over my +eye-balls.</p> + +<a name="Vision-S8"></a> + +<p>The relief was almost instantaneous. I never experienced such +a quick cure in my life. I carried the bottle in my swag for a +long time afterwards, with an idea of getting it analysed, but +left it behind at last in a camp.</p> + +<a name="Vision-S9"></a> + +<p>Mitchell scratched his head thoughtfully, and watched me for a +while.</p> + +<a name="Vision-S10"></a> + +<p>"I think I'll wait a bit longer," he said at last, "and if it +doesn't blind you I'll put some in my eyes. I'm getting a touch +of blight myself now. That's the fault of travelling with a mate +who's always catching something that's no good to him."</p> + +<a name="Vision-S11"></a> + +<p>As it grew dark outside we talked of sandy-blight and +fly-bite, and sand-flies up north, and ordinary flies, and +branched off to Barcoo rot, and struck the track again at bees +and bee stings. When we got to bees, Mitchell sat smoking for a +while and looking dreamily backwards along tracks and branch <a +name="Page-20">tracks, and round corners and circles he had +travelled, right back to the short, narrow, innocent bit of track +that ends in a vague, misty point — like the end of a +long, straight, cleared road in the moonlight — as far +back as we can remember.</a></p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Vision-S12"></a> + +<p>"I had about fourteen hives," said Mitchell — "we used +to call them `swarms', no matter whether they were flying or in +the box — when I left home first time. I kept them behind +the shed, in the shade, on tables of galvanised iron cases turned +down on stakes; but I had to make legs later on, and stand them +in pans of water, on account of the ants. When the bees swarmed +— and some hives sent out the Lord knows how many swarms +in a year, it seemed to me — we'd tin-kettle 'em, and +throw water on 'em, to make 'em believe the biggest thunderstorm +was coming to drown the oldest inhabitant; and, if they didn't +get the start of us and rise, they'd settle on a branch — +generally on one of the scraggy fruit trees. It was rough on the +bees — come to think of it; their instinct told them it +was going to be fine, and the noise and water told them it was +raining. They must have thought that nature was mad, drunk, or +gone <a href="#Notes-S17">ratty</a>, or the end of the world had +come. We'd rig up a table, with a box upside down, under the +branch, cover our face with a piece of mosquito net, have rags +burning round, and then give the branch a sudden jerk, turn the +box down, and run. If we got most of the bees in, the rest that +were hanging to the bough or flying round would follow, and then +we reckoned we'd shook the <a name="Page-21">queen in. If the +bees in the box came out and joined the others, we'd reckon we +hadn't shook the queen in, and go for them again. When a hive was +full of honey we'd turn the box upside down, turn the empty box +mouth down on top of it, and drum and hammer on the lower box +with a stick till all the bees went up into the top box. I +suppose it made their heads ache, and they went up on that +account.</a></p> + +<a name="Vision-S13"></a> + +<p>"I suppose things are done differently on proper bee-farms. +I've heard that a bee-farmer will part a hanging swarm with his +fingers, take out the queen bee and arrange matters with her; but +our ways suited us, and there was a lot of expectation and +running and excitement in it, especially when a swarm took us by +surprise. The yell of `Bees swarmin'!' was as good to us as the +yell of `Fight!' is now, or `Bolt!' in town, or `Fire' or `Man +overboard!' at sea.</p> + +<a name="Vision-S14"></a> + +<p>"There was tons of honey. The bees used to go to the vineyards +at wine-making and get honey from the heaps of crushed +grape-skins thrown out in the sun, and get so drunk sometimes +that they wobbled in their bee-lines home. They'd fill all the +boxes, and then build in between and under the bark, and board, +and tin covers. They never seemed to get the idea out of their +heads that this wasn't an evergreen country, and it wasn't going +to snow all winter. My younger brother Joe used to put pieces of +meat on the tables near the boxes, and in front of the holes +where the bees went in and out, for the dogs to grab at. But one +old dog, `Black Bill', was a match for him; if it was worth +Bill's while, he'd camp there, and keep <a name="Page-22">Joe and +the other dogs from touching the meat — once it was put +down — till the bees turned in for the night. And Joe +would get the other kids round there, and when they weren't +looking or thinking, he'd brush the bees with a stick and run. +I'd lam him when I caught him at it. He was an awful young devil, +was Joe, and he grew up steady, and respectable, and respected +— and I went to the bad. I never trust a good boy now. . . +. Ah, well!</a></p> + +<a name="Vision-S15"></a> + +<p>"I remember the first swarm we got. We'd been talking of +getting a few swarms for a long time. That was what was the +matter with us English and Irish and English-Irish Australian +farmers: we used to talk so much about doing things while the +Germans and Scotch did them. And we even talked in a lazy, +easy-going sort of way.</p> + +<a name="Vision-S16"></a> + +<p>"Well, one blazing hot day I saw father coming along the road, +home to dinner (we had it in the middle of the day), with his axe +over his shoulder. I noticed the axe particularly because father +was bringing it home to grind, and Joe and I had to turn the +stone; but, when I noticed Joe dragging along home in the dust +about fifty yards behind father, I felt easier in my mind. +Suddenly father dropped the axe and started to run back along the +road towards Joe, who, as soon as he saw father coming, shied for +the fence and got through. He thought he was going to catch it +for something he'd done — or hadn't done. Joe used to do +so many things and leave so many things not done that he could +never be sure of father. Besides, father had a way of starting to +hammer us unexpectedly — when the idea struck <a name= +"Page-23">him. But father pulled himself up in about thirty yards +and started to grab up handfuls of dust and sand and throw them +into the air. My idea, in the first flash, was to get hold of the +axe, for I thought it was sun-stroke, and father might take it +into his head to start chopping up the family before I could +persuade him to put it (his head, I mean) in a bucket of water. +But Joe came running like mad, yelling:</a></p> + +<a name="Vision-S17"></a> + +<p>"`Swarmer — bees! Swawmmer — +bee—ee—es! Bring — a — tin — +dish — and — a — dippera — +wa-a-ter!'</p> + +<a name="Vision-S18"></a> + +<p>"I ran with a bucket of water and an old frying-pan, and +pretty soon the rest of the family were on the spot, throwing +dust and water, and banging everything, tin or iron, they could +get hold of. The only bullock bell in the district (if it was in +the district) was on the old poley cow, and she'd been lost for a +fortnight. Mother brought up the rear — but soon worked to +the front — with a baking-dish and a big spoon. The old +lady — she wasn't old then — had a deep-rooted +prejudice that she could do everything better than anybody else, +and that the selection and all on it would go to the dogs if she +wasn't there to look after it. There was no jolting that idea out +of her. She not only believed that she could do anything better +than anybody, and hers was the only right or possible way, and +that we'd do everything upside down if she wasn't there to do it +or show us how — but she'd try to do things herself or +insist on making us do them her way, and that led to messes and +rows. She was excited now, and took command at once. She wasn't +tongue-tied, and had no impediment in her speech.</p> + +<a name="Page-24"><a name="Vision-S19"></a></a> + +<p>"`Don't throw up dust! — Stop throwing up dust! +— Do you want to smother 'em? — Don't throw up so +much water! — Only throw up a pannikin at a time! — +D'yer want to drown 'em? Bang! Keep on banging, Joe! — +Look at that child! Run, someone! — run! you, Jack! +— D'yer want the child to be stung to death? — Take +her inside! . . . Dy' hear me? . . . Stop throwing up dust, Tom! +(To father.) You're scaring 'em away! Can't you see they want to +settle?' [Father was getting mad and yelping: `For Godsake +shettup and go inside.'] `Throw up water, Jack! Throw up — +Tom! Take that bucket from him and don't make such a fool of +yourself before the children! Throw up water! Throw — keep +on banging, children! Keep on banging!' [Mother put her faith in +banging.] `There! — they're off! You've lost 'em! I knew +you would! I told yer — keep on bang—</p> + +<a name="Vision-S20"></a> + +<p>"A bee struck her in the eye, and she grabbed at it!</p> + +<a name="Vision-S21"></a> + +<p>"Mother went home — and inside.</p> + +<a name="Vision-S22"></a> + +<p>"Father was good at bees — could manage them like sheep +when he got to know their ideas. When the swarm settled, he sent +us for the old washing stool, boxes, bags, and so on; and the +whole time he was fixing the bees I noticed that whenever his +back was turned to us his shoulders would jerk up as if he was +cold, and he seemed to shudder from inside, and now and then I'd +hear a grunting sort of whimper like a boy that was just starting +to blubber. But father wasn't weeping, and bees weren't stinging +him; it was the bee that stung mother that was tickling father. +When he went into the house, mother's other eye had <a name= +"Page-25">bunged for sympathy. Father was always gentle and kind +in sickness, and he bathed mother's eyes and rubbed mud on, but +every now and then he'd catch inside, and jerk and shudder, and +grunt and cough. Mother got wild, but presently the humour of it +struck her, and she had to laugh, and a rum laugh it was, with +both eyes bunged up. Then she got hysterical, and started to cry, +and father put his arm round her shoulder and ordered us out of +the house.</a></p> + +<a name="Vision-S23"></a> + +<p>"They were very fond of each other, the old people were, under +it all — right up to the end. . . . Ah, well!"</p> + +<a name="Vision-S24"></a> + +<p>Mitchell pulled the swags out of a bunk, and started to fasten +the nose-bags on.<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-26"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Andy">Andy Page's Rival</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Andy-S1"></a> + +<blockquote>Tall and freckled and sandy,<br> +Face of a country lout;<br> +That was the picture of Andy —<br> +Middleton's rouseabout.<br> +On Middleton's wide dominions<br> +Plied the stock-whip and shears;<br> +Hadn't any opinions ———</blockquote> + +And he hadn't any "ideers" — at least, he said so himself +— except as regarded anything that looked to him like what +he called "funny business", under which heading he catalogued +tyranny, treachery, interference with the liberty of the subject +by the subject, "blanky" lies, or swindles — all things, +in short, that seemed to his slow understanding dishonest, mean +or paltry; most especially, and above all, treachery to a mate. +<i>That</i> he could never forget. Andy was uncomfortably +"straight". His mind worked slowly and his decisions were, as a +rule, right and just; and when he once came to a conclusion +concerning any man or matter, or decided upon a course of action, +nothing short of an earthquake or a Nevertire cyclone could move +him back an inch — unless a conviction were severely +shaken, and then he would require as much time to "back" to his +starting point as he did to come to the decision.<br> +<br> + <br> +<br> + <a name="Page-27"><a name="Andy-S2"></a></a> + +<p>Andy had come to a conclusion with regard to a <a href= +"#Notes-S18">selector</a>'s daughter — name, Lizzie Porter +— who lived (and slaved) on her father's selection, near +the township corner of the run on which Andy was a general +"hand". He had been in the habit for several years of calling +casually at the selector's house, as he rode to and fro between +the <a href="#Notes-S23">station</a> and the town, to get a drink +of water and exchange the time of day with old Porter and his +"missus". The conversation concerned the drought, and the +likelihood or otherwise of their ever going to get a little rain; +or about Porter's cattle, with an occasional enquiry concerning, +or reference to, a stray cow belonging to the selection, but +preferring the run; a little, plump, saucy, white cow, +by-the-way, practically pure white, but referred to by Andy +— who had eyes like a blackfellow — as "old +Speckledy". No one else could detect a spot or speckle on her at +a casual glance. Then after a long bovine silence, which would +have been painfully embarrassing in any other society, and a +tilting of his <a href="#Notes-S6">cabbage-tree hat</a> forward, +which came of tickling and scratching the sun-blotched nape of +his neck with his little finger, Andy would slowly say: "Ah, +well. I must be gettin'. So-long, Mr. Porter. So-long, Mrs. +Porter." And, if <i>she</i> were in evidence — as she +generally was on such occasions — "So-long, Lizzie." And +they'd shout: "So-long, Andy," as he galloped off from the jump. +Strange that those shy, quiet, gentle-voiced bushmen seem the +hardest and most reckless riders.</p> + +<a name="Andy-S3"></a> + +<p>But of late his horse had been seen hanging up outside +Porter's for an hour or so after sunset. He <a name= +"Page-28">smoked, talked over the results of the last drought (if +it happened to rain), and the possibilities of the next one, and +played cards with old Porter; who took to winking, automatically, +at his "old woman", and nudging, and jerking his thumb in the +direction of Lizzie when her back was turned, and Andy was +scratching the nape of his neck and staring at the cards.</a></p> + +<a name="Andy-S4"></a> + +<p>Lizzie told a lady friend of mine, years afterwards, how Andy +popped the question; told it in her quiet way — you know +Lizzie's quiet way (something of the old, privileged house-cat +about her); never a sign in expression or tone to show whether +she herself saw or appreciated the humour of anything she was +telling, no matter how comical it might be. She had witnessed two +tragedies, and had found a dead man in the bush, and related the +incidents as though they were common-place.</p> + +<a name="Andy-S5"></a> + +<p>It happened one day — after Andy had been coming two or +three times a week for about a year — that she found +herself sitting with him on a log of the woodheap, in the cool of +the evening, enjoying the sunset breeze. Andy's arm had got round +her — just as it might have gone round a post he happened +to be leaning against. They hadn't been talking about anything in +particular. Andy said he wouldn't be surprised if they had a +thunderstorm before mornin' — it had been so smotherin' +hot all day.</p> + +<a name="Andy-S6"></a> + +<p>Lizzie said, "Very likely."</p> + +<p>Andy smoked a good while, then he said: "Ah, well! It's a +weary world."</p> + +<p>Lizzie didn't say anything.</p> + +<a name="Page-29"></a> + +<p>By-and-bye Andy said: "Ah, well; it's a lonely world, +Lizzie."</p> + +<p>"Do you feel lonely, Andy?" asked Lizzie, after a while.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Lizzie; I do."</p> + +<a name="Andy-S7"></a> + +<p>Lizzie let herself settle, a little, against him, without +either seeming to notice it, and after another while she said, +softly: "So do I, Andy."</p> + +<a name="Andy-S8"></a> + +<p>Andy knocked the ashes from his pipe very slowly and +deliberately, and put it away; then he seemed to brighten +suddenly, and said briskly: "Well, Lizzie! Are you +satisfied!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Andy; I'm satisfied."</p> + +<p>"Quite sure, now?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; I'm quite sure, Andy. I'm perfectly satisfied."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, Lizzie — it's settled!"</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Andy-S9"></a> + +<p>But to-day — a couple of months after the proposal +described above — Andy had trouble on his mind, and the +trouble was connected with Lizzie Porter. He was putting up a +two-rail fence along the old log-paddock on the frontage, and +working like a man in trouble, trying to work it off his mind; +and evidently not succeeding — for the last two panels +were out of line. He was ramming a post — Andy rammed +honestly, from the bottom of the hole, not the last few +shovelfuls below the surface, as some do. He was ramming the last +layer of clay when a cloud of white dust came along the road, +paused, and drifted or poured off into the scrub, leaving long +Dave Bentley, the horse-breaker, on his last victim.</p> + +<a name="Page-30"><a name="Andy-S10"></a></a> + +<p>"'Ello, Andy! <a href="#Notes-S8">Graftin'</a>?"</p> + +<p>"I want to speak to you, Dave," said Andy, in a strange +voice.</p> + +<p>"All — all right!" said Dave, rather puzzled. He got +down, wondering what was up, and hung his horse to the last post +but one.</p> + +<a name="Andy-S11"></a> + +<p>Dave was Andy's opposite in one respect: he jumped to +conclusions, as women do; but, unlike women, he was mostly wrong. +He was an old chum and mate of Andy's who had always liked, +admired, and trusted him. But now, to his helpless surprise, Andy +went on scraping the earth from the surface with his long-handled +shovel, and heaping it conscientiously round the butt of the +post, his face like a block of wood, and his lips set grimly. +Dave broke out first (with bush oaths):</p> + +<a name="Andy-S12"></a> + +<p>"What's the matter with you? Spit it out! What have I been +doin' to you? What's yer got yer rag out about, anyway?"</p> + +<p>Andy faced him suddenly, with hatred for "funny business" +flashing in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"What did you say to my sister Mary about Lizzie Porter?"</p> + +<a name="Andy-S13"></a> + +<p>Dave started; then he whistled long and low. "Spit it all out, +Andy!" he advised.</p> + +<p>"You said she was travellin' with a feller!"</p> + +<p>"Well, what's the harm in that? Everybody knows that +—"</p> + +<a name="Andy-S14"></a> + +<p>"If any crawler says a word about Lizzie Porter — look +here, me and you's got to fight, Dave Bentley!" Then, with still +greater vehemence, as though he had a share in the garment: "Take +off that coat!"</p> + +<a name="Page-31"><a name="Andy-S15"></a></a> + +<p>"Not if I know it!" said Dave, with the sudden quietness that +comes to brave but headstrong and impulsive men at a critical +moment: "Me and you ain't goin' to fight, Andy; and" (with sudden +energy) "if you try it on I'll knock you into jim-rags!"</p> + +<a name="Andy-S16"></a> + +<p>Then, stepping close to Andy and taking him by the arm: "Andy, +this thing will have to be fixed up. Come here; I want to talk to +you." And he led him some paces aside, inside the boundary line, +which seemed a ludicrously unnecessary precaution, seeing that +there was no one within sight or hearing save Dave's horse.</p> + +<a name="Andy-S17"></a> + +<p>"Now, look here, Andy; let's have it over. What's the matter +with you and Lizzie Porter?"</p> + +<p>"<i>I'm</i> travellin' with her, that's all; and we're going +to get married in two years!"</p> + +<a name="Andy-S18"></a> + +<p>Dave gave vent to another long, low whistle. He seemed to +think and make up his mind.</p> + +<p>"Now, look here, Andy: we're old mates, ain't we?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; I know that."</p> + +<a name="Andy-S19"></a> + +<p>"And do you think I'd tell you a blanky lie, or crawl behind +your back? Do you? Spit it out!"</p> + +<p>"N—no, I don't!"</p> + +<p>"I've always stuck up for you, Andy, and — why, I've +fought for you behind your back!"</p> + +<p>"I know that, Dave."</p> + +<p>"There's my hand on it!"</p> + +<a name="Andy-S20"></a> + +<p>Andy took his friend's hand mechanically, but gripped it +hard.</p> + +<p>"Now, Andy, I'll tell you straight: It's Gorstruth about +Lizzie Porter!"</p> + +<a name="Page-32"><a name="Andy-S21"></a></a> + +<p>They stood as they were for a full minute, hands clasped; Andy +with his jaw dropped and staring in a dazed sort of way at Dave. +He raised his disengaged hand helplessly to his thatch, gulped +suspiciously, and asked in a broken voice:</p> + +<a name="Andy-S22"></a> + +<p>"How — how do you know it, Dave?"</p> + +<p>"Know it? Andy, <i>I seen 'em meself!</i>"</p> + +<p>"You did, Dave?" in a tone that suggested sorrow more than +anger at Dave's part in the seeing of them.</p> + +<p>"Gorstruth, Andy!"</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Andy-S23"></a> + +<p>"Tell me, Dave, who was the feller? That's all I want to +know."</p> + +<p>"I can't tell you that. I only seen them when I was canterin' +past in the dusk."</p> + +<p>"Then how'd you know it was a man at all?"</p> + +<p>"It wore trousers, anyway, and was as big as you; so it +couldn't have been a girl. I'm pretty safe to swear it was Mick +Kelly. I saw his horse hangin' up at Porter's once or twice. But +I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll find out for you, Andy. And, +what's more, I'll job him for you if I catch him!"</p> + +<p>Andy said nothing; his hands clenched and his chest heaved. +Dave laid a friendly hand on his shoulder.</p> + +<a name="Andy-S24"></a> + +<p>"It's red hot, Andy, I know. Anybody else but you and I +wouldn't have cared. But don't be a fool; there's any +Gorsquantity of girls knockin' round. You just give it to her +straight and chuck her, and have done with it. You must be bad +off to bother about her. Gorstruth! she ain't much to look at +any<a name="Page-33">way! I've got to ride like blazes to catch +the coach. Don't knock off till I come back; I won't be above an +hour. I'm goin' to give you some points in case you've got to +fight Mick; and I'll have to be there to back you!" And, thus +taking the right moment instinctively, he jumped on his horse and +galloped on towards the town.</a></p> + +<a name="Andy-S25"></a> + +<p>His dust-cloud had scarcely disappeared round a corner of the +paddocks when Andy was aware of another one coming towards him. +He had a dazed idea that it was Dave coming back, but went on +digging another post-hole, mechanically, until a spring-cart +rattled up, and stopped opposite him. Then he lifted his head. It +was Lizzie herself, driving home from town. She turned towards +him with her usual faint smile. Her small features were "washed +out" and rather haggard.</p> + +<p>"'Ello, Andy!"</p> + +<a name="Andy-S26"></a> + +<p>But, at the sight of her, all his hatred of "funny business" +— intensified, perhaps, by a sense of personal injury +— came to a head, and he exploded:</p> + +<p>"Look here, Lizzie Porter! I know all about you. You needn't +think you're goin' to cotton on with me any more after this! I +wouldn't be seen in a paddock with yer! I'm satisfied about you! +Get on out of this!"</p> + +<a name="Andy-S27"></a> + +<p>The girl stared at him for a moment thunderstruck; then she +lammed into the old horse with a stick she carried in place of a +whip.</p> + +<a name="Andy-S28"></a> + +<p>She cried, and wondered what she'd done, and trembled so that +she could scarcely unharness the horse, and wondered if Andy had +got a touch of the <a name="Page-34">sun, and went in and sat +down and cried again; and pride came to her aid and she hated +Andy; thought of her big brother, away droving, and made a cup of +tea. She shed tears over the tea, and went through it all +again.</a></p> + +<a name="Andy-S29"></a> + +<p>Meanwhile Andy was suffering a reaction. He started to fill +the hole before he put the post in; then to ram the post before +the rails were in position. Dubbing off the ends of the rails, he +was in danger of amputating a toe or a foot with every stroke of +the adze. And, at last, trying to squint along the little lumps +of clay which he had placed in the centre of the top of each post +for several panels back — to assist him to take a line +— he found that they swam and doubled, and ran off in +watery angles, for his eyes were too moist to see straight and +single.</p> + +<a name="Andy-S30"></a> + +<p>Then he threw down the tools hopelessly, and was standing +helplessly undecided whether to go home or go down to the creek +and drown himself, when Dave turned up again.</p> + +<a name="Andy-S31"></a> + +<p>"Seen her?" asked Dave.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Andy.</p> + +<p>"Did you chuck her?"</p> + +<p>"Look here, Dave; are you sure the feller was Mick Kelly?"</p> + +<a name="Andy-S32"></a> + +<p>"I never said I was. How was I to know? It was dark. You don't +expect I'd `fox' a feller I see doing a bit of a bear-up to a +girl, do you? It might have been you, for all I knowed. I suppose +she's been talking you round?"</p> + +<p>"No, she ain't," said Andy. "But, look here, Dave; I was +properly gone on that girl, I was, and — and I want to be +sure I'm right."</p> + +<a name="Page-35"><a name="Andy-S33"></a></a> + +<p>The business was getting altogether too psychological for Dave +Bentley. "You might as well," he rapped out, "call me a liar at +once!"</p> + +<p>"'Taint that at all, Dave. I want to get at who the feller is; +that's what I want to get at now. Where did you see them, and +when?"</p> + +<a name="Andy-S34"></a> + +<p>"I seen them <a href="#Notes-S4">Anniversary night</a>, along +the road, near Ross' farm; and I seen 'em Sunday night afore that +— in the trees near the old culvert — near Porter's +<a href="#Notes-S20">sliprails</a>; and I seen 'em one night +outside Porter's, on a log near the woodheap. They was thick that +time, and bearin' up proper, and no mistake. So I can swear to +her. Now, are you satisfied about her?"</p> + +<a name="Andy-S35"></a> + +<p>But Andy was wildly pitchforking his thatch under his hat with +all ten fingers and staring at Dave, who began to regard him +uneasily; then there came to Andy's eyes an awful glare, which +caused Dave to step back hastily.</p> + +<a name="Andy-S36"></a> + +<p>"Good God, Andy! Are yer goin' <a href= +"#Notes-S17">ratty</a>?"</p> + +<p>"No!" cried Andy, wildly.</p> + +<p>"Then what the blazes is the matter with you? You'll have rats +if you don't look out!"</p> + +<p>"<i>Jimminy froth!</i> — It was <i>me</i> all the +time!"</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<a name="Andy-S37"></a> + +<p>"It was me that was with her all them nights. It was me that +you seen. <i>Why, I popped on the woodheap!</i>"</p> + +<p>Dave was taken too suddenly to whistle this time.</p> + +<p>"And you went for her just now?"</p> + +<p>"Yes!" yelled Andy.</p> + +<p>"Well — you've done it!"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Andy, hopelessly; "I've done it!"</p> + +<a name="Page-36"><a name="Andy-S38"></a></a> + +<p>Dave whistled now — a very long, low whistle. "Well, +you're a bloomin' goat, Andy, after this. But this thing'll have +to be fixed up!" and he cantered away. Poor Andy was too badly +knocked to notice the abruptness of Dave's departure, or to see +that he turned through the sliprails on to the track that led to +Porter's.</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Andy-S39"></a> + +<p>Half an hour later Andy appeared at Porter's back door, with +an expression on his face as though the funeral was to start in +ten minutes. In a tone befitting such an occasion, he wanted to +see Lizzie.</p> + +<a name="Andy-S40"></a> + +<p>Dave had been there with the laudable determination of fixing +the business up, and had, of course, succeeded in making it much +worse than it was before. But Andy made it all right.<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-37"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Iron-Bark">The Iron-Bark Chip</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S1"></a> + +<p>Dave Regan and party — bush-fencers, tank-sinkers, +rough carpenters, &c. — were finishing the third and +last culvert of their contract on the last section of the new +railway line, and had already sent in their vouchers for the +completed contract, so that there might be no excuse for extra +delay in connection with the cheque.</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S2"></a> + +<p>Now it had been expressly stipulated in the plans and +specifications that the timber for certain beams and girders was +to be iron-bark and no other, and Government inspectors were +authorised to order the removal from the ground of any timber or +material they might deem inferior, or not in accordance with the +stipulations. The railway contractor's foreman and inspector of +sub-contractors was a practical man and a bushman, but he had +been a timber-getter himself; his sympathies were bushy, and he +was on winking terms with Dave Regan. Besides, extended time was +expiring, and the contractors were in a hurry to complete the +line. But the Government inspector was a reserved man who poked +round on his independent own and appeared in lonely spots at +unexpected times — with apparently no definite object in +life — like a grey kangaroo bothered by a new <a name= +"Page-38">wire fence, but unsuspicious of the presence of humans. +He wore a grey suit, rode, or mostly led, an ashen-grey horse; +the grass was long and grey, so he was seldom spotted until he +was well within the horizon and bearing leisurely down on a party +of sub-contractors, leading his horse.</a></p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S3"></a> + +<p>Now iron-bark was scarce and distant on those ridges, and +another timber, similar in appearance, but much inferior in grain +and "standing" quality, was plentiful and close at hand. Dave and +party were "about full of" the job and place, and wanted to get +their cheque and be gone to another "spec" they had in view. So +they came to reckon they'd get the last girder from a handy tree, +and have it squared, in place, and carefully and conscientiously +tarred before the inspector happened along, if he did. But they +didn't. They got it squared, and ready to be lifted into its +place; the kindly darkness of tar was ready to cover a fraud that +took four strong men with crowbars and levers to shift; and now +(such is the regular cussedness of things) as the fraudulent +piece of timber lay its last hour on the ground, looking and +smelling, to their guilty imaginations like anything but +iron-bark, they were aware of the Government inspector drifting +down upon them obliquely, with something of the atmosphere of a +casual Bill or Jim who had dropped out of his easy-going track to +see how they were getting on, and borrow a match. They had more +than half hoped that, as he had visited them pretty frequently +during the progress of the work, and knew how near it was to +completion, he wouldn't bother coming any more. But it's the <a +name="Page-39">way with the Government. You might move heaven and +earth in vain endeavour to get the "Guvermunt" to flutter an +eyelash over something of the most momentous importance to +yourself and mates and the district — even to the country; +but just when you are leaving authority severely alone, and have +strong reasons for not wanting to worry or interrupt it, and not +desiring it to worry about you, it will take a fancy into its +head to come along and bother.</a></p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S4"></a> + +<p>"It's always the way!" muttered Dave to his mates. "I knew the +beggar would turn up! . . . And the only cronk log we've had, +too!" he added, in an injured tone. "If this had 'a' been the +only blessed iron-bark in the whole contract, it would have been +all right. . . . Good-day, sir!" (to the inspector). "It's +hot?"</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S5"></a> + +<p>The inspector nodded. He was not of an impulsive nature. He +got down from his horse and looked at the girder in an abstracted +way; and presently there came into his eyes a dreamy, far-away, +sad sort of expression, as if there had been a very sad and +painful occurrence in his family, way back in the past, and that +piece of timber in some way reminded him of it and brought the +old sorrow home to him. He blinked three times, and asked, in a +subdued tone:</p> + +<p>"Is that iron-bark?"</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S6"></a> + +<p>Jack Bentley, the fluent liar of the party, caught his breath +with a jerk and coughed, to cover the gasp and gain time. +"I—iron-bark? Of course it is! I thought you would know +iron-bark, mister." (Mister was silent.) "What else d'yer think +it is?"</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S7"></a> + +<p>The dreamy, abstracted expression was back. <a name= +"Page-40">The inspector, by-the-way, didn't know much about +timber, but he had a great deal of instinct, and went by it when +in doubt.</a></p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S8"></a> + +<p>"L—look here, mister!" put in Dave Regan, in a tone of +innocent puzzlement and with a blank bucolic face. "B—but +don't the plans and specifications say iron-bark? Ours does, +anyway. I—I'll git the papers from the tent and show yer, +if yer like."</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S9"></a> + +<p>It was not necessary. The inspector admitted the fact slowly. +He stooped, and with an absent air picked up a chip. He looked at +it abstractedly for a moment, blinked his threefold blink; then, +seeming to recollect an appointment, he woke up suddenly and +asked briskly:</p> + +<p>"Did this chip come off that girder?"</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S10"></a> + +<p>Blank silence. The inspector blinked six times, divided in +threes, rapidly, mounted his horse, said "Day," and rode off.</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S11"></a> + +<p>Regan and party stared at each other.</p> + +<p>"Wha—what did he do that for?" asked Andy Page, the +third in the party.</p> + +<p>"Do what for, you fool?" enquired Dave.</p> + +<p>"Ta—take that chip for?"</p> + +<p>"He's taking it to the office!" snarled Jack Bentley.</p> + +<p>"What—what for? What does he want to do that for?"</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S12"></a> + +<p>"To get it blanky well analysed! You ass! Now are yer +satisfied?" And Jack sat down hard on the timber, jerked out his +pipe, and said to Dave, in a sharp, toothache tone:</p> + +<a name="Page-41"></a> + +<p>"Gimmiamatch!"</p> + +<p>"We—well! what are we to do now?" enquired Andy, who +was the hardest <a href="#Notes-S8">grafter</a>, but altogether +helpless, hopeless, and useless in a crisis like this.</p> + +<p>"Grain and varnish the bloomin' culvert!" snapped Bentley.</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S13"></a> + +<p>But Dave's eyes, that had been ruefully following the +inspector, suddenly dilated. The inspector had ridden a short +distance along the line, dismounted, thrown the bridle over a +post, laid the chip (which was too big to go in his pocket) on +top of it, got through the fence, and was now walking back at an +angle across the line in the direction of the fencing party, who +had worked up on the other side, a little more than opposite the +culvert.</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S14"></a> + +<p>Dave took in the lay of the country at a glance and thought +rapidly.</p> + +<p>"Gimme an iron-bark chip!" he said suddenly.</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S15"></a> + +<p>Bentley, who was quick-witted when the track was shown him, as +is a kangaroo dog (Jack ran by sight, not scent), glanced in the +line of Dave's eyes, jumped up, and got a chip about the same +size as that which the inspector had taken.</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S16"></a> + +<p>Now the "lay of the country" sloped generally to the line from +both sides, and the angle between the inspector's horse, the +fencing party, and the culvert was well within a clear concave +space; but a couple of hundred yards back from the line and +parallel to it (on the side on which Dave's party worked their +timber) a fringe of scrub ran to within a few yards of a point +which would be about in line with a single tree on the cleared +slope, the horse, and the fencing party.</p> + +<a name="Page-42"><a name="Iron-Bark-S17"></a></a> + +<p>Dave took the iron-bark chip, ran along the bed of the +water-course into the scrub, raced up the siding behind the +bushes, got safely, though without breathing, across the exposed +space, and brought the tree into line between him and the +inspector, who was talking to the fencers. Then he began to work +quickly down the slope towards the tree (which was a thin one), +keeping it in line, his arms close to his sides, and working, as +it were, down the trunk of the tree, as if the fencing party were +kangaroos and Dave was trying to get a shot at them. The +inspector, by-the-bye, had a habit of glancing now and then in +the direction of his horse, as though under the impression that +it was flighty and restless and inclined to bolt on opportunity. +It was an anxious moment for all parties concerned — +except the inspector. They didn't want <i>him</i> to be +perturbed. And, just as Dave reached the foot of the tree, the +inspector finished what he had to say to the fencers, turned, and +started to walk briskly back to his horse. There was a +thunderstorm coming. Now was the critical moment — there +were certain prearranged signals between Dave's party and the +fencers which might have interested the inspector, but none to +meet a case like this.</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S18"></a> + +<p>Jack Bentley gasped, and started forward with an idea of +intercepting the inspector and holding him for a few minutes in +bogus conversation. Inspirations come to one at a critical +moment, and it flashed on Jack's mind to send Andy instead. Andy +looked as innocent and guileless as he was, but was uncomfortable +in the vicinity of "funny business", and must have an honest +excuse. "Not that that mattered," commented Jack <a name= +"Page-43">afterwards; "it would have taken the inspector ten +minutes to get at what Andy was driving at, whatever it +was."</a></p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S19"></a> + +<p>"Run, Andy! Tell him there's a heavy thunderstorm coming and +he'd better stay in our <a href="#Notes-S9">humpy</a> till it's +over. Run! Don't stand staring like a blanky fool. He'll be +gone!"</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S20"></a> + +<p>Andy started. But just then, as luck would have it, one of the +fencers started after the inspector, hailing him as "Hi, mister!" +He wanted to be set right about the survey or something — +or to pretend to want to be set right — from motives of +policy which I haven't time to explain here.</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S21"></a> + +<p>That fencer explained afterwards to Dave's party that he "seen +what you coves was up to," and that's why he called the inspector +back. But he told them that after they had told their yarn +— which was a mistake.</p> + +<p>"Come back, Andy!" cried Jack Bentley.</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S22"></a> + +<p>Dave Regan slipped round the tree, down on his hands and +knees, and made quick time through the grass which, luckily, grew +pretty tall on the thirty or forty yards of slope between the +tree and the horse. Close to the horse, a thought struck Dave +that pulled him up, and sent a shiver along his spine and a +hungry feeling under it. The horse would break away and bolt! But +the case was desperate. Dave ventured an interrogatory "Cope, +cope, cope?" The horse turned its head wearily and regarded him +with a mild eye, as if he'd expected him to come, and come on all +fours, and wondered what had kept him so long; then he went on +thinking. Dave reached the foot of <a name="Page-44">the post; +the horse obligingly leaning over on the other leg. Dave reared +head and shoulders cautiously behind the post, like a snake; his +hand went up twice, swiftly — the first time he grabbed +the inspector's chip, and the second time he put the iron-bark +one in its place. He drew down and back, and scuttled off for the +tree like a gigantic tailless "goanna".</a></p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S23"></a> + +<p>A few minutes later he walked up to the culvert from along the +creek, smoking hard to settle his nerves.</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S24"></a> + +<p>The sky seemed to darken suddenly; the first great drops of +the thunderstorm came pelting down. The inspector hurried to his +horse, and cantered off along the line in the direction of the +fettlers' camp.</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S25"></a> + +<p>He had forgotten all about the chip, and left it on top of the +post!</p> + +<a name="Iron-Bark-S26"></a> + +<p>Dave Regan sat down on the beam in the rain and swore +comprehensively.<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-45"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Middleton">"Middleton's Peter"</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Middleton-S1"></a> + +<center> +<h3>I.</h3> +</center> + +<center> +<h3>The First Born</h3> +</center> + +<p>The struggling <a href="#Notes-S22">squatter</a> is to be +found in Australia as well as the "struggling farmer". The +Australian squatter is not always the mighty wool king that +English and American authors and other uninformed people +apparently imagine him to be. Squatting, at the best, is but a +game of chance. It depends mainly on the weather, and that, in +New South Wales at least, depends on nothing.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S2"></a> + +<p>Joe Middleton was a struggling squatter, with a <a href= +"#Notes-S23">station</a> some distance to the westward of the +furthest line reached by the ordinary "new chum". His run, at the +time of our story, was only about six miles square, and his stock +was limited in proportion. The hands on Joe's run consisted of +his brother Dave, a middle-aged man known only as "Middleton's +Peter" (who had been in the service of the Middleton family ever +since Joe Middleton could remember), and an old black shepherd, +with his <a href="#Notes-S7">gin</a> and two boys.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S3"></a> + +<p>It was in the first year of Joe's marriage. He had married a +very ordinary girl, as far as Australian girls go, but in his +eyes she was an angel. He really worshipped her.</p> + +<a name="Page-46"><a name="Middleton-S4"></a></a> + +<p>One sultry afternoon in midsummer all the station hands, with +the exception of Dave Middleton, were congregated about the +homestead door, and it was evident from their solemn faces that +something unusual was the matter. They appeared to be watching +for something or someone across the flat, and the old black +shepherd, who had been listening intently with bent head, +suddenly straightened himself up and cried:</p> + +<p>"I can hear the cart. I can see it!"</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S5"></a> + +<p>You must bear in mind that our blackfellows do not always talk +the gibberish with which they are credited by story writers.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S6"></a> + +<p>It was not until some time after Black Bill had spoken that +the white — or, rather, the brown — portion of the +party could see or even hear the approaching vehicle. At last, +far out through the trunks of the native apple-trees, the cart +was seen approaching; and as it came nearer it was evident that +it was being driven at a break-neck pace, the horses cantering +all the way, while the motion of the cart, as first one wheel and +then the other sprang from a root or a rut, bore a striking +resemblance to the Highland Fling. There were two persons in the +cart. One was Mother Palmer, a stout, middle-aged party (who +sometimes did the duties of a midwife), and the other was Dave +Middleton, Joe's brother.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S7"></a> + +<p>The cart was driven right up to the door with scarcely any +abatement of speed, and was stopped so suddenly that Mrs. Palmer +was sent sprawling on to the horse's rump. She was quickly helped +down, and, as soon as she had recovered sufficient breath, she +followed Black Mary into the bedroom where young <a name= +"Page-47">Mrs. Middleton was lying, looking very pale and +frightened. The horse which had been driven so cruelly had not +done blowing before another cart appeared, also driven very fast. +It contained old Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, who lived comfortably on +a small farm not far from Palmer's place.</a></p> + +<a name="Middleton-S8"></a> + +<p>As soon as he had dumped Mrs. Palmer, Dave Middleton left the +cart and, mounting a fresh horse which stood ready saddled in the +yard, galloped off through the scrub in a different +direction.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S9"></a> + +<p>Half an hour afterwards Joe Middleton came home on a horse +that had been almost ridden to death. His mother came out at the +sound of his arrival, and he anxiously asked her:</p> + +<p>"How is she?"</p> + +<p>"Did you find Doc. Wild?" asked the mother.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S10"></a> + +<p>"No, confound him!" exclaimed Joe bitterly. "He promised me +faithfully to come over on Wednesday and stay until Maggie was +right again. Now he has left Dean's and gone — Lord knows +where. I suppose he is drinking again. How is Maggie?"</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S11"></a> + +<p>"It's all over now — the child is born. It's a boy; but +she is very weak. Dave got Mrs. Palmer here just in time. I had +better tell you at once that Mrs. Palmer says if we don't get a +doctor here to-night poor Maggie won't live."</p> + +<p>"Good God! and what am I to do?" cried Joe desperately.</p> + +<p>"Is there any other doctor within reach?"</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S12"></a> + +<p>"No; there is only the one at B——; that's forty +miles away, and he is laid up with the broken leg he got in the +buggy accident. Where's Dave?"</p> + +<a name="Page-48"></a> + +<p>"Gone to Black's shanty. One of Mrs. Palmer's sons thought he +remembered someone saying that Doc. Wild was there last week. +That's fifteen miles away."</p> + +<p>"But it is our only hope," said Joe dejectedly. "I wish to God +that I had taken Maggie to some civilised place a month ago."</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S13"></a> + +<p>Doc. Wild was a well-known character among the bushmen of New +South Wales, and although the profession did not recognise him, +and denounced him as an empiric, his skill was undoubted. Bushmen +had great faith in him, and would often ride incredible distances +in order to bring him to the bedside of a sick friend. He drank +fearfully, but was seldom incapable of treating a patient; he +would, however, sometimes be found in an obstinate mood and +refuse to travel to the side of a sick person, and then the devil +himself could not make the doctor budge. But for all this he was +very generous — a fact that could, no doubt, be testified +to by many a grateful sojourner in the lonely bush.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S14"></a> + +<center> +<h3>II.</h3> +</center> + +<center> +<h3>The Only Hope</h3> +</center> + +<p>Night came on, and still there was no change in the condition +of the young wife, and no sign of the doctor. Several stockmen +from the neighbouring stations, hearing that there was trouble at +Joe Middleton's, had ridden over, and had galloped off on long, +hopeless rides in search of a doctor. Being generally free from +sickness themselves, these bushmen look upon it as a serious +business even in its <a name="Page-49">mildest form; what is +more, their sympathy is always practical where it is possible for +it to be so. One day, while out on the run after an "outlaw", Joe +Middleton was badly thrown from his horse, and the break-neck +riding that was done on that occasion from the time the horse +came home with empty saddle until the rider was safe in bed and +attended by a doctor was something extraordinary, even for the +bush.</a></p> + +<a name="Middleton-S15"></a> + +<p>Before the time arrived when Dave Middleton might reasonably +have been expected to return, the station people were anxiously +watching for him, all except the old blackfellow and the two +boys, who had gone to yard the sheep.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S16"></a> + +<p>The party had been increased by Jimmy Nowlett, the bullocky, +who had just arrived with a load of fencing wire and provisions +for Middleton. Jimmy was standing in the moonlight, whip in hand, +looking as anxious as the husband himself, and endeavouring to +calculate by mental arithmetic the exact time it ought to take +Dave to complete his double journey, taking into consideration +the distance, the obstacles in the way, and the chances of +horse-flesh.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S17"></a> + +<p>But the time which Jimmy fixed for the arrival came without +Dave.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S18"></a> + +<p>Old Peter (as he was generally called, though he was not +really old) stood aside in his usual sullen manner, his hat drawn +down over his brow and eyes, and nothing visible but a thick and +very horizontal black beard, from the depth of which emerged +large clouds of very strong tobacco smoke, the product of a +short, black, clay pipe.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S19"></a> + +<p>They had almost given up all hope of seeing Dave <a name= +"Page-50">return that night, when Peter slowly and deliberately +removed his pipe and grunted:</a></p> + +<p>"He's a-comin'."</p> + +<p>He then replaced the pipe, and smoked on as before.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S20"></a> + +<p>All listened, but not one of them could hear a sound.</p> + +<p>"Yer ears must be pretty sharp for yer age, Peter. We can't +hear him," remarked Jimmy Nowlett.</p> + +<p>"His dog ken," said Peter.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S21"></a> + +<p>The pipe was again removed and its abbreviated stem pointed in +the direction of Dave's cattle dog, who had risen beside his +kennel with pointed ears, and was looking eagerly in the +direction from which his master was expected to come.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S22"></a> + +<p>Presently the sound of horse's hoofs was distinctly heard.</p> + +<p>"I can hear two horses," cried Jimmy Nowlett excitedly.</p> + +<p>"There's only one," said old Peter quietly.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S23"></a> + +<p>A few moments passed, and a single horseman appeared on the +far side of the flat.</p> + +<p>"It's Doc. Wild on Dave's horse," cried Jimmy Nowlett. "Dave +don't ride like that."</p> + +<p>"It's Dave," said Peter, replacing his pipe and looking more +unsociable than ever.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S24"></a> + +<p>Dave rode up and, throwing himself wearily from the saddle, +stood ominously silent by the side of his horse.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S25"></a> + +<p>Joe Middleton said nothing, but stood aside with an expression +of utter hopelessness on his face.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S26"></a> + +<p>"Not there?" asked Jimmy Nowlett at last, addressing Dave.</p> + +<a name="Page-51"></a> + +<p>"Yes, he's there," answered Dave, impatiently.</p> + +<p>This was not the answer they expected, but nobody seemed +surprised.</p> + +<p>"Drunk?" asked Jimmy.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S27"></a> + +<p>Here old Peter removed his pipe, and pronounced the one word +— "How?"</p> + +<p>"What the hell do you mean by that?" muttered Dave, whose +patience had evidently been severely tried by the clever but +intemperate bush doctor.</p> + +<p>"How drunk?" explained Peter, with great equanimity.</p> + +<p>"Stubborn drunk, blind drunk, beastly drunk, dead drunk, and +damned well drunk, if that's what you want to know!"</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S28"></a> + +<p>"What did Doc. say?" asked Jimmy.</p> + +<p>"Said he was sick — had lumbago — wouldn't come +for the Queen of England; said he wanted a course of treatment +himself. Curse him! I have no patience to talk about him."</p> + +<p>"I'd give him a course of treatment," muttered Jimmy +viciously, trailing the long lash of his bullock-whip through the +grass and spitting spitefully at the ground.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S29"></a> + +<p>Dave turned away and joined Joe, who was talking earnestly to +his mother by the kitchen door. He told them that he had spent an +hour trying to persuade Doc. Wild to come, and, that before he +had left the shanty, Black had promised him faithfully to bring +the doctor over as soon as his obstinate mood wore off.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S30"></a> + +<p>Just then a low moan was heard from the sick room, followed by +the sound of Mother Palmer's voice <a name="Page-52">calling old +Mrs. Middleton, who went inside immediately.</a></p> + +<a name="Middleton-S31"></a> + +<p>No one had noticed the disappearance of Peter, and when he +presently returned from the stockyard, leading the only fresh +horse that remained, Jimmy Nowlett began to regard him with some +interest. Peter transferred the saddle from Dave's horse to the +other, and then went into a small room off the kitchen, which +served him as a bedroom; from it he soon returned with a +formidable-looking revolver, the chambers of which he examined in +the moonlight in full view of all the company. They thought for a +moment the man had gone mad. Old Middleton leaped quickly behind +Nowlett, and Black Mary, who had come out to the cask at the +corner for a dipper of water, dropped the dipper and was inside +like a shot. One of the black boys came softly up at that moment; +as soon as his sharp eye "spotted" the weapon, he disappeared as +though the earth had swallowed him.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S32"></a> + +<p>"What the mischief are yer goin' ter do, Peter?" asked +Jimmy.</p> + +<p>"Goin' to fetch him," said Peter, and, after carefully +emptying his pipe and replacing it in a leather pouch at his +belt, he mounted and rode off at an easy canter.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S33"></a> + +<p>Jimmy watched the horse until it disappeared at the edge of +the flat, and then after coiling up the long lash of his +bullock-whip in the dust until it looked like a sleeping snake, +he prodded the small end of the long pine handle into the middle +of the coil, as though driving home a point, and said in a tone +of intense conviction:</p> + +<p>"He'll fetch him."</p> + +<a name="Page-53"><a name="Middleton-S34"></a></a> + +<center> +<h3>III.</h3> +</center> + +<center> +<h3>Doc. Wild</h3> +</center> + +<p>Peter gradually increased his horse's speed along the rough +bush track until he was riding at a good pace. It was ten miles +to the main road, and five from there to the shanty kept by +Black.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S35"></a> + +<p>For some time before Peter started the atmosphere had been +very close and oppressive. The great black edge of a storm-cloud +had risen in the east, and everything indicated the approach of a +thunderstorm. It was not long coming. Before Peter had completed +six miles of his journey, the clouds rolled over, obscuring the +moon, and an Australian thunderstorm came on with its mighty +downpour, its blinding lightning, and its earth-shaking thunder. +Peter rode steadily on, only pausing now and then until a flash +revealed the track in front of him.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S36"></a> + +<p>Black's shanty — or, rather, as the sign had it, "Post +Office and General Store" — was, as we have said, five +miles along the main road from the point where Middleton's track +joined it. The building was of the usual style of bush +architecture. About two hundred yards nearer the creek, which +crossed the road further on, stood a large bark and slab stable, +large enough to have met the requirements of a legitimate bush +"<a href="#Notes-S15">public</a>".</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S37"></a> + +<p>The reader may doubt that a "<a href="#Notes-S21">sly grog +shop</a>" could openly carry on business on a main Government +road along which mounted troopers were continually passing. But +then, you see, mounted troopers get thirsty like other men; +moreover, they could always get their <a name="Page-54">thirst +quenched <i>gratis</i> at these places; so the reader will be +prepared to hear that on this very night two troopers' horses +were stowed snugly away in the stable, and two troopers were +stowed snugly away in the back room of the shanty, sleeping off +the effects of their cheap but strong potations.</a></p> + +<a name="Middleton-S38"></a> + +<p>There were two rooms, of a sort, attached to the stables +— one at each end. One was occupied by a man who was +"generally useful", and the other was the surgery, office, and +bedroom <i>pro tem.</i> of Doc. Wild.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S39"></a> + +<p>Doc. Wild was a tall man, of spare proportions. He had a +cadaverous face, black hair, bushy black eyebrows, eagle nose, +and eagle eyes. He never slept while he was drinking. On this +occasion he sat in front of the fire on a low three-legged stool. +His knees were drawn up, his toes hooked round the front legs of +the stool, one hand resting on one knee, and one elbow (the hand +supporting the chin) resting on the other. He was staring +intently into the fire, on which an old black saucepan was +boiling and sending forth a pungent odour of herbs. There seemed +something uncanny about the doctor as the red light of the fire +fell on his hawk-like face and gleaming eyes. He might have been +Mephistopheles watching some infernal brew.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S40"></a> + +<p>He had sat there some time without stirring a finger, when the +door suddenly burst open and Middleton's Peter stood within, +dripping wet. The doctor turned his black, piercing eyes upon the +intruder (who regarded him silently) for a moment, and then asked +quietly:</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S41"></a> + +<p>"What the hell do you want?"</p> + +<a name="Page-55"></a> + +<p>"I want you," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"And what do you want me for?"</p> + +<p>"I want you to come to Joe Middleton's wife. She's bad," said +Peter calmly.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S42"></a> + +<p>"I won't come," shouted the doctor. "I've brought enough +horse-stealers into the world already. If any more want to come +they can go to blazes for me. Now, you get out of this!"</p> + +<p>"Don't get yer rag out," said Peter quietly. "The +hoss-stealer's come, an' nearly killed his mother ter begin with; +an' if yer don't get yer physic-box an' come wi' me, by the great +God I'll ——"</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S43"></a> + +<p>Here the revolver was produced and pointed at Doc. Wild's +head. The sight of the weapon had a sobering effect upon the +doctor. He rose, looked at Peter critically for a moment, knocked +the weapon out of his hand, and said slowly and deliberately:</p> + +<p>"Wall, ef the case es as serious as that, I (hic) reckon I'd +better come."</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S44"></a> + +<p>Peter was still of the same opinion, so Doc. Wild proceeded to +get his medicine chest ready. He explained afterwards, in one of +his softer moments, that the shooter didn't frighten him so much +as it touched his memory — "sorter put him in mind of the +old days in California, and made him think of the man he might +have been," he'd say, — "kinder touched his heart and slid +the durned old panorama in front of him like a flash; made him +think of the time when he slipped three leaden pills into `Blue +Shirt' for winking at a new chum behind his (the Doc.'s) back +when he was telling a truthful yarn, and charged the said `Blue +Shirt' a hundred dollars for extracting the said pills."</p> + +<a name="Page-56"><a name="Middleton-S45"></a></a> + +<p>Joe Middleton's wife is a grandmother now.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S46"></a> + +<p>Peter passed after the manner of his sort; he was found dead +in his bunk.</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S47"></a> + +<p>Poor Doc. Wild died in a shepherd's hut at the Dry Creeks. The +shepherds (white men) found him, "naked as he was born and with +the hide half burned off him with the sun," rounding up imaginary +snakes on a dusty clearing, one blazing hot day. The hut-keeper +had some "quare" (queer) experiences with the doctor during the +next three days and used, in after years, to tell of them, +between the puffs of his pipe, calmly and solemnly and as if the +story was rather to the doctor's credit than otherwise. The +shepherds sent for the police and a doctor, and sent word to Joe +Middleton. Doc. Wild was sensible towards the end. His interview +with the other doctor was characteristic. "And, now you see how +far I am," he said in conclusion — "have you brought the +brandy?" The other doctor had. Joe Middleton came with his +waggonette, and in it the softest mattress and pillows the +station afforded. He also, in his innocence, brought a dozen of +soda-water. Doc. Wild took Joe's hand feebly, and, a little +later, he "passed out" (as he would have said) murmuring +"something that sounded like poetry", in an unknown tongue. Joe +took the body to the home station. "Who's the boss bringin'?" +asked the shearers, seeing the waggonette coming very slowly and +the boss walking by the horses' heads. "Doc. Wild," said a +station hand. "Take yer hats off."</p> + +<a name="Middleton-S48"></a> + +<p>They buried him with bush honours, and chiselled his name on a +slab of bluegum — a wood that lasts.<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-57"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Mystery">The Mystery of Dave Regan</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Mystery-S1"></a> + +<p>"And then there was Dave Regan," said the traveller. "Dave +used to die oftener than any other bushman I knew. He was always +being reported dead and turnin' up again. He seemed to like it +— except once, when his brother drew his money and drank +it all to drown his grief at what he called Dave's `untimely +end'. Well, Dave went up to Queensland once with cattle, and was +away three years and reported dead, as usual. He was drowned in +the Bogan this time while tryin' to swim his horse acrost a flood +— and his sweetheart hurried up and got spliced to a worse +man before Dave got back.</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S2"></a> + +<p>"Well, one day I was out in the bush lookin' for timber, when +the biggest storm ever knowed in that place come on. There was +hail in it, too, as big as bullets, and if I hadn't got behind a +stump and crouched down in time I'd have been riddled like a +— like a bushranger. As it was, I got soakin' wet. The +storm was over in a few minutes, the water run off down the +gullies, and the sun come out and the scrub steamed — and +stunk like a new pair of moleskin trousers. I went on along the +track, and presently I seen a long, lanky chap get on to a long, +lanky horse and ride out of a bush yard at the edge of a <a name= +"Page-58">clearin'. I knowed it was Dave d'reckly I set eyes on +him.</a></p> + +<a name="Mystery-S3"></a> + +<p>"Dave used to ride a tall, holler-backed thoroughbred with a +body and limbs like a kangaroo dog, and it would circle around +you and sidle away as if it was frightened you was goin' to jab a +knife into it.</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S4"></a> + +<p>"`'Ello! Dave!' said I, as he came spurrin' up. `How are +yer!'</p> + +<p>"`'Ello, Jim!' says he. `How are you?'</p> + +<p>"`All right!' says I. `How are yer gettin' on?'</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S5"></a> + +<p>"But, before we could say any more, that horse shied away and +broke off through the scrub to the right. I waited, because I +knowed Dave would come back again if I waited long enough; and in +about ten minutes he came sidlin' in from the scrub to the +left.</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S6"></a> + +<p>"`Oh, I'm all right,' says he, spurrin' up sideways; `How are +you?'</p> + +<p>"`Right!' says I. `How's the old people?'</p> + +<p>"`Oh, I ain't been home yet,' says he, holdin' out his hand; +but, afore I could grip it, the cussed horse sidled off to the +south end of the clearin' and broke away again through the +scrub.</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S7"></a> + +<p>"I heard Dave swearin' about the country for twenty minutes or +so, and then he came spurrin' and cursin' in from the other end +of the clearin'.</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S8"></a> + +<p>"`Where have you been all this time?' I said, as the horse +came curvin' up like a boomerang.</p> + +<p>"`Gulf country,' said Dave.</p> + +<p>"`That was a storm, Dave,' said I.</p> + +<p>"`My oath!' says Dave.</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S9"></a> + +<p>"`Get caught in it?'</p> + +<a name="Page-59"></a> + +<p>"`Yes.'</p> + +<p>"`Got to shelter?'</p> + +<p>"`No.'</p> + +<p>"`But you're as dry's a bone, Dave!'</p> + +<p>"Dave grinned. `——— and +——— and ——— the +————!' he yelled.</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S10"></a> + +<p>"He said that to the horse as it boomeranged off again and +broke away through the scrub. I waited; but he didn't come back, +and I reckoned he'd got so far away before he could pull up that +he didn't think it worth while comin' back; so I went on. +By-and-bye I got thinkin'. Dave was as dry as a bone, and I +knowed that he hadn't had time to get to shelter, for there +wasn't a shed within twelve miles. He wasn't only dry, but his +coat was creased and dusty too — same as if he'd been +sleepin' in a holler log; and when I come to think of it, his +face seemed thinner and whiter than it used ter, and so did his +hands and wrists, which always stuck a long way out of his +coat-sleeves; and there was blood on his face — but I +thought he'd got scratched with a twig. (Dave used to wear a coat +three or four sizes too small for him, with sleeves that didn't +come much below his elbows and a tail that scarcely reached his +waist behind.) And his hair seemed dark and lank, instead of +bein' sandy and stickin' out like an old fibre brush, as it used +ter. And then I thought his voice sounded different, too. And, +when I enquired next day, there was no one heard of Dave, and the +chaps reckoned I must have been drunk, or seen his ghost.</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S11"></a> + +<p>"It didn't seem all right at all — it worried me a lot. +I couldn't make out how Dave kept dry; and the <a name= +"Page-60">horse and saddle and saddle-cloth was wet. I told the +chaps how he talked to me and what he said, and how he swore at +the horse; but they only said it was Dave's ghost and nobody +else's. I told 'em about him bein' dry as a bone after gettin' +caught in that storm; but they only laughed and said it was a dry +place where Dave went to. I talked and argued about it until the +chaps began to tap their foreheads and wink — then I left +off talking. But I didn't leave off thinkin' — I always +hated a mystery. Even Dave's father told me that Dave couldn't be +alive or else his ghost wouldn't be round — he said he +knew Dave better than that. One or two fellers did turn up +afterwards that had seen Dave about the time that I did — +and then the chaps said they was sure that Dave was dead.</a></p> + +<a name="Mystery-S12"></a> + +<p>"But one fine day, as a lot of us chaps was playin' pitch and +toss at the shanty, one of the fellers yelled out:</p> + +<p>"`By Gee! Here comes Dave Regan!'</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S13"></a> + +<p>"And I looked up and saw Dave himself, sidlin' out of a cloud +of dust on a long lanky horse. He rode into the stockyard, got +down, hung his horse up to a post, put up the rails, and then +come slopin' towards us with a half-acre grin on his face. Dave +had long, thin bow-legs, and when he was on the ground he moved +as if he was on roller skates.</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S14"></a> + +<p>"`'El-lo, Dave!' says I. `How are yer?'</p> + +<p>"`'Ello, Jim!' said he. `How the blazes are you?'</p> + +<p>"`All right!' says I, shakin' hands. `How are yer?'</p> + +<p>"`Oh! I'm all right!' he says. `How are yer poppin' up!'</p> + +<a name="Page-61"></a> + +<p>"Well, when we'd got all that settled, and the other chaps had +asked how he was, he said: `Ah, well! Let's have a drink.'</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S15"></a> + +<p>"And all the other chaps crawfished up and flung themselves +round the corner and sidled into the bar after Dave. We had a lot +of talk, and he told us that he'd been down before, but had gone +away without seein' any of us, except me, because he'd suddenly +heard of a mob of cattle at a <a href="#Notes-S23">station</a> +two hundred miles away; and after a while I took him aside and +said:</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S16"></a> + +<p>"`Look here, Dave! Do you remember the day I met you after the +storm?'</p> + +<p>"He scratched his head.</p> + +<p>"`Why, yes,' he says.</p> + +<p>"`Did you get under shelter that day?'</p> + +<p>"`Why — no.'</p> + +<p>"`Then how the blazes didn't yer get wet?'</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S17"></a> + +<p>"Dave grinned; then he says:</p> + +<p>"`Why, when I seen the storm coming I took off me clothes and +stuck 'em in a holler log till the rain was over.'</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S18"></a> + +<p>"`Yes,' he says, after the other coves had done laughin', but +before I'd done thinking; `I kept my clothes dry and got a good +refreshin' shower-bath into the bargain.'</p> + +<a name="Mystery-S19"></a> + +<p>"Then he scratched the back of his neck with his little +finger, and dropped his jaw, and thought a bit; then he rubbed +the top of his head and his shoulder, reflective-like, and then +he said:</p> + +<p>"`But I didn't reckon for them there blanky hailstones.'"<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-62"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Matrimony">Mitchell on Matrimony</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Matrimony-S1"></a> + +<p>"I suppose your wife will be glad to see you," said Mitchell +to his mate in their camp by the dam at Hungerford. They were +overhauling their swags, and throwing away the blankets, and +calico, and old clothes, and rubbish they didn't want — +everything, in fact, except their pocket-books and letters and +portraits, things which men carry about with them always, that +are found on them when they die, and sent to their relations if +possible. Otherwise they are taken in charge by the constable who +officiates at the inquest, and forwarded to the Minister of +Justice along with the depositions.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S2"></a> + +<p>It was the end of the shearing season. Mitchell and his mate +had been lucky enough to get two good sheds in succession, and +were going to take the coach from Hungerford to Bourke on their +way to Sydney. The morning stars were bright yet, and they sat +down to a final <a href="#Notes-S5">billy</a> of tea, two dusty +Johnny-cakes, and a scrag of salt mutton.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S3"></a> + +<p>"Yes," said Mitchell's mate, "and I'll be glad to see her +too."</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S4"></a> + +<p>"I suppose you will," said Mitchell. He placed his pint-pot +between his feet, rested his arm against his knee, and stirred +the tea meditatively with the handle <a name="Page-63">of his +pocket-knife. It was vaguely understood that Mitchell had been +married at one period of his chequered career.</a></p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S5"></a> + +<p>"I don't think we ever understood women properly," he said, as +he took a cautious sip to see if his tea was cool and sweet +enough, for his lips were sore; "I don't think we ever will +— we never took the trouble to try, and if we did it would +be only wasted brain power that might just as well be spent on +the blackfellow's lingo; because by the time you've learnt it +they'll be extinct, and woman 'll be extinct before you've learnt +her. . . . The morning star looks bright, doesn't it?"</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S6"></a> + +<p>"Ah, well," said Mitchell after a while, "there's many little +things we might try to understand women in. I read in a piece of +newspaper the other day about how a man changes after he's +married; how he gets short, and impatient, and bored (which is +only natural), and sticks up a wall of newspaper between himself +and his wife when he's at home; and how it comes like a cold +shock to her, and all her air-castles vanish, and in the end she +often thinks about taking the baby and the clothes she stands in, +and going home for sympathy and comfort to mother.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S7"></a> + +<p>"Perhaps she never got a word of sympathy from her mother in +her life, nor a day's comfort at home before she was married; but +that doesn't make the slightest difference. It doesn't make any +difference in your case either, if you haven't been acting like a +dutiful son-in-law.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S8"></a> + +<p>"Somebody wrote that a woman's love is her whole existence, +while a man's love is only part of his — which <a name= +"Page-64">is true, and only natural and reasonable, all things +considered. But women never consider as a rule. A man can't go on +talking lovey-dovey talk for ever, and listening to his young +wife's prattle when he's got to think about making a living, and +nursing her and answering her childish questions and telling her +he loves his little ownest every minute in the day, while the +bills are running up, and rent mornings begin to fly round and +hustle and crowd him.</a></p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S9"></a> + +<p>"He's got her and he's satisfied; and if the truth is known he +loves her really more than he did when they were engaged, only +she won't be satisfied about it unless he tells her so every hour +in the day. At least that's how it is for the first few +months.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S10"></a> + +<p>"But a woman doesn't understand these things — she +never will, she can't — and it would be just as well for +us to try and understand that she doesn't and can't understand +them."</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S11"></a> + +<p>Mitchell knocked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin against +his boot, and reached for the billy.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S12"></a> + +<p>"There's many little things we might do that seem mere trifles +and nonsense to us, but mean a lot to her; that wouldn't be any +trouble or sacrifice to us, but might help to make her life +happy. It's just because we never think about these little things +— don't think them worth thinking about, in fact — +they never enter our intellectual foreheads.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S13"></a> + +<p>"For instance, when you're going out in the morning you might +put your arms round her and give her a hug and a kiss, without +her having to remind you. You may forget about it and never think +any more of it — but she will.</p> + +<a name="Page-65"><a name="Matrimony-S14"></a></a> + +<p>"It wouldn't be any trouble to you, and would only take a +couple of seconds, and would give her something to be happy about +when you're gone, and make her sing to herself for hours while +she bustles about her work and thinks up what she'll get you for +dinner."</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S15"></a> + +<p>Mitchell's mate sighed, and shifted the sugar-bag over towards +Mitchell. He seemed touched and bothered over something.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S16"></a> + +<p>"Then again," said Mitchell, "it mightn't be convenient for +you to go home to dinner — something might turn up during +the morning — you might have some important business to +do, or meet some chaps and get invited to lunch and not be very +well able to refuse, when it's too late, or you haven't a chance +to send a message to your wife. But then again, chaps and +business seem very big things to you, and only little things to +the wife; just as lovey-dovey talk is important to her and +nonsense to you. And when you come to analyse it, one is not so +big, nor the other so small, after all; especially when you come +to think that chaps can always wait, and business is only an +inspiration in your mind, nine cases out of ten.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S17"></a> + +<p>"Think of the trouble she takes to get you a good dinner, and +how she keeps it hot between two plates in the oven, and waits +hour after hour till the dinner gets dried up, and all her +morning's work is wasted. Think how it hurts her, and how anxious +she'll be (especially if you're inclined to booze) for fear that +something has happened to you. You can't get it out of the heads +of some young wives that you're liable to get run over, or +knocked down, or assaulted, or robbed, <a name="Page-66">or get +into one of the fixes that a woman is likely to get into. But +about the dinner waiting. Try and put yourself in her place. +Wouldn't you get mad under the same circumstances? I know I +would.</a></p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S18"></a> + +<p>"I remember once, only just after I was married, I was invited +unexpectedly to a kidney pudding and beans — which was my +favourite grub at the time — and I didn't resist, +especially as it was washing day and I told the wife not to +bother about anything for dinner. I got home an hour or so late, +and had a good explanation thought out, when the wife met me with +a smile as if we had just been left a thousand pounds. She'd got +her washing finished without assistance, though I'd told her to +get somebody to help her, and she had a kidney pudding and beans, +with a lot of extras thrown in, as a pleasant surprise for +me.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S19"></a> + +<p>"Well, I kissed her, and sat down, and stuffed till I thought +every mouthful would choke me. I got through with it somehow, but +I've never cared for kidney pudding or beans since."</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S20"></a> + +<p>Mitchell felt for his pipe with a fatherly smile in his +eyes.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S21"></a> + +<p>"And then again," he continued, as he cut up his tobacco, +"your wife might put on a new dress and fix herself up and look +well, and you might think so and be satisfied with her appearance +and be proud to take her out; but you want to tell her so, and +tell her so as often as you think about it — and try to +think a little oftener than men usually do, too."</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Page-67"><a name="Matrimony-S22"></a></a> + +<p>"You should have made a good husband, Jack," said his mate, in +a softened tone.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S23"></a> + +<p>"Ah, well, perhaps I should," said Mitchell, rubbing up his +tobacco; then he asked abstractedly: "What sort of a husband did +you make, Joe?"</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S24"></a> + +<p>"I might have made a better one than I did," said Joe +seriously, and rather bitterly, "but I know one thing, I'm going +to try and make up for it when I go back this time."</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S25"></a> + +<p>"We all say that," said Mitchell reflectively, filling his +pipe. "She loves you, Joe."</p> + +<p>"I know she does," said Joe.</p> + +<p>Mitchell lit up.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S26"></a> + +<p>"And so would any man who knew her or had seen her letters to +you," he said between the puffs. "She's happy and contented +enough, I believe?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Joe, "at least while I was there. She's never easy +when I'm away. I might have made her a good deal more happy and +contented without hurting myself much."</p> + +<p>Mitchell smoked long, soft, measured puffs.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S27"></a> + +<p>His mate shifted uneasily and glanced at him a couple of +times, and seemed to become impatient, and to make up his mind +about something; or perhaps he got an idea that Mitchell had been +"having" him, and felt angry over being betrayed into maudlin +confidences; for he asked abruptly:</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S28"></a> + +<p>"How is your wife now, Mitchell?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Mitchell calmly.</p> + +<p>"Don't know?" echoed the mate. "Didn't you treat her +well?"</p> + +<p>Mitchell removed his pipe and drew a long breath.</p> + +<a name="Page-68"></a> + +<p>"Ah, well, I tried to," he said wearily.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S29"></a> + +<p>"Well, did you put your theory into practice?"</p> + +<p>"I did," said Mitchell very deliberately.</p> + +<p>Joe waited, but nothing came.</p> + +<p>"Well?" he asked impatiently, "How did it act? Did it work +well?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Mitchell (puff); "she left me."</p> + +<p>"What!"</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S30"></a> + +<p>Mitchell jerked the half-smoked pipe from his mouth, and +rapped the burning tobacco out against the toe of his boot.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S31"></a> + +<p>"She left me," he said, standing up and stretching himself. +Then, with a vicious jerk of his arm, "She left me for — +another kind of a fellow!"</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S32"></a> + +<p>He looked east towards the public-house, where they were +taking the coach-horses from the stable.</p> + +<a name="Matrimony-S33"></a> + +<p>"Why don't you finish your tea, Joe? The billy's getting +cold."<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-69"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Women">Mitchell on Women</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Women-S1"></a> + +<p>"All the same," said Mitchell's mate, continuing an argument +by the camp-fire; "all the same, I think that a woman can stand +cold water better than a man. Why, when I was staying in a +boarding-house in Dunedin, one very cold winter, there was a lady +lodger who went down to the shower-bath first thing every +morning; never missed one; sometimes went in freezing weather +when I wouldn't go into a cold bath for a fiver; and sometimes +she'd stay under the shower for ten minutes at a time."</p> + +<a name="Women-S2"></a> + +<p>"How'd you know?"</p> + +<p>"Why, my room was near the bath-room, and I could hear the +shower and tap going, and her floundering about."</p> + +<a name="Women-S3"></a> + +<p>"Hear your grandmother!" exclaimed Mitchell, contemptuously. +"You don't know women yet. Was this woman married? Did she have a +husband there?"</p> + +<p>"No; she was a young widow."</p> + +<a name="Women-S4"></a> + +<p>"Ah! well, it would have been the same if she was a young girl +— or an old one. Were there some passable men-boarders +there?"</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> was there."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes! But I mean, were there any there beside you?"</p> + +<a name="Page-70"></a> + +<p>"Oh, yes, there were three or four; there was — a clerk +and a ——"</p> + +<a name="Women-S5"></a> + +<p>"Never mind, as long as there was something with trousers on. +Did it ever strike you that she never got into the bath at +all?"</p> + +<p>"Why, no! What would she want to go there at all for, in that +case?"</p> + +<p>"To make an impression on the men," replied Mitchell promptly. +"She wanted to make out she was nice, and wholesome, and +well-washed, and particular. Made an impression on <i>you</i>, it +seems, or you wouldn't remember it."</p> + +<p>"Well, yes, I suppose so; and, now I come to think of it, the +bath didn't seem to injure her make-up or wet her hair; but I +supposed she held her head from under the shower somehow."</p> + +<a name="Women-S6"></a> + +<p>"Did she make-up so early in the morning?" asked Mitchell.</p> + +<p>"Yes — I'm sure."</p> + +<p>"That's unusual; but it might have been so where there was a +lot of boarders. And about the hair — that didn't count +for anything, because washing-the-head ain't supposed to be +always included in a lady's bath; it's only supposed to be washed +once a fortnight, and some don't do it once a month. The hair +takes so long to dry; it don't matter so much if the woman's got +short, scraggy hair; but if a girl's hair was down to her waist +it would take hours to dry."</p> + +<a name="Women-S7"></a> + +<p>"Well, how do they manage it without wetting their heads?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, that's easy enough. They have a little oilskin cap that +fits tight over the forehead, and they <a name="Page-71">put it +on, and bunch their hair up in it when they go under the shower. +Did you ever see a woman sit in a sunny place with her hair down +after having a wash?"</a></p> + +<p>"Yes, I used to see one do that regular where I was staying; +but I thought she only did it to show off."</p> + +<a name="Women-S8"></a> + +<p>"Not at all — she was drying her hair; though perhaps +she was showing off at the same time, for she wouldn't sit where +you — or even a Chinaman — could see her, if she +didn't think she had a good head of hair. Now, <i>I'll</i> tell +you a yarn about a woman's bath. I was stopping at a +shabby-genteel boarding-house in Melbourne once, and one very +cold winter, too; and there was a rather good-looking woman +there, looking for a husband. She used to go down to the bath +every morning, no matter how cold it was, and flounder and splash +about as if she enjoyed it, till you'd feel as though you'd like +to go and catch hold of her and wrap her in a rug and carry her +in to the fire and nurse her till she was warm again."</p> + +<a name="Women-S9"></a> + +<p>Mitchell's mate moved uneasily, and crossed the other leg; he +seemed greatly interested.</p> + +<a name="Women-S10"></a> + +<p>"But she never went into the water at all!" continued +Mitchell. "As soon as one or two of the men was up in the morning +she'd come down from her room in a dressing-gown. It was a toney +dressing-gown, too, and set her off properly. She knew how to +dress, anyway; most of that sort of women do. The gown was a kind +of green colour, with pink and white flowers all over it, and red +lining, and a lot of coffee-coloured lace round the neck and down +the front. <a name="Page-72">Well, she'd come tripping downstairs +and along the passage, holding up one side of the gown to show +her little bare white foot in a slipper; and in the other hand +she carried her tooth-brush and bath-brush, and soap — +like this — so's we all could see 'em; trying to make out +she was too particular to use soap after anyone else. She could +afford to buy her own soap, anyhow; it was hardly ever +wet.</a></p> + +<a name="Women-S11"></a> + +<p>"Well, she'd go into the bathroom and turn on the tap and +shower; when she got about three inches of water in the bath, +she'd step in, holding up her gown out of the water, and go +slithering and kicking up and down the bath, like this, making a +tremendous splashing. Of course she'd turn off the shower first, +and screw it off very tight — wouldn't do to let that +leak, you know; she might get wet; but she'd leave the other tap +on, so as to make all the more noise."</p> + +<a name="Women-S12"></a> + +<p>"But how did you come to know all about this?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, the servant girl told me. One morning she twigged her +through a corner of the bathroom window that the curtain didn't +cover."</p> + +<a name="Women-S13"></a> + +<p>"You seem to have been pretty thick with servant girls."</p> + +<p>"So do you with landladies! But never mind — let me +finish the yarn. When she thought she'd splashed enough, she'd +get out, wipe her feet, wash her face and hands, and carefully +unbutton the two top buttons of her gown; then throw a towel over +her head and shoulders, and listen at the door till she thought +she heard some of the men moving about. Then she'd start for her +room, and, if she met one of the men-boarders in the passage or +on the stairs, she'd drop <a name="Page-73">her eyes, and pretend +to see for the first time that the top of her dressing-gown +wasn't buttoned — and she'd give a little start and grab +the gown and scurry off to her room buttoning it up.</a></p> + +<a name="Women-S14"></a> + +<p>"And sometimes she'd come skipping into the breakfast-room +late, looking awfully sweet in her dressing-gown; and if she saw +any of us there, she'd pretend to be much startled, and say that +she thought all the men had gone out, and make as though she was +going to clear; and someone 'd jump up and give her a chair, +while someone else said, `Come in, Miss Brown! come in! Don't let +us frighten you. Come right in, and have your breakfast before it +gets cold.' So she'd flutter a bit in pretty confusion, and then +make a sweet little girly-girly dive for her chair, and tuck her +feet away under the table; and she'd blush, too, but I don't know +how she managed that.</p> + +<a name="Women-S15"></a> + +<p>"I know another trick that women have; it's mostly played by +private barmaids. That is, to leave a stocking by accident in the +bathroom for the gentlemen to find. If the barmaid's got a nice +foot and ankle, she uses one of her own stockings; but if she +hasn't she gets hold of a stocking that belongs to a girl that +has. Anyway, she'll have one readied up somehow. The stocking +must be worn and nicely darned; one that's been worn will keep +the shape of the leg and foot — at least till it's washed +again. Well, the barmaid generally knows what time the gentlemen +go to bath, and she'll make it a point of going down just as a +gentleman's going. Of course he'll give her the preference +— let her go first, you know — and she'll go in and +accidentally leave the <a name="Page-74">stocking in a place +where he's sure to see it, and when she comes out he'll go in and +find it; and very likely he'll be a jolly sort of fellow, and +when they're all sitting down to breakfast he'll come in and ask +them to guess what he's found, and then he'll hold up the +stocking. The barmaid likes this sort of thing; but she'll hold +down her head, and pretend to be confused, and keep her eyes on +her plate, and there'll be much blushing and all that sort of +thing, and perhaps she'll gammon to be mad at him, and the +landlady'll say, `Oh, Mr. Smith! how can yer? At the breakfast +table, too!' and they'll all laugh and look at the barmaid, and +she'll get more embarrassed than ever, and spill her tea, and +make out as though the stocking didn't belong to her."<br> +<br> + <br> +</a></p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-75"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="NoPlace">No Place for a Woman</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="NoPlace-S1"></a> + +<p>He had a selection on a long box-scrub siding of the ridges, +about half a mile back and up from the coach road. There were no +neighbours that I ever heard of, and the nearest "town" was +thirty miles away. He grew wheat among the stumps of his +clearing, sold the crop standing to a Cockie who lived ten miles +away, and had some surplus sons; or, some seasons, he reaped it +by hand, had it thrashed by travelling "steamer" (portable steam +engine and machine), and carried the grain, a few bags at a time, +into the mill on his rickety dray.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S2"></a> + +<p>He had lived alone for upwards of 15 years, and was known to +those who knew him as "Ratty Howlett".</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S3"></a> + +<p>Trav'lers and strangers failed to see anything uncommonly <a +href="#Notes-S17">ratty</a> about him. It was known, or, at +least, it was believed, without question, that while at work he +kept his horse saddled and bridled, and hung up to the fence, or +grazing about, with the saddle on — or, anyway, close +handy for a moment's notice — and whenever he caught +sight, over the scrub and through the quarter-mile break in it, +of a traveller on the road, he would jump on his horse and make +after him. If it was a horseman he usually pulled <a name= +"Page-76">him up inside of a mile. Stories were told of +unsuccessful chases, misunderstandings, and complications arising +out of Howlett's mania for running down and bailing up +travellers. Sometimes he caught one every day for a week, +sometimes not one for weeks — it was a lonely +track.</a></p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S4"></a> + +<p>The explanation was simple, sufficient, and perfectly natural +— from a bushman's point of view. Ratty only wanted to +have a yarn. He and the traveller would camp in the shade for +half an hour or so and yarn and smoke. The old man would find out +where the traveller came from, and how long he'd been there, and +where he was making for, and how long he reckoned he'd be away; +and ask if there had been any rain along the traveller's back +track, and how the country looked after the drought; and he'd get +the traveller's ideas on abstract questions — if he had +any. If it was a footman (swagman), and he was short of tobacco, +old Howlett always had half a stick ready for him. Sometimes, but +very rarely, he'd invite the swagman back to the hut for a pint +of tea, or a bit of meat, flour, tea, or sugar, to carry him +along the track.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S5"></a> + +<p>And, after the yarn by the road, they said, the old man would +ride back, refreshed, to his lonely selection, and work on into +the night as long as he could see his solitary old plough horse, +or the scoop of his long-handled shovel.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S6"></a> + +<p>And so it was that I came to make his acquaintance — +or, rather, that he made mine. I was cantering easily along the +track — I was making for the north-west with a pack horse +— when about a mile beyond <a name="Page-77">the track to +the selection I heard, "Hi, Mister!" and saw a dust cloud +following me. I had heard of "Old Ratty Howlett" casually, and so +was prepared for him.</a></p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S7"></a> + +<p>A tall gaunt man on a little horse. He was clean-shaven, +except for a frill beard round under his chin, and his long wavy, +dark hair was turning grey; a square, strong-faced man, and +reminded me of one full-faced portrait of Gladstone more than any +other face I had seen. He had large reddish-brown eyes, deep set +under heavy eyebrows, and with something of the blackfellow in +them — the sort of eyes that will peer at something on the +horizon that no one else can see. He had a way of talking to the +horizon, too — more than to his companion; and he had a +deep vertical wrinkle in his forehead that no smile could +lessen.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S8"></a> + +<p>I got down and got out my pipe, and we sat on a log and yarned +awhile on bush subjects; and then, after a pause, he shifted +uneasily, it seemed to me, and asked rather abruptly, and in an +altered tone, if I was married. A queer question to ask a +traveller; more especially in my case, as I was little more than +a boy then.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S9"></a> + +<p>He talked on again of old things and places where we had both +been, and asked after men he knew, or had known — drovers +and others — and whether they were living yet. Most of his +inquiries went back before my time; but some of the drovers, one +or two overlanders with whom he had been mates in his time, had +grown old into mine, and I knew them. I notice now, though I +didn't then — and if I had it <a name="Page-78">would not +have seemed strange from a bush point of view — that he +didn't ask for news, nor seem interested in it.</a></p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S10"></a> + +<p>Then after another uneasy pause, during which he scratched +crosses in the dust with a stick, he asked me, in the same queer +tone and without looking at me or looking up, if I happened to +know anything about doctoring — if I'd ever studied +it.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S11"></a> + +<p>I asked him if anyone was sick at his place. He hesitated, and +said "No." Then I wanted to know why he had asked me that +question, and he was so long about answering that I began to +think he was hard of hearing, when, at last, he muttered +something about my face reminding him of a young fellow he knew +of who'd gone to Sydney to "study for a doctor". That might have +been, and looked natural enough; but why didn't he ask me +straight out if I was the chap he "knowed of"? Travellers do not +like beating about the bush in conversation.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S12"></a> + +<p>He sat in silence for a good while, with his arms folded, and +looking absently away over the dead level of the great scrubs +that spread from the foot of the ridge we were on to where a blue +peak or two of a distant range showed above the bush on the +horizon.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S13"></a> + +<p>I stood up and put my pipe away and stretched. Then he seemed +to wake up. "Better come back to the hut and have a bit of +dinner," he said. "The missus will about have it ready, and I'll +spare you a handful of hay for the horses."</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S14"></a> + +<p>The hay decided it. It was a dry season. I was surprised to +hear of a wife, for I thought he was a hatter — I had +always heard so; but perhaps I had <a name="Page-79">been +mistaken, and he had married lately; or had got a housekeeper. +The farm was an irregularly-shaped clearing in the scrub, with a +good many stumps in it, with a broken-down two-rail fence along +the frontage, and logs and "dog-leg" the rest. It was about as +lonely-looking a place as I had seen, and I had seen some +out-of-the-way, God-forgotten holes where men lived alone. The +hut was in the top corner, a two-roomed slab hut, with a shingle +roof, which must have been uncommon round there in the days when +that hut was built. I was used to bush carpentering, and saw that +the place had been put up by a man who had plenty of life and +hope in front of him, and for someone else beside himself. But +there were two unfinished skilling rooms built on to the back of +the hut; the posts, sleepers, and wall-plates had been well put +up and fitted, and the slab walls were up, but the roof had never +been put on. There was nothing but burrs and nettles inside those +walls, and an old wooden bullock plough and a couple of yokes +were dry-rotting across the back doorway. The remains of a +straw-stack, some hay under a bark <a href="#Notes-S9">humpy</a>, +a small iron plough, and an old stiff coffin-headed grey draught +horse, were all that I saw about the place.</a></p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S15"></a> + +<p>But there was a bit of a surprise for me inside, in the shape +of a clean white tablecloth on the rough slab table which stood +on stakes driven into the ground. The cloth was coarse, but it +was a tablecloth — not a spare sheet put on in honour of +unexpected visitors — and perfectly clean. The tin plates, +pannikins, and jam tins that served as sugar bowls and salt +cellars were polished brightly. The walls and <a name= +"Page-80">fireplace were whitewashed, the clay floor swept, and +clean sheets of newspaper laid on the slab mantleshelf under the +row of biscuit tins that held the groceries. I thought that his +wife, or housekeeper, or whatever she was, was a clean and tidy +woman about a house. I saw no woman; but on the sofa — a +light, wooden, batten one, with runged arms at the ends — +lay a woman's dress on a lot of sheets of old stained and faded +newspapers. He looked at it in a puzzled way, knitting his +forehead, then took it up absently and folded it. I saw then that +it was a riding skirt and jacket. He bundled them into the +newspapers and took them into the bedroom.</a></p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S16"></a> + +<p>"The wife was going on a visit down the creek this afternoon," +he said rapidly and without looking at me, but stooping as if to +have another look through the door at those distant peaks. "I +suppose she got tired o' waitin', and went and took the daughter +with her. But, never mind, the grub is ready." There was a +camp-oven with a leg of mutton and potatoes sizzling in it on the +hearth, and billies hanging over the fire. I noticed the billies +had been scraped, and the lids polished.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S17"></a> + +<p>There seemed to be something queer about the whole business, +but then he and his wife might have had a "breeze" during the +morning. I thought so during the meal, when the subject of women +came up, and he said one never knew how to take a woman, etc.; +but there was nothing in what he said that need necessarily have +referred to his wife or to any woman in particular. For the rest +he talked of old bush things, droving, digging, and old +bushranging — but <a name="Page-81">never about live +things and living men, unless any of the old mates he talked +about happened to be alive by accident. He was very restless in +the house, and never took his hat off.</a></p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S18"></a> + +<p>There was a dress and a woman's old hat hanging on the wall +near the door, but they looked as if they might have been hanging +there for a lifetime. There seemed something queer about the +whole place — something wanting; but then all +out-of-the-way bush homes are haunted by that something wanting, +or, more likely, by the spirits of the things that should have +been there, but never had been.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S19"></a> + +<p>As I rode down the track to the road I looked back and saw old +Howlett hard at work in a hole round a big stump with his +long-handled shovel.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S20"></a> + +<p>I'd noticed that he moved and walked with a slight list to +port, and put his hand once or twice to the small of his back, +and I set it down to lumbago, or something of that sort.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S21"></a> + +<p>Up in the Never Never I heard from a drover who had known +Howlett that his wife had died in the first year, and so this +mysterious woman, if she was his wife, was, of course, his second +wife. The drover seemed surprised and rather amused at the +thought of old Howlett going in for matrimony again.</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="NoPlace-S22"></a> + +<p>I rode back that way five years later, from the Never Never. +It was early in the morning — I had ridden since midnight. +I didn't think the old man would be up and about; and, besides, I +wanted to get on home, and have a look at the old folk, and the +mates I'd left behind — and the girl. But I hadn't <a +name="Page-82">got far past the point where Howlett's track +joined the road, when I happened to look back, and saw him on +horseback, stumbling down the track. I waited till he came +up.</a></p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S23"></a> + +<p>He was riding the old grey draught horse this time, and it +looked very much broken down. I thought it would have come down +every step, and fallen like an old rotten humpy in a gust of +wind. And the old man was not much better off. I saw at once that +he was a very sick man. His face was drawn, and he bent forward +as if he was hurt. He got down stiffly and awkwardly, like a hurt +man, and as soon as his feet touched the ground he grabbed my +arm, or he would have gone down like a man who steps off a train +in motion. He hung towards the bank of the road, feeling blindly, +as it were, for the ground, with his free hand, as I eased him +down. I got my blanket and calico from the pack saddle to make +him comfortable.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S24"></a> + +<p>"Help me with my back agen the tree," he said. "I must sit up +— it's no use lyin' me down."</p> + +<p>He sat with his hand gripping his side, and breathed +painfully.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S25"></a> + +<p>"Shall I run up to the hut and get the wife?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"No." He spoke painfully. "No!" Then, as if the words were +jerked out of him by a spasm: "She ain't there."</p> + +<p>I took it that she had left him.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S26"></a> + +<p>"How long have you been bad? How long has this been coming +on?"</p> + +<p>He took no notice of the question. I thought it <a name= +"Page-83">was a touch of rheumatic fever, or something of that +sort. "It's gone into my back and sides now — the pain's +worse in me back," he said presently.</a></p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S27"></a> + +<p>I had once been mates with a man who died suddenly of heart +disease, while at work. He was washing a dish of dirt in the +creek near a claim we were working; he let the dish slip into the +water, fell back, crying, "O, my back!" and was gone. And now I +felt by instinct that it was poor old Howlett's heart that was +wrong. A man's heart is in his back as well as in his arms and +hands.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S28"></a> + +<p>The old man had turned pale with the pallor of a man who turns +faint in a heat wave, and his arms fell loosely, and his hands +rocked helplessly with the knuckles in the dust. I felt myself +turning white, too, and the sick, cold, empty feeling in my +stomach, for I knew the signs. Bushmen stand in awe of sickness +and death.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S29"></a> + +<p>But after I'd fixed him comfortably and given him a drink from +the water bag the greyness left his face, and he pulled himself +together a bit; he drew up his arms and folded them across his +chest. He let his head rest back against the tree — his +slouch hat had fallen off revealing a broad, white brow, much +higher than I expected. He seemed to gaze on the azure fin of the +range, showing above the dark blue-green bush on the horizon.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S30"></a> + +<p>Then he commenced to speak — taking no notice of me +when I asked him if he felt better now — to talk in that +strange, absent, far-away tone that awes one. He told his story +mechanically, monotonously — in set words, as I believe +now, as he had often told it before; <a name="Page-84">if not to +others, then to the loneliness of the bush. And he used the names +of people and places that I had never heard of — just as +if I knew them as well as he did.</a></p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S31"></a> + +<p>"I didn't want to bring her up the first year. It was no place +for a woman. I wanted her to stay with her people and wait till +I'd got the place a little more ship-shape. The Phippses took a +selection down the creek. I wanted her to wait and come up with +them so's she'd have some company — a woman to talk to. +They came afterwards, but they didn't stop. It was no place for a +woman.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S32"></a> + +<p>"But Mary would come. She wouldn't stop with her people down +country. She wanted to be with me, and look after me, and work +and help me."</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S33"></a> + +<p>He repeated himself a great deal — said the same thing +over and over again sometimes. He was only mad on one track. He'd +tail off and sit silent for a while; then he'd become aware of me +in a hurried, half-scared way, and apologise for putting me to +all that trouble, and thank me. "I'll be all right d'reckly. Best +take the horses up to the hut and have some breakfast; you'll +find it by the fire. I'll foller you, d'reckly. The wife'll be +waitin' an' ——" He would drop off, and be going +again presently on the old track: —</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S34"></a> + +<p>"Her mother was coming up to stay awhile at the end of the +year, but the old man hurt his leg. Then her married sister was +coming, but one of the youngsters got sick and there was trouble +at home. I saw the doctor in the town — thirty miles from +here — and fixed it up with him. He was a boozer — +I'd <a name="Page-85">'a shot him afterwards. I fixed up with a +woman in the town to come and stay. I thought Mary was wrong in +her time. She must have been a month or six weeks out. But I +listened to her. . . . Don't argue with a woman. Don't listen to +a woman. Do the right thing. We should have had a mother woman to +talk to us. But it was no place for a woman!"</a></p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S35"></a> + +<p>He rocked his head, as if from some old agony of mind, against +the tree-trunk.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S36"></a> + +<p>"She was took bad suddenly one night, but it passed off. False +alarm. I was going to ride somewhere, but she said to wait till +daylight. Someone was sure to pass. She was a brave and sensible +girl, but she had a terror of being left alone. It was no place +for a woman!</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S37"></a> + +<p>"There was a black shepherd three or four miles away. I rode +over while Mary was asleep, and started the black boy into town. +I'd 'a shot him afterwards if I'd 'a caught him. The old black <a +href="#Notes-S7">gin</a> was dead the week before, or Mary would +a' bin alright. She was tied up in a bunch with strips of blanket +and greenhide, and put in a hole. So there wasn't even a gin near +the place. It was no place for a woman!</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S38"></a> + +<p>"I was watchin' the road at daylight, and I was watchin' the +road at dusk. I went down in the hollow and stooped down to get +the gap agen the sky, so's I could see if anyone was comin' over. +. . . I'd get on the horse and gallop along towards the town for +five miles, but something would drag me back, and then I'd race +for fear she'd die before I <a name="Page-86">got to the hut. I +expected the doctor every five minutes.</a></p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S39"></a> + +<p>"It come on about daylight next morning. I ran back'ards and +for'ards between the hut and the road like a madman. And no one +come. I was running amongst the logs and stumps, and fallin' over +them, when I saw a cloud of dust agen sunrise. It was her mother +an' sister in the spring-cart, an' just catchin' up to them was +the doctor in his buggy with the woman I'd arranged with in town. +The mother and sister was staying at the town for the night, when +they heard of the black boy. It took him a day to ride there. I'd +'a shot him if I'd 'a caught him ever after. The doctor'd been on +the drunk. If I'd had the gun and known she was gone I'd have +shot him in the buggy. They said she was dead. And the child was +dead, too.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S40"></a> + +<p>"They blamed me, but I didn't want her to come; it was no +place for a woman. I never saw them again after the funeral. I +didn't want to see them any more."</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S41"></a> + +<p>He moved his head wearily against the tree, and presently +drifted on again in a softer tone — his eyes and voice +were growing more absent and dreamy and far away.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S42"></a> + +<p>"About a month after — or a year, I lost count of the +time long ago — she came back to me. At first she'd come +in the night, then sometimes when I was at work — and she +had the baby — it was a girl — in her arms. And +by-and-bye she came to stay altogether. . . . I didn't blame her +for going away that time — it was no place for a woman. . +. . She was a <a name="Page-87">good wife to me. She was a jolly +girl when I married her. The little girl grew up like her. I was +going to send her down country to be educated — it was no +place for a girl.</a></p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S43"></a> + +<p>"But a month, or a year, ago, Mary left me, and took the +daughter, and never came back till last night — this +morning, I think it was. I thought at first it was the girl with +her hair done up, and her mother's skirt on, to surprise her old +dad. But it was Mary, my wife — as she was when I married +her. She said she couldn't stay, but she'd wait for me on the +road; on — the road. . . ."</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S44"></a> + +<p>His arms fell, and his face went white. I got the water-bag. +"Another turn like that and you'll be gone," I thought, as he +came to again. Then I suddenly thought of a shanty that had been +started, when I came that way last, ten or twelve miles along the +road, towards the town. There was nothing for it but to leave him +and ride on for help, and a cart of some kind.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S45"></a> + +<p>"You wait here till I come back," I said. "I'm going for the +doctor."</p> + +<p>He roused himself a little. "Best come up to the hut and get +some grub. The wife'll be waiting. . . ." He was off the track +again.</p> + +<p>"Will you wait while I take the horse down to the creek?"</p> + +<p>"Yes — I'll wait by the road."</p> + +<p>"Look!" I said, "I'll leave the water-bag handy. Don't move +till I come back."</p> + +<p>"I won't move — I'll wait by the road," he said.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S46"></a> + +<p>I took the packhorse, which was the freshest and <a name= +"Page-88">best, threw the pack-saddle and bags into a bush, left +the other horse to take care of itself, and started for the +shanty, leaving the old man with his back to the tree, his arms +folded, and his eyes on the horizon.</a></p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S47"></a> + +<p>One of the chaps at the shanty rode on for the doctor at once, +while the other came back with me in a spring-cart. He told me +that old Howlett's wife had died in child-birth the first year on +the selection — "she was a fine girl he'd heered!" He told +me the story as the old man had told it, and in pretty well the +same words, even to giving it as his opinion that it was no place +for a woman. "And he `hatted' and brooded over it till he went +ratty."</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S48"></a> + +<p>I knew the rest. He not only thought that his wife, or the +ghost of his wife, had been with him all those years, but that +the child had lived and grown up, and that the wife did the +housework; which, of course, he must have done himself.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S49"></a> + +<p>When we reached him his knotted hands had fallen for the last +time, and they were at rest. I only took one quick look at his +face, but could have sworn that he was gazing at the blue fin of +the range on the horizon of the bush.</p> + +<a name="NoPlace-S50"></a> + +<p>Up at the hut the table was set as on the first day I saw it, +and breakfast in the camp-oven by the fire.<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-89"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Jobs">Mitchell's Jobs</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Jobs-S1"></a> + +<p>"I'm going to knock off work and try to make some money," said +Mitchell, as he jerked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin and +reached for the <a href="#Notes-S5">billy</a>. "It's been the +great mistake of my life — if I hadn't wasted all my time +and energy working and looking for work I might have been an +independent man to-day."</p> + +<a name="Jobs-S2"></a> + +<p>"Joe!" he added in a louder voice, condescendingly adapting +his language to my bushed comprehension. "I'm going to sling +graft and try and get some stuff together."</p> + +<a name="Jobs-S3"></a> + +<p>I didn't feel in a responsive humour, but I lit up and settled +back comfortably against the tree, and Jack folded his arms on +his knees and presently continued, reflectively:</p> + +<a name="Jobs-S4"></a> + +<p>"I remember the first time I went to work. I was a youngster +then. Mother used to go round looking for jobs for me. She +reckoned, perhaps, that I was too shy to go in where there was a +boy wanted and barrack for myself properly, and she used to help +me and see me through to the best of her ability. I'm afraid I +didn't always feel as grateful to her as I should have felt. I +was a thankless kid at the best of times — most kids are +— but otherwise I was a straight enough little chap as +nippers go. Sometimes <a name="Page-90">I almost wish I hadn't +been. My relations would have thought a good deal more of me and +treated me better — and, besides, it's a comfort, at +times, to sit and watch the sun going down in the bed of the +bush, and think of your wicked childhood and wasted life, and the +way you treated your parents and broke their hearts, and feel +just properly repentant and bitter and remorseful and +low-spirited about it when it's too late.</a></p> + +<a name="Jobs-S5"></a> + +<p>"Ah, well! . . . I generally did feel a bit backward in going +in when I came to the door of an office or shop where there was a +`Strong Lad', or a `Willing Youth', wanted inside to make himself +generally useful. I was a strong lad and a willing youth enough, +in some things, for that matter; but I didn't like to see it +written up on a card in a shop window, and I didn't want to make +myself generally useful in a close shop in a hot dusty street on +mornings when the weather was fine and the great sunny rollers +were coming in grand on the Bondi Beach and down at Coogee, and I +could swim. . . . I'd give something to be down along there +now."</p> + +<a name="Jobs-S6"></a> + +<p>Mitchell looked away out over the sultry sandy plain that we +were to tackle next day, and sighed.</p> + +<a name="Jobs-S7"></a> + +<p>"The first job I got was in a jam factory. They only had `Boy +Wanted' on the card in the window, and I thought it would suit +me. They set me to work to peel peaches, and, as soon as the +foreman's back was turned, I picked out a likely-looking peach +and tried it. They soaked those peaches in salt or acid or +something — it was part of the process — and I had +to spit it out. Then I got an orange from a boy who <a name= +"Page-91">was slicing them, but it was bitter, and I couldn't eat +it. I saw that I'd been had properly. I was in a fix, and had to +get out of it the best way I could. I'd left my coat down in the +front shop, and the foreman and boss were there, so I had to work +in that place for two mortal hours. It was about the longest two +hours I'd ever spent in my life. At last the foreman came up, and +I told him I wanted to go down to the back for a minute. I +slipped down, watched my chance till the boss' back was turned, +got my coat, and cleared.</a></p> + +<a name="Jobs-S8"></a> + +<p>"The next job I got was in a mat factory; at least, Aunt got +that for me. I didn't want to have anything to do with mats or +carpets. The worst of it was the boss didn't seem to want me to +go, and I had a job to get him to sack me, and when he did he saw +some of my people and took me back again next week. He sacked me +finally the next Saturday.</p> + +<a name="Jobs-S9"></a> + +<p>"I got the next job myself. I didn't hurry; I took my time and +picked out a good one. It was in a lolly factory. I thought it +would suit me — and it did, for a while. They put me on +stirring up and mixing stuff in the jujube department; but I got +so sick of the smell of it and so full of jujube and other <a +href="#Notes-S13">lollies</a> that I soon wanted a change; so I +had a row with the chief of the jujube department and the boss +gave me the sack.</p> + +<a name="Jobs-S10"></a> + +<p>"I got a job in a grocery then. I thought I'd have more +variety there. But one day the boss was away, sick or something, +all the afternoon, and I sold a lot of things too cheap. I didn't +know. When a customer came in and asked for something I'd just +look round in the window till I saw a card with <a name= +"Page-92">the price written up on it, and sell the best quality +according to that price; and once or twice I made a mistake the +other way about and lost a couple of good customers. It was a +hot, drowsy afternoon, and by-and-bye I began to feel dull and +sleepy. So I looked round the corner and saw a Chinaman coming. I +got a big tin garden syringe and filled it full of brine from the +butter keg, and, when he came opposite the door, I let him have +the full force of it in the ear.</a></p> + +<a name="Jobs-S11"></a> + +<p>"That Chinaman put down his baskets and came for me. I was +strong for my age, and thought I could fight, but he gave me a +proper mauling.</p> + +<a name="Jobs-S12"></a> + +<p>"It was like running up against a thrashing machine, and it +wouldn't have been well for me if the boss of the shop next door +hadn't interfered. He told my boss, and my boss gave me the sack +at once.</p> + +<a name="Jobs-S13"></a> + +<p>"I took a spell of eighteen months or so after that, and was +growing up happy and contented when a married sister of mine must +needs come to live in town and interfere. I didn't like married +sisters, though I always got on grand with my brothers-in-law, +and wished there were more of them. The married sister comes +round and cleans up the place and pulls your things about and +finds your pipe and tobacco and things, and cigarette portraits, +and "Deadwood Dicks", that you've got put away all right, so's +your mother and aunt wouldn't find them in a generation of cats, +and says:</p> + +<a name="Jobs-S14"></a> + +<p>"`Mother, why don't you make that boy go to work. It's a +scandalous shame to see a big boy like that growing up idle. He's +going to the bad before <a name="Page-93">your eyes.' And she's +always trying to make out that you're a liar, and trying to make +mother believe it, too. My married sister got me a job with a +chemist, whose missus she knew.</a></p> + +<a name="Jobs-S15"></a> + +<p>"I got on pretty well there, and by-and-bye I was put upstairs +in the grinding and mixing department; but, after a while, they +put another boy that I was chummy with up there with me, and that +was a mistake. I didn't think so at the time, but I can see it +now. We got up to all sorts of tricks. We'd get mixing together +chemicals that weren't related to see how they'd agree, and we +nearly blew up the shop several times, and set it on fire once. +But all the chaps liked us, and fixed things up for us. One day +we got a big black dog — that we meant to take home that +evening — and sneaked him upstairs and put him on a flat +roof outside the laboratory. He had a touch of the mange and +didn't look well, so we gave him a dose of something; and he +scrambled over the parapet and slipped down a steep iron roof in +front, and fell on a respected townsman that knew my people. We +were awfully frightened, and didn't say anything. Nobody saw it +but us. The dog had the presence of mind to leave at once, and +the respected townsman was picked up and taken home in a cab; and +he got it hot from his wife, too, I believe, for being in that +drunken, beastly state in the main street in the middle of the +day.</p> + +<a name="Jobs-S16"></a> + +<p>"I don't think he was ever quite sure that he hadn't been +drunk or what had happened, for he had had one or two that +morning; so it didn't matter much. Only we lost the dog.</p> + +<a name="Page-94"><a name="Jobs-S17"></a></a> + +<p>"One day I went downstairs to the packing-room and saw a lot +of phosphorus in jars of water. I wanted to fix up a ghost for +Billy, my mate, so I nicked a bit and slipped it into my trouser +pocket.</p> + +<a name="Jobs-S18"></a> + +<p>"I stood under the tap and let it pour on me. The phosphorus +burnt clean through my pocket and fell on the ground. I was sent +home that night with my leg dressed with lime-water and oil, and +a pair of the boss's pants on that were about half a yard too +long for me, and I felt miserable enough, too. They said it would +stop my tricks for a while, and so it did. I'll carry the mark to +my dying day — and for two or three days after, for that +matter."</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<p><a name="Jobs-S19">I fell asleep at this point, and left +Mitchell's cattle pup to hear it out.<br> +<br> + <br> +</a></p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-95"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Bill">Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Bill-S1"></a> + +<p>"When we were up country on the selection, we had a rooster at +our place, named Bill," said Mitchell; "a big mongrel of no +particular breed, though the old lady said he was a `brammer' +— and many an argument she had with the old man about it +too; she was just as stubborn and obstinate in her opinion as the +governor was in his. But, anyway, we called him Bill, and didn't +take any particular notice of him till a cousin of some of us +came from Sydney on a visit to the country, and stayed at our +place because it was cheaper than stopping at a <a href= +"#Notes-S15">pub.</a> Well, somehow this chap got interested in +Bill, and studied him for two or three days, and at last he +says:</p> + +<a name="Bill-S2"></a> + +<p>"`Why, that rooster's a ventriloquist!'</p> + +<p>"`A what?'</p> + +<p>"`A ventriloquist!'</p> + +<p>"`Go along with yer!'</p> + +<p>"`But he is. I've heard of cases like this before; but this is +the first I've come across. Bill's a ventriloquist right +enough.'</p> + +<a name="Bill-S3"></a> + +<p>"Then we remembered that there wasn't another rooster within +five miles — our only neighbour, an Irishman named Page, +didn't have one at the time — and <a name="Page-96">we'd +often heard another cock crow, but didn't think to take any +notice of it. We watched Bill, and sure enough he <i>was</i> a +ventriloquist. The `ka-cocka' would come all right, but the +`co-ka-koo-oi-oo' seemed to come from a distance. And sometimes +the whole crow would go wrong, and come back like an echo that +had been lost for a year. Bill would stand on tiptoe, and hold +his elbows out, and curve his neck, and go two or three times as +if he was swallowing nest-eggs, and nearly break his neck and +burst his gizzard; and then there'd be no sound at all where he +was — only a cock crowing in the distance.</a></p> + +<a name="Bill-S4"></a> + +<p>"And pretty soon we could see that Bill was in great trouble +about it himself. You see, he didn't know it was himself — +thought it was another rooster challenging him, and he wanted +badly to find that other bird. He would get up on the wood-heap, +and crow and listen — crow and listen again — crow +and listen, and then he'd go up to the top of the paddock, and +get up on the stack, and crow and listen there. Then down to the +other end of the paddock, and get up on a mullock-heap, and crow +and listen there. Then across to the other side and up on a log +among the saplings, and crow 'n' listen some more. He searched +all over the place for that other rooster, but, of course, +couldn't find him. Sometimes he'd be out all day crowing and +listening all over the country, and then come home dead tired, +and rest and cool off in a hole that the hens had scratched for +him in a damp place under the water-cask sledge.</p> + +<a name="Page-97"><a name="Bill-S5"></a></a> + +<p>"Well, one day Page brought home a big white rooster, and when +he let it go it climbed up on Page's stack and crowed, to see if +there was any more roosters round there. Bill had come home +tired; it was a hot day, and he'd rooted out the hens, and was +having a spell-oh under the cask when the white rooster crowed. +Bill didn't lose any time getting out and on to the wood-heap, +and then he waited till he heard the crow again; then he crowed, +and the other rooster crowed again, and they crowed at each other +for three days, and called each other all the wretches they could +lay their tongues to, and after that they implored each other to +come out and be made into chicken soup and feather pillows. But +neither'd come. You see, there were <i>three</i> crows — +there was Bill's crow, and the ventriloquist crow, and the white +rooster's crow — and each rooster thought that there was +<i>two</i> roosters in the opposition camp, and that he mightn't +get fair play, and, consequently, both were afraid to put up +their hands.</p> + +<a name="Bill-S6"></a> + +<p>"But at last Bill couldn't stand it any longer. He made up his +mind to go and have it out, even if there was a whole +agricultural show of prize and honourable-mention fighting-cocks +in Page's yard. He got down from the wood-heap and started off +across the ploughed field, his head down, his elbows out, and his +thick awkward legs prodding away at the furrows behind for all +they were worth.</p> + +<a name="Bill-S7"></a> + +<p>"I wanted to go down badly and see the fight, and barrack for +Bill. But I daren't, because I'd been coming up the road late the +night before with my brother Joe, and there was about three +panels of <a name="Page-98">turkeys roosting along on the top +rail of Page's front fence; and we brushed 'em with a bough, and +they got up such a blessed gobbling fuss about it that Page came +out in his shirt and saw us running away; and I knew he was +laying for us with a bullock whip. Besides, there was friction +between the two families on account of a thoroughbred bull that +Page borrowed and wouldn't lend to us, and that got into our +paddock on account of me mending a panel in the party fence, and +carelessly leaving the top rail down after sundown while our cows +was moving round there in the saplings.</a></p> + +<a name="Bill-S8"></a> + +<p>"So there was too much friction for me to go down, but I +climbed a tree as near the fence as I could and watched. Bill +reckoned he'd found that rooster at last. The white rooster +wouldn't come down from the stack, so Bill went up to him, and +they fought there till they tumbled down the other side, and I +couldn't see any more. Wasn't I wild? I'd have given my dog to +have seen the rest of the fight. I went down to the far side of +Page's fence and climbed a tree there, but, of course, I couldn't +see anything, so I came home the back way. Just as I got home +Page came round to the front and sung out, `Insoid there!' And me +and Jim went under the house like snakes and looked out round a +pile. But Page was all right — he had a broad grin on his +face, and Bill safe under his arm. He put Bill down on the ground +very carefully, and says he to the old folks:</p> + +<p>"`Yer rooster knocked the stuffin' out of my rooster, but I +bear no malice. 'Twas a grand foight.'</p> + +<a name="Page-99"><a name="Bill-S9"></a></a> + +<p>"And then the old man and Page had a yarn, and got pretty +friendly after that. And Bill didn't seem to bother about any +more ventriloquism; but the white rooster spent a lot of time +looking for that other rooster. Perhaps he thought he'd have +better luck with him. But Page was on the look-out all the time +to get a rooster that would lick ours. He did nothing else for a +month but ride round and enquire about roosters; and at last he +borrowed a game-bird in town, left five pounds deposit on him, +and brought him home. And Page and the old man agreed to have a +match — about the only thing they'd agreed about for five +years. And they fixed it up for a Sunday when the old lady and +the girls and kids were going on a visit to some relations, about +fifteen miles away — to stop all night. The guv'nor made +me go with them on horseback; but I knew what was up, and so my +pony went lame about a mile along the road, and I had to come +back and turn him out in the top paddock, and hide the saddle and +bridle in a hollow log, and sneak home and climb up on the roof +of the shed. It was a awful hot day, and I had to keep climbing +backward and forward over the ridge-pole all the morning to keep +out of sight of the old man, for he was moving about a good +deal.</p> + +<a name="Bill-S10"></a> + +<p>"Well, after dinner, the fellows from roundabout began to ride +in and hang up their horses round the place till it looked as if +there was going to be a funeral. Some of the chaps saw me, of +course, but I tipped them the wink, and they gave me the office +whenever the old man happened around.</p> + +<a name="Bill-S11"></a> + +<p>"Well, Page came along with his game-rooster. <a name= +"Page-100">Its name was Jim. It wasn't much to look at, and it +seemed a good deal smaller and weaker than Bill. Some of the +chaps were disgusted, and said it wasn't a game-rooster at all; +Bill'd settle it in one lick, and they wouldn't have any +fun.</a></p> + +<a name="Bill-S12"></a> + +<p>"Well, they brought the game one out and put him down near the +wood-heap, and rousted Bill out from under his cask. He got +interested at once. He looked at Jim, and got up on the wood-heap +and crowed and looked at Jim again. He reckoned <i>this</i> at +last was the fowl that had been humbugging him all along. +Presently his trouble caught him, and then he'd crow and take a +squint at the game 'un, and crow again, and have another squint +at gamey, and try to crow and keep his eye on the game-rooster at +the same time. But Jim never committed himself, until at last he +happened to gape just after Bill's whole crow went wrong, and +Bill spotted him. He reckoned he'd caught him this time, and he +got down off that wood-heap and went for the foe. But Jim ran +away — and Bill ran after him.</p> + +<a name="Bill-S13"></a> + +<p>"Round and round the wood-heap they went, and round the shed, +and round the house and under it, and back again, and round the +wood-heap and over it and round the other way, and kept it up for +close on an hour. Bill's bill was just within an inch or so of +the game-rooster's tail feathers most of the time, but he +couldn't get any nearer, do how he liked. And all the time the +fellers kept chyackin Page and singing out, `What price yer game +'un, Page! Go it, Bill! Go it, old cock!' and all that sort of +thing. Well, the game-rooster went as if it was a <a name= +"Page-101">go-as-you-please, and he didn't care if it lasted a +year. He didn't seem to take any interest in the business, but +Bill got excited, and by-and-by he got mad. He held his head +lower and lower and his wings further and further out from his +sides, and prodded away harder and harder at the ground behind, +but it wasn't any use. Jim seemed to keep ahead without trying. +They stuck to the wood-heap towards the last. They went round +first one way for a while, and then the other for a change, and +now and then they'd go over the top to break the monotony; and +the chaps got more interested in the race than they would have +been in the fight — and bet on it, too. But Bill was +handicapped with his weight. He was done up at last; he slowed +down till he couldn't waddle, and then, when he was thoroughly +knocked up, that game-rooster turned on him, and gave him the +father of a hiding.</a></p> + +<a name="Bill-S14"></a> + +<p>"And my father caught me when I'd got down in the excitement, +and wasn't thinking, and <i>he</i> gave <i>me</i> the step-father +of a hiding. But he had a lively time with the old lady +afterwards, over the cock-fight.</p> + +<a name="Bill-S15"></a> + +<p>"Bill was so disgusted with himself that he went under the +cask and died."<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-102"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Bush">Bush Cats</a></h2> +</center> + +<p><a name="Bush-S1">"Domestic cats" we mean — the +descendants of cats who came from the northern world during the +last hundred odd years. We do not know the name of the vessel in +which the first Thomas and his Maria came out to Australia, but +we suppose that it was one of the ships of the First Fleet. Most +likely Maria had kittens on the voyage — two lots, perhaps +— the majority of which were buried at sea; and no doubt +the disembarkation caused her much maternal anxiety.</a></p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Bush-S2"></a> + +<p>The feline race has not altered much in Australia, from a +physical point of view — not yet. The rabbit has developed +into something like a cross between a kangaroo and a <a href= +"#Notes-S14">possum</a>, but the bush has not begun to develop +the common cat. She is just as sedate and motherly as the mummy +cats of Egypt were, but she takes longer strolls of nights, +climbs gum-trees instead of roofs, and hunts stranger vermin than +ever came under the observation of her northern ancestors. Her +views have widened. She is mostly thinner than the English farm +cat — which is, they say, on account of eating +lizards.</p> + +<a name="Page-103"><a name="Bush-S3"></a></a> + +<p>English rats and English mice — we say "English" +because everything which isn't Australian in Australia, <i>is</i> +English (or British) — English rats and English mice are +either rare or non-existent in the bush; but the hut cat has a +wider range for game. She is always dragging in things which are +unknown in the halls of zoology; ugly, loathsome, crawling +abortions which have not been classified yet — and perhaps +could not be.</p> + +<a name="Bush-S4"></a> + +<p>The Australian zoologist ought to rake up some more dead +languages, and then go Out Back with a few bush cats.</p> + +<a name="Bush-S5"></a> + +<p>The Australian bush cat has a nasty, unpleasant habit of +dragging a long, wriggling, horrid, black snake — she +seems to prefer black snakes — into a room where there are +ladies, proudly laying it down in a conspicuous place (usually in +front of the exit), and then looking up for approbation. She +wonders, perhaps, why the visitors are in such a hurry to +leave.</p> + +<a name="Bush-S6"></a> + +<p>Pussy doesn't approve of live snakes round the place, +especially if she has kittens; and if she finds a snake in the +vicinity of her progeny — well, it is bad for that +particular serpent.</p> + +<a name="Bush-S7"></a> + +<p>This brings recollections of a neighbour's cat who went out in +the scrub, one midsummer's day, and found a brown snake. Her name +— the cat's name — was Mary Ann. She got hold of +the snake all right, just within an inch of its head; but it got +the rest of its length wound round her body and squeezed about +eight lives out of her. She had the presence of mind to keep her +hold; but it struck her that she was in a fix, and that if she +wanted to save her ninth life, it <a name="Page-104">wouldn't be +a bad idea to go home for help. So she started home, snake and +all.</a></p> + +<a name="Bush-S8"></a> + +<p>The family were at dinner when Mary Ann came in, and, although +she stood on an open part of the floor, no one noticed her for a +while. She couldn't ask for help, for her mouth was too full of +snake. By-and-bye one of the girls glanced round, and then went +over the table, with a shriek, and out of the back door. The room +was cleared very quickly. The eldest boy got a long-handled +shovel, and in another second would have killed more cat than +snake; but his father interfered. The father was a shearer, and +Mary Ann was a favourite cat with him. He got a pair of shears +from the shelf and deftly shore off the snake's head, and one +side of Mary Ann's whiskers. She didn't think it safe to let go +yet. She kept her teeth in the neck until the <a href= +"#Notes-S18">selector</a> snipped the rest of the snake off her. +The bits were carried out on a shovel to die at sundown. Mary Ann +had a good drink of milk, and then got her tongue out and licked +herself back into the proper shape for a cat; after which she +went out to look for that snake's mate. She found it, too, and +dragged it home the same evening.</p> + +<a name="Bush-S9"></a> + +<p>Cats will kill rabbits and drag them home. We knew a fossicker +whose cat used to bring him a bunny nearly every night. The +fossicker had rabbits for breakfast until he got sick of them, +and then he used to swap them with a butcher for meat. The cat +was named Ingersoll, which indicates his sex and gives an inkling +to his master's religious and political opinions. Ingersoll used +to prospect round in the gloaming until he found some rabbit +holes which showed encouraging <a name="Page-105">indications. He +would shepherd one hole for an hour or so every evening until he +found it was a duffer, or worked it out; then he would shift to +another. One day he prospected a big hollow log with a lot of +holes in it, and more going down underneath. The indications were +very good, but Ingersoll had no luck. The game had too many ways +of getting out and in. He found that he could not work that claim +by himself, so he floated it into a company. He persuaded several +cats from a neighbouring selection to take shares, and they +watched the holes together, or in turns — they worked +shifts. The dividends more than realised even their wildest +expectations, for each cat took home at least one rabbit every +night for a week.</a></p> + +<a name="Bush-S10"></a> + +<p>A selector started a vegetable garden about the time when +rabbits were beginning to get troublesome up country. The hare +had not shown itself yet. The farmer kept quite a regiment of +cats to protect his garden — and they protected it. He +would shut the cats up all day with nothing to eat, and let them +out about sundown; then they would mooch off to the turnip patch +like farm-labourers going to work. They would drag the rabbits +home to the back door, and sit there and watch them until the +farmer opened the door and served out the ration of milk. Then +the cats would turn in. He nearly always found a semi-circle of +dead rabbits and watchful cats round the door in the morning. +They sold the product of their labour direct to the farmer for +milk. It didn't matter if one cat had been unlucky — had +not got a rabbit — each had an equal share in the general +result. They were true socialists, those cats.</p> + +<a name="Page-106"><a name="Bush-S11"></a></a> + +<p>One of those cats was a mighty big Tom, named Jack. He was +death on rabbits; he would work hard all night, laying for them +and dragging them home. Some weeks he would <a href= +"#Notes-S8">graft</a> every night, and at other times every other +night, but he was generally pretty regular. When he reckoned he +had done an extra night's work, he would take the next night off +and go three miles to the nearest neighbour's to see his Maria +and take her out for a stroll. Well, one evening Jack went into +the garden and chose a place where there was good cover, and lay +low. He was a bit earlier than usual, so he thought he would have +a doze till rabbit time. By-and-bye he heard a noise, and slowly, +cautiously opening one eye, he saw two big ears sticking out of +the leaves in front of him. He judged that it was an extra big +bunny, so he put some extra style into his manoeuvres. In about +five minutes he made his spring. He must have thought (if cats +think) that it was a whopping, old-man rabbit, for it was a +pioneer hare — not an ordinary English hare, but one of +those great coarse, lanky things which the bush is breeding. The +selector was attracted by an unusual commotion and a cloud of +dust among his cabbages, and came along with his gun in time to +witness the fight. First Jack would drag the hare, and then the +hare would drag Jack; sometimes they would be down together, and +then Jack would use his hind claws with effect; finally he got +his teeth in the right place, and triumphed. Then he started to +drag the corpse home, but he had to give it best and ask his +master to lend a hand. The selector took up the hare, and Jack +followed home, much to the family's <a name="Page-107">surprise. +He did not go back to work that night; he took a spell. He had a +drink of milk, licked the dust off himself, washed it down with +another drink, and sat in front of the fire and thought for a +goodish while. Then he got up, walked over to the corner where +the hare was lying, had a good look at it, came back to the fire, +sat down again, and thought hard. He was still thinking when the +family retired.<br> +<br> + <br> +</a></p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-108"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Meeting">Meeting Old Mates</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Meeting-S1"></a> + +<center> +<h3>I.</h3> +</center> + +<center> +<h3>Tom Smith</h3> +</center> + +<p>You are getting well on in the thirties, and haven't left off +being a fool yet. You have been away in another colony or country +for a year or so, and have now come back again. Most of your +chums have gone away or got married, or, worse still, signed the +pledge — settled down and got steady; and you feel lonely +and desolate and left-behind enough for anything. While drifting +aimlessly round town with an eye out for some chance acquaintance +to have a knock round with, you run against an old chum whom you +never dreamt of meeting, or whom you thought to be in some other +part of the country — or perhaps you knock up against +someone who knows the old chum in question, and he says:</p> + +<p>"I suppose you know Tom Smith's in Sydney?"</p> + +<a name="Meeting-S2"></a> + +<p>"Tom Smith! Why, I thought he was in Queensland! I haven't +seen him for more than three years. Where's the old joker hanging +out at all? Why, except you, there's no one in Australia I'd +sooner see than Tom Smith. Here I've been mooning round like an +unemployed for three weeks, looking for someone to have a knock +round with, and Tom in <a name="Page-109">Sydney all the time. I +wish I'd known before. Where'll I run against him — where +does he live?"</a></p> + +<p>"Oh, he's living at home."</p> + +<p>"But where's his home? I was never there."</p> + +<a name="Meeting-S3"></a> + +<p>"Oh, I'll give you his address. . . . There, I think that's +it. I'm not sure about the number, but you'll soon find out in +that street — most of 'em'll know Tom Smith."</p> + +<p>"Thanks! I rather think they will. I'm glad I met you. I'll +hunt Tom up to-day."</p> + +<a name="Meeting-S4"></a> + +<p>So you put a few shillings in your pocket, tell your landlady +that you're going to visit an old aunt of yours or a sick friend, +and mayn't be home that night; and then you start out to hunt up +Tom Smith and have at least one more good night, if you die for +it.</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Meeting-S5"></a> + +<p>This is the first time you have seen Tom at home; you knew of +his home and people in the old days, but only in a vague, +indefinite sort of way. Tom has changed! He is stouter and +older-looking; he seems solemn and settled down. You intended to +give him a surprise and have a good old jolly laugh with him, but +somehow things get suddenly damped at the beginning. He grins and +grips your hand right enough, but there seems something wanting. +You can't help staring at him, and he seems to look at you in a +strange, disappointing way; it doesn't strike you that you also +have changed, and perhaps more in his eyes than he in yours. He +introduces you to his mother and sisters and brothers, and the +rest of the family; or to his wife, as the case may be; and you +have to suppress your feelings and be polite and talk <a name= +"Page-110">common-place. You hate to be polite and talk +common-place. You aren't built that way — and Tom wasn't +either, in the old days. The wife (or the mother and sisters) +receives you kindly, for Tom's sake, and makes much of you; but +they don't know you yet. You want to get Tom outside, and have a +yarn and a drink and a laugh with him — you are bursting +to tell him all about yourself, and get him to tell you all about +himself, and ask him if he remembers things; and you wonder if he +is bursting the same way, and hope he is. The old lady and +sisters (or the wife) bore you pretty soon, and you wonder if +they bore Tom; you almost fancy, from his looks, that they do. +You wonder whether Tom is coming out to-night, whether he wants +to get out, and if he wants to and wants to get out by himself, +whether he'll be able to manage it; but you daren't broach the +subject, it wouldn't be polite. You've got to be polite. Then you +get worried by the thought that Tom is bursting to get out with +you and only wants an excuse; is waiting, in fact, and hoping for +you to ask him in an off-hand sort of way to come out for a +stroll. But you're not quite sure; and besides, if you were, you +wouldn't have the courage. By-and-bye you get tired of it all, +thirsty, and want to get out in the open air. You get tired of +saying, "Do you really, Mrs. Smith?" or "Do you think so, Miss +Smith?" or "You were quite right, Mrs. Smith," and "Well, I think +so too, Mrs. Smith," or, to the brother, "That's just what I +thought, Mr. Smith." You don't want to "talk pretty" to them, and +listen to their wishy-washy nonsense; you want to get out <a +name="Page-111">and have a roaring spree with Tom, as you had in +the old days; you want to make another night of it with your old +mate, Tom Smith; and pretty soon you get the blues badly, and +feel nearly smothered in there, and you've got to get out and +have a beer anyway — Tom or no Tom; and you begin to feel +wild with Tom himself; and at last you make a bold dash for it +and chance Tom. You get up, look at your hat, and say: "Ah, well, +I must be going, Tom; I've got to meet someone down the street at +seven o'clock. Where'll I meet you in town next +week?"</a></a></p> + +<a name="Meeting-S6"></a> + +<p>But Tom says:</p> + +<p>"Oh, dash it; you ain't going yet. Stay to <a href= +"#Notes-S25">tea</a>, Joe, stay to tea. It'll be on the table in +a minute. Sit down — sit down, man! Here, gimme your +hat."</p> + +<p>And Tom's sister, or wife, or mother comes in with an apron on +and her hands all over flour, and says:</p> + +<p>"Oh, you're not going yet, Mr. Brown? Tea'll be ready in a +minute. Do stay for tea." And if you make excuses, she +cross-examines you about the time you've got to keep that +appointment down the street, and tells you that their clock is +twenty minutes fast, and that you have got plenty of time, and so +you have to give in. But you are mightily encouraged by a +winksome expression which you see, or fancy you see, on your side +of Tom's face; also by the fact of his having accidentally +knocked his foot against your shins. So you stay.</p> + +<a name="Meeting-S7"></a> + +<p>One of the females tells you to "Sit there, Mr. Brown," and +you take your place at the table, and the polite business goes +on. You've got to hold your knife and fork properly, and mind +your p's and q's, <a name="Page-112">and when she says, "Do you +take milk and sugar, Mr. Brown?" you've got to say, "Yes, please, +Miss Smith — thanks — that's plenty." And when they +press you, as they will, to have more, you've got to keep on +saying, "No, thanks, Mrs. Smith; no, thanks, Miss Smith; I really +couldn't; I've done very well, thank you; I had a very late +dinner, and so on" — bother such tommy-rot. And you don't +seem to have any appetite, anyway. And you think of the days out +on the track when you and Tom sat on your swags under a mulga at +mid-day, and ate mutton and johnny-cake with clasp-knives, and +drank by turns out of the old, battered, leaky <a href= +"#Notes-S5">billy</a>.</a></p> + +<a name="Meeting-S8"></a> + +<p>And after tea you have to sit still while the precious minutes +are wasted, and listen and sympathize, while all the time you are +on the fidget to get out with Tom, and go down to a private bar +where you know some girls.</p> + +<a name="Meeting-S9"></a> + +<p>And perhaps by-and-bye the old lady gets confidential, and +seizes an opportunity to tell you what a good steady young fellow +Tom is now that he never touches drink, and belongs to a +temperance society (or the Y.M.C.A.), and never stays out of +nights.</p> + +<a name="Meeting-S10"></a> + +<p>Consequently you feel worse than ever, and lonelier, and +sorrier that you wasted your time coming. You are encouraged +again by a glimpse of Tom putting on a clean collar and fixing +himself up a bit; but when you are ready to go, and ask him if +he's coming a bit down the street with you, he says he thinks he +will in such a disinterested, don't-mind-if-I-do sort of tone, +that he makes you mad.</p> + +<a name="Meeting-S11"></a> + +<p>At last, after promising to "drop in again, Mr. <a name= +"Page-113">Brown, whenever you're passing," and to "don't forget +to call," and thanking them for their assurance that they'll "be +always glad to see you," and telling them that you've spent a +very pleasant evening and enjoyed yourself, and are awfully sorry +you couldn't stay — you get away with Tom.</a></p> + +<a name="Meeting-S12"></a> + +<p>You don't say much to each other till you get round the corner +and down the street a bit, and then for a while your conversation +is mostly common-place, such as, "Well, how have you been getting +on all this time, Tom?" "Oh, all right. How have you been getting +on?" and so on.</p> + +<a name="Meeting-S13"></a> + +<p>But presently, and perhaps just as you have made up your mind +to chance the alleged temperance business and ask Tom in to have +a drink, he throws a glance up and down the street, nudges your +shoulder, says "Come on," and disappears sideways into a pub.</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Meeting-S14"></a> + +<p>"What's yours, Tom?" "What's yours, Joe?" "The same for me." +"Well, here's luck, old man." "Here's luck." You take a drink, +and look over your glass at Tom. Then the old smile spreads over +his face, and it makes you glad — you could swear to Tom's +grin in a hundred years. Then something tickles him — your +expression, perhaps, or a recollection of the past — and +he sets down his glass on the bar and laughs. Then you laugh. Oh, +there's no smile like the smile that old mates favour each other +with over the tops of their glasses when they meet again after +years. It is eloquent, because of the memories that give it +birth.</p> + +<a name="Page-114"><a name="Meeting-S15"></a></a> + +<p>"Here's another. Do you remember ——? Do you +remember ——?" Oh, it all comes back again like a +flash. Tom hasn't changed a bit; just the same good-hearted, +jolly idiot he always was. Old times back again! "It's just like +old times," says Tom, after three or four more drinks.</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Meeting-S16"></a> + +<p>And so you make a night of it and get uproariously jolly. You +get as "glorious" as Bobby Burns did in the part of Tam +O'Shanter, and have a better "time" than any of the times you had +in the old days. And you see Tom as nearly home in the morning as +you dare, and he reckons he'll get it hot from his people +— which no doubt he will — and he explains that +they are very particular up at home — church people, you +know — and, of course, especially if he's married, it's +understood between you that you'd better not call for him up at +home after this — at least, not till things have cooled +down a bit. It's always the way. The friend of the husband always +gets the blame in cases like this. But Tom fixes up a yarn to +tell them, and you aren't to "say anything different" in case you +run against any of them. And he fixes up an appointment with you +for next Saturday night, and he'll get there if he gets divorced +for it. But he <i>might</i> have to take the wife out shopping, +or one of the girls somewhere; and if you see her with him you've +got to lay low, and be careful, and wait — at another hour +and place, perhaps, all of which is arranged — for if she +sees you she'll smell a rat at once, and he won't be able to get +off at all.</p> + +<a name="Page-115"><a name="Meeting-S17"></a></a> + +<p>And so, as far as you and Tom are concerned, the "old times" +have come back once more.</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Meeting-S18"></a> + +<p>But, of course (and we almost forgot it), you might chance to +fall in love with one of Tom's sisters, in which case there would +be another and a totally different story to tell.</p> + +<a name="Meeting-S19"></a> + +<center> +<h3>II.</h3> +</center> + +<center> +<h3>Jack Ellis</h3> +</center> + +<p>Things are going well with you. You have escaped from "the +track", so to speak, and are in a snug, comfortable little billet +in the city. Well, while doing the block you run against an old +mate of other days — <i>very</i> other days — call +him Jack Ellis. Things have gone hard with Jack. He knows you at +once, but makes no advance towards a greeting; he acts as though +he thinks you might cut him — which, of course, if you are +a true mate, you have not the slightest intention of doing. His +coat is yellow and frayed, his hat is battered and green, his +trousers "gone" in various places, his linen very cloudy, and his +boots burst and innocent of polish. You try not to notice these +things — or rather, not to seem to notice them — +but you cannot help doing so, and you are afraid he'll notice +that you see these things, and put a wrong construction on it. +How men will misunderstand each other! You greet him with more +than the necessary enthusiasm. In your anxiety to set him at his +ease and make him believe that nothing — not even money +— can make a difference in your <a name= +"Page-116">friendship, you over-act the business; and presently +you are afraid that he'll notice that too, and put a wrong +construction on it. You wish that your collar was not so clean, +nor your clothes so new. Had you known you would meet him, you +would have put on some old clothes for the occasion.</a></p> + +<a name="Meeting-S20"></a> + +<p>You are both embarrassed, but it is <i>you</i> who feel +ashamed — you are almost afraid to look at him lest he'll +think you are looking at his shabbiness. You ask him in to have a +drink, but he doesn't respond so heartily as you wish, as he did +in the old days; he doesn't like drinking with anybody when he +isn't "fixed", as he calls it — when he can't <a href= +"#Notes-S19">shout</a>.</p> + +<a name="Meeting-S21"></a> + +<p>It didn't matter in the old days who held the money so long as +there was plenty of "stuff" in the camp. You think of the days +when Jack stuck to you through thick and thin. You would like to +give him money now, but he is so proud; he always was; he makes +you mad with his beastly pride. There wasn't any pride of that +sort on the track or in the camp in those days; but times have +changed — your lives have drifted too widely apart +— you have taken different tracks since then; and Jack, +without intending to, makes you feel that it is so.</p> + +<a name="Meeting-S22"></a> + +<p>You have a drink, but it isn't a success; it falls flat, as +far as Jack is concerned; he won't have another; he doesn't "feel +on", and presently he escapes under plea of an engagement, and +promises to see you again.</p> + +<a name="Meeting-S23"></a> + +<p>And you wish that the time was come when no one could have +more or less to spend than another.</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Page-117"><a name="Meeting-S24"></a></a> + +<p>P.S. — I met an old mate of that description once, and +so successfully persuaded him out of his beastly pride that he +borrowed two pounds off me till Monday. I never got it back +since, and I want it badly at the present time. In future I'll +leave old mates with their pride unimpaired.<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-118"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Two">Two <a href="#Notes-S12">Larrikins</a></a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Two-S1"></a> + +<p>"Y'orter do something, Ernie. Yer know how I am. <i>You</i> +don't seem to care. Y'orter to do something."</p> + +<a name="Two-S2"></a> + +<p>Stowsher slouched at a greater angle to the greasy door-post, +and scowled under his hat-brim. It was a little, low, frowsy room +opening into Jones' Alley. She sat at the table, sewing — +a thin, sallow girl with weak, colourless eyes. She looked as +frowsy as her surroundings.</p> + +<p>"Well, why don't you go to some of them women, and get fixed +up?"</p> + +<a name="Two-S3"></a> + +<p>She flicked the end of the table-cloth over some tiny, +unfinished articles of clothing, and bent to her work.</p> + +<p>"But you know very well I haven't got a shilling, Ernie," she +said, quietly. "Where am I to get the money from?"</p> + +<p>"Who asked yer to get it?"</p> + +<a name="Two-S4"></a> + +<p>She was silent, with the exasperating silence of a woman who +has determined to do a thing in spite of all reasons and +arguments that may be brought against it.</p> + +<a name="Two-S5"></a> + +<p>"Well, wot more do yer want?" demanded Stowsher, +impatiently.</p> + +<a name="Page-119"></a> + +<p>She bent lower. "Couldn't we keep it, Ernie?"</p> + +<p>"Wot next?" asked Stowsher, sulkily — he had half +suspected what was coming. Then, with an impatient oath, "You +must be gettin' <a href="#Notes-S17">ratty</a>."</p> + +<p>She brushed the corner of the cloth further over the little +clothes.</p> + +<a name="Two-S6"></a> + +<p>"It wouldn't cost anything, Ernie. I'd take a pride in him, +and keep him clean, and dress him like a little lord. He'll be +different from all the other youngsters. He wouldn't be like +those dirty, sickly little brats out there. He'd be just like +you, Ernie; I know he would. I'll look after him night and day, +and bring him up well and strong. We'd train his little muscles +from the first, Ernie, and he'd be able to knock 'em all out when +he grew up. It wouldn't cost much, and I'd work hard and be +careful if you'd help me. And you'd be proud of him, too, Ernie +— I know you would."</p> + +<a name="Two-S7"></a> + +<p>Stowsher scraped the doorstep with his foot; but whether he +was "touched", or feared hysterics and was wisely silent, was not +apparent.</p> + +<a name="Two-S8"></a> + +<p>"Do you remember the first day I met you, Ernie?" she asked, +presently.</p> + +<p>Stowsher regarded her with an uneasy scowl: "Well — wot +o' that?"</p> + +<p>"You came into the bar-parlour at the `Cricketers' Arms' and +caught a <a href="#Notes-S16">push</a> of 'em chyacking your old +man."</p> + +<p>"Well, I altered that."</p> + +<p>"I know you did. You done for three of them, one after +another, and two was bigger than you."</p> + +<a name="Page-120"></a> + +<p>"Yes! and when the push come up we done for the rest," said +Stowsher, softening at the recollection.</p> + +<a name="Two-S9"></a> + +<p>"And the day you come home and caught the landlord bullying +your old mother like a dog ——"</p> + +<p>"Yes; I got three months for that job. But it was worth it!" +he reflected. "Only," he added, "the old woman might have had the +knocker to keep away from the lush while I was in quod. . . . But +wot's all this got to do with it?"</p> + +<p>"<i>He</i> might barrack and fight for you, some day, Ernie," +she said softly, "when you're old and out of form and ain't got +no push to back you."</p> + +<a name="Two-S10"></a> + +<p>The thing was becoming decidedly embarrassing to Stowsher; not +that he felt any delicacy on the subject, but because he hated to +be drawn into a conversation that might be considered "soft".</p> + +<p>"Oh, stow that!" he said, comfortingly. "Git on yer hat, and +I'll take yer for a trot."</p> + +<p>She rose quickly, but restrained herself, recollecting that it +was not good policy to betray eagerness in response to an +invitation from Ernie.</p> + +<a name="Two-S11"></a> + +<p>"But — you know — I don't like to go out like +this. You can't — you wouldn't like to take me out the way +I am, Ernie!"</p> + +<p>"Why not? Wot rot!"</p> + +<p>"The fellows would see me, and — and +——"</p> + +<p>"And . . . wot?"</p> + +<a name="Two-S12"></a> + +<p>"They might notice ——"</p> + +<p>"Well, wot o' that? I want 'em to. Are yer comin' or are yer +ain't? Fling round now. I can't hang on here all day."</p> + +<p>They walked towards Flagstaff Hill.</p> + +<a name="Page-121"><a name="Two-S13"></a></a> + +<p>One or two, slouching round a pub. corner, saluted with +"Wotcher, Stowsher!"</p> + +<p>"Not too stinkin'," replied Stowsher. "Soak yer heads."</p> + +<p>"Stowsher's goin' to stick," said one privately.</p> + +<p>"An' so he orter," said another. "Wish I had the chanst."</p> + +<a name="Two-S14"></a> + +<p>The two turned up a steep lane.</p> + +<p>"Don't walk so fast up hill, Ernie; I can't, you know."</p> + +<p>"All right, Liz. I forgot that. Why didn't yer say so +before?"</p> + +<a name="Two-S15"></a> + +<p>She was contentedly silent most of the way, warned by +instinct, after the manner of women when they have gained their +point by words.</p> + +<p>Once he glanced over his shoulder with a short laugh. +"Gorblime!" he said, "I nearly thought the little beggar was +a-follerin' along behind!"</p> + +<a name="Two-S16"></a> + +<p>When he left her at the door he said: "Look here, Liz. 'Ere's +half a quid. Git what yer want. Let her go. I'm goin' to <a href= +"#Notes-S8">graft</a> again in the mornin', and I'll come round +and see yer to-morrer night."</p> + +<p>Still she seemed troubled and uneasy.</p> + +<a name="Two-S17"></a> + +<p>"Ernie."</p> + +<p>"Well. Wot now?"</p> + +<p>"S'posin' it's a girl, Ernie."</p> + +<a name="Two-S18"></a> + +<p>Stowsher flung himself round impatiently.</p> + +<p>"Oh, for God's sake, stow that! Yer always singin' out before +yer hurt. . . . There's somethin' else, ain't there — +while the bloomin' shop's open?"</p> + +<p>"No, Ernie. Ain't you going to kiss me? . . . I'm +satisfied."</p> + +<a name="Page-122"><a name="Two-S19"></a></a> + +<p>"Satisfied! Yer don't want the kid to be arst 'oo 'is father +was, do yer? Yer'd better come along with me some day this week +and git spliced. Yer don't want to go frettin' or any of that +funny business while it's on."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Ernie! do you really mean it?" — and she threw her +arms round his neck, and broke down at last.</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Two-S20"></a> + +<p>"So-long, Liz. No more funny business now — I've had +enough of it. Keep yer pecker up, old girl. To-morrer night, +mind." Then he added suddenly: "Yer might have known I ain't that +sort of a bloke" — and left abruptly.</p> + +<p>Liz was very happy.<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-123"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Smellingscheck">Mr. Smellingscheck</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Smellingscheck-S1"></a> + +<p>I met him in a sixpenny restaurant — "All meals, 6d. +— Good beds, 1s." That was before sixpenny restaurants +rose to a third-class position, and became possibly respectable +places to live in, through the establishment, beneath them, of +fourpenny hash-houses (good beds, 6d.), and, beneath <i>them</i> +again, of <i>three</i>-penny "dining-rooms — <i>clean</i> +beds, 4d."</p> + +<a name="Smellingscheck-S2"></a> + +<p>There were five beds in our apartment, the head of one against +the foot of the next, and so on round the room, with a space +where the door and washstand were. I chose the bed the head of +which was near the foot of his, because he looked like a man who +took his bath regularly. I should like, in the interests of +sentiment, to describe the place as a miserable, filthy, +evil-smelling garret; but I can't — because it wasn't. The +room was large and airy; the floor was scrubbed and the windows +cleaned at least once a week, and the beds kept fresh and neat, +which is more — a good deal more — than can be said +of many genteel private boarding-houses. The lodgers were mostly +respectable unemployed, and one or two — fortunate men! +— in work; it was the casual boozer, the professional +loafer, and the occasional spieler — the +one-shilling-bed-men — who made the place objectionable, +not the <a name="Page-124">hard-working people who paid ten +pounds a week for the house; and, but for the one-night lodgers +and the big gilt black-and-red bordered and "shaded" "6d." in the +window — which made me glance guiltily up and down the +street, like a burglar about to do a job, before I went in +— I was pretty comfortable there.</a></p> + +<a name="Smellingscheck-S3"></a> + +<p>They called him "Mr. Smellingscheck", and treated him with a +peculiar kind of deference, the reason for which they themselves +were doubtless unable to explain or even understand. The haggard +woman who made the beds called him "Mr. Smell-'is-check". Poor +fellow! I didn't think, by the look of him, that he'd smelt his +cheque, or anyone else's, or that anyone else had smelt his, for +many a long day. He was a fat man, slow and placid. He looked +like a typical monopolist who had unaccountably got into a suit +of clothes belonging to a Domain unemployed, and hadn't noticed, +or had entirely forgotten, the circumstance in his business cares +— if such a word as care could be connected with such a +calm, self-contained nature. He wore a suit of cheap slops of +some kind of shoddy "tweed". The coat was too small and the +trousers too short, and they were drawn up to meet the waistcoat +— which they did with painful difficulty, now and then +showing, by way of protest, two pairs of brass buttons and the +ends of the brace-straps; and they seemed to blame the +irresponsive waistcoat or the wearer for it all. Yet he never +gave way to assist them. A pair of burst elastic-sides were in +full evidence, and a rim of cloudy sock, with a hole in it, +showed at every step.</p> + +<a name="Page-125"><a name="Smellingscheck-S4"></a></a> + +<p>But he put on his clothes and wore them like — like a +gentleman. He had two white shirts, and they were both dirty. +He'd lay them out on the bed, turn them over, regard them +thoughtfully, choose that which appeared to his calm +understanding to be the cleaner, and put it on, and wear it until +it was unmistakably dirtier than the other; then he'd wear the +other till it was dirtier than the first. He managed his three +collars the same way. His handkerchiefs were washed in the +bathroom, and dried, without the slightest disguise, in the +bedroom. He never hurried in anything. The way he cleaned his +teeth, shaved, and made his toilet almost transformed the place, +in my imagination, into a gentleman's dressing-room.</p> + +<a name="Smellingscheck-S5"></a> + +<p>He talked politics and such things in the abstract — +always in the abstract — calmly in the abstract. He was an +old-fashioned Conservative of the Sir Leicester Deadlock style. +When he was moved by an extra shower of aggressive democratic +cant — which was seldom — he defended Capital, but +only as if it needed no defence, and as if its opponents were +merely thoughtless, ignorant children whom he condescended to set +right because of their inexperience and for their own good. He +stuck calmly to his own order — the order which had +dropped him like a foul thing when the bottom dropped out of his +boom, whatever that was. He never talked of his misfortunes.</p> + +<a name="Smellingscheck-S6"></a> + +<p>He took his meals at the little greasy table in the dark +corner downstairs, just as if he were dining at the Exchange. He +had a chop — rather well-done — and a sheet of the +<i>Herald</i> for breakfast. He carried <a name="Page-126">two +handkerchiefs; he used one for a handkerchief and the other for a +table-napkin, and sometimes folded it absently and laid it on the +table. He rose slowly, putting his chair back, took down his +battered old green hat, and regarded it thoughtfully — as +though it had just occurred to him in a calm, casual way that +he'd drop into his hatter's, if he had time, on his way down +town, and get it blocked, or else send the messenger round with +it during business hours. He'd draw his stick out from behind the +next chair, plant it, and, if you hadn't quite finished your side +of the conversation, stand politely waiting until you were done. +Then he'd look for a suitable reply into his hat, put it on, give +it a twitch to settle it on his head — as gentlemen do a +"chimney-pot" — step out into the gangway, turn his face +to the door, and walk slowly out on to the middle of the pavement +— looking more placidly well-to-do than ever. The saying +is that clothes make a man, but <i>he</i> made his almost +respectable just by wearing them. Then he'd consult his watch +— (he stuck to the watch all through, and it seemed a good +one — I often wondered why he didn't pawn it); then he'd +turn slowly, right turn, and look down the street. Then slowly +back, left-about turn, and take a cool survey in that direction, +as if calmly undecided whether to take a cab and drive to the +Exchange, or (as it was a very fine morning, and he had half an +hour to spare) walk there and drop in at his club on the way. +He'd conclude to walk. I never saw him go anywhere in particular, +but he walked and stood as if he could.</a></p> + +<a name="Smellingscheck-S7"></a> + +<p>Coming quietly into the room one day, I surprised <a name= +"Page-127">him sitting at the table with his arms lying on it and +his face resting on them. I heard something like a sob. He rose +hastily, and gathered up some papers which were on the table; +then he turned round, rubbing his forehead and eyes with his +forefinger and thumb, and told me that he suffered from — +something, I forget the name of it, but it was a well-to-do +ailment. His manner seemed a bit jolted and hurried for a minute +or so, and then he was himself again. He told me he was leaving +for Melbourne next day. He left while I was out, and left an +envelope downstairs for me. There was nothing in it except a +pound note.</a></p> + +<a name="Smellingscheck-S8"></a> + +<p>I saw him in Brisbane afterwards, well-dressed, getting out of +a cab at the entrance of one of the leading hotels. But his +manner was no more self-contained and well-to-do than it had been +in the old sixpenny days — because it couldn't be. We had +a well-to-do whisky together, and he talked of things in the +abstract. He seemed just as if he'd met me in the Australia.<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-128"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Rough">"A Rough Shed"</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Rough-S1"></a> + +<p>A hot, breathless, blinding sunrise — the sun having +appeared suddenly above the ragged edge of the barren scrub like +a great disc of molten steel. No hint of a morning breeze before +it, no sign on earth or sky to show that it is morning — +save the position of the sun.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S2"></a> + +<p>A clearing in the scrub — bare as though the surface of +the earth were ploughed and harrowed, and dusty as the road. Two +oblong huts — one for the shearers and one for the +rouseabouts — in about the centre of the clearing (as if +even the mongrel scrub had shrunk away from them) built +end-to-end, of weatherboards, and roofed with galvanised iron. +Little ventilation; no verandah; no attempt to create, +artificially, a breath of air through the buildings. Unpainted, +sordid — hideous. Outside, heaps of ashes still hot and +smoking. Close at hand, "butcher's shop" — a bush and bag +breakwind in the dust, under a couple of sheets of iron, with +offal, grease and clotted blood blackening the surface of the +ground about it. Greasy, stinking sheepskins hanging everywhere +with blood-blotched sides out. Grease inches deep in great black +patches about the fireplace ends of the huts, where wash-up and +"boiling" water is thrown.</p> + +<a name="Page-129"><a name="Rough-S3"></a></a> + +<p>Inside, a rough table on supports driven into the black, +greasy ground floor, and formed of flooring boards, running on +uneven lines the length of the hut from within about 6ft. of the +fire-place. Lengths of single six-inch boards or slabs on each +side, supported by the projecting ends of short pieces of timber +nailed across the legs of the table to serve as seats.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S4"></a> + +<p>On each side of the hut runs a rough framework, like the +partitions in a stable; each compartment battened off to about +the size of a manger, and containing four bunks, one above the +other, on each side — their ends, of course, to the table. +Scarcely breathing space anywhere between. Fireplace, the full +width of the hut in one end, where all the cooking and baking for +forty or fifty men is done, and where flour, sugar, etc., are +kept in open bags. Fire, like a very furnace. Buckets of tea and +coffee on roasting beds of coals and ashes on the hearth. Pile of +"brownie" on the bare black boards at the end of the table. +Unspeakable aroma of forty or fifty men who have little +inclination and less opportunity to wash their skins, and who +soak some of the grease out of their clothes — in buckets +of hot water — on Saturday afternoons or Sundays. And +clinging to all, and over all, the smell of the dried, stale yolk +of wool — the stink of rams!</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Rough-S5"></a> + +<p>"I am a rouseabout of the rouseabouts. I have fallen so far +that it is beneath me to try to climb to the proud position of +`ringer' of the shed. I had that ambition once, when I was the +softest of green hands; but then I thought I could work out <a +name="Page-130">my salvation and go home. I've got used to hell +since then. I only get twenty-five shillings a week (less <a +href="#Notes-S23">station</a> store charges) and <a href= +"#Notes-S26">tucker</a> here. I have been seven years west of the +Darling and never shore a sheep. Why don't I learn to shear, and +so make money? What should I do with more money? Get out of this +and go home? I would never go home unless I had enough money to +keep me for the rest of my life, and I'll never make that Out +Back. Otherwise, what should I do at home? And how should I +account for the seven years, if I were to go home? Could I +describe shed life to them and explain how I lived. They think +shearing only takes a few days of the year — at the +beginning of summer. They'd want to know how I lived the rest of +the year. Could I explain that I `jabbed trotters' and was a +`tea-and-sugar burglar' between sheds. They'd think I'd been a +tramp and a beggar all the time. Could I explain <i>anything</i> +so that they'd understand? I'd have to be lying all the time and +would soon be tripped up and found out. For, whatever else I have +been I was never much of a liar. No, I'll never go home.</a></p> + +<a name="Rough-S6"></a> + +<p>"I become momentarily conscious about daylight. The flies on +the track got me into that habit, I think; they start at +day-break — when the mosquitoes give over.</p> + +<p>"The cook rings a bullock bell.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S7"></a> + +<p>"The cook is fire-proof. He is as a fiend from the nethermost +sheol and needs to be. No man sees him sleep, for he makes bread +— or worse, brownie — at night, and he rings a +bullock bell loudly at half-past five in the morning to rouse us +from our animal <a name="Page-131">torpors. Others, the +sheep-ho's or the engine-drivers at the shed or wool-wash, call +him, if he does sleep. They manage it in shifts, somehow, and +sleep somewhere, sometime. We haven't time to know. The cook +rings the bullock bell and yells the time. It was the same time +five minutes ago — or a year ago. No time to decide which. +I dash water over my head and face and slap handfuls on my +eyelids — gummed over aching eyes — still blighted +by the yolk o' wool — grey, greasy-feeling water from a +cut-down kerosene tin which I sneaked from the cook and hid under +my bunk and had the foresight to refill from the cask last night, +under cover of warm, still, suffocating darkness. Or was it the +night before last? Anyhow, it will be sneaked from me to-day, and +from the crawler who will collar it to-morrow, and `touched' and +`lifted' and `collared' and recovered by the cook, and sneaked +back again, and cause foul language, and fights, maybe, till we +`cut-out'.</a></p> + +<a name="Rough-S8"></a> + +<p>"No; we didn't have sweet dreams of home and mother, gentle +poet — nor yet of babbling brooks and sweethearts, and +love's young dream. We are too dirty and dog-tired when we tumble +down, and have too little time to sleep it off. We don't want to +dream those dreams out here — they'd only be nightmares +for us, and we'd wake to remember. We <i>mustn't</i> remember +here.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S9"></a> + +<p>"At the edge of the timber a great galvanised-iron shed, +nearly all roof, coming down to within 6ft. 6in. of the `board' +over the `shoots'. Cloud of red dust in the dead timber behind, +going up — noon-day dust. Fence covered with skins; +carcases being burned; <a name="Page-132">blue smoke going +straight up as in noonday. Great glossy (greasy-glossy) black +crows `flopping' around.</a></p> + +<a name="Rough-S10"></a> + +<p>"The first syren has gone. We hurry in single files from +opposite ends of rouseabouts' and shearers' huts (as the paths +happen to run to the shed) gulping hot tea or coffee from a +pint-pot in one hand and biting at a junk of brownie in the +other.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S11"></a> + +<p>"Shed of forty hands. Shearers rush the pens and yank out +sheep and throw them like demons; grip them with their knees, +take up machines, jerk the strings; and with a rattling whirring +roar the great machine-shed starts for the day.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S12"></a> + +<p>"`Go it, you —— tigers!' yells a tar-boy. `Wool +away!' `Tar!' `Sheep Ho!' We rush through with a whirring roar +till breakfast time.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S13"></a> + +<p>"We seize our tin plate from the pile, knife and fork from the +candle-box, and crowd round the camp-oven to jab out lean chops, +dry as chips, boiled in fat. Chops or curry-and-rice. There is +some growling and cursing. We slip into our places without +removing our hats. There's no time to hunt for mislaid hats when +the whistle goes. Row of hat brims, level, drawn over eyes, or +thrust back — according to characters or temperaments. +Thrust back denotes a lucky absence of brains, I fancy. Row of +forks going up, or jabbing, or poised, loaded, waiting for last +mouthful to be bolted.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S14"></a> + +<p>"We pick up, sweep, tar, sew wounds, catch sheep that break +from the pens, jump down and pick up those that can't rise at the +bottom of the shoots, `bring-my-combs-from-the-grinder-will-yer,' +laugh at dirty jokes, and swear — and, in short, are the +`will-<a name="Page-133">yer' slaves, body and soul, of seven, +six, five, or four shearers, according to the distance from the +rolling tables.</a></p> + +<a name="Rough-S15"></a> + +<p>"The shearer on the board at the shed is a demon. He gets so +much a hundred; we, 25s. a week. He is not supposed, by the rules +of the shed, the Union, and humanity, to take a sheep out of the +pen <i>after</i> the bell goes (smoke-ho, meals, or knock-off), +but his watch is hanging on the post, and he times himself to get +so many sheep out of the pen <i>before</i> the bell goes, and +<i>one more</i> — the `bell-sheep' — as it is +ringing. We have to take the last fleece to the table and leave +our board clean. We go through the day of eight hours in runs of +about an hour and 20 minutes between smoke-ho's — from 6 +to 6. If the shearers shore 200 instead of 100, they'd get +£2 a day instead of £1, and we'd have twice as much +work to do for our 25s. per week. But the shearers are racing +each other for tallies. And it's no use kicking. There is no God +here and no Unionism (though we all have tickets). But what am I +growling about? I've worked from 6 to 6 with no smoke-ho's for +half the wages, and food we wouldn't give the sheep-ho dog. It's +the bush growl, born of heat, flies, and dust. I'd growl now if I +had a thousand a year. We <i>must</i> growl, swear, and some of +us drink to d.t.'s, or go mad sober.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S16"></a> + +<p>"Pants and shirts stiff with grease as though a couple of +pounds of soft black putty were spread on with a painter's +knife.</p> + +<p>"No, gentle bard! — we don't sing at our work. Over the +whirr and roar and hum all day long, and <a name="Page-134">with +iteration that is childish and irritating to the intelligent +greenhand, float unthinkable adjectives and adverbs, addressed to +<a href="#Notes-S11">jumbucks</a>, <a href= +"#Notes-S10">jackaroos</a>, and mates indiscriminately. And worse +words for the boss over the board — behind his +back.</a></p> + +<a name="Rough-S17"></a> + +<p>"I came of a Good Christian Family — perhaps that's why +I went to the Devil. When I came out here I'd shrink from the man +who used foul language. In a short time I used it with the worst. +I couldn't help it.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S18"></a> + +<p>"That's the way of it. If I went back to a woman's country +again I wouldn't swear. I'd forget this as I would a nightmare. +That's the way of it. There's something of the <a href= +"#Notes-S12">larrikin</a> about us. We don't exist individually. +Off the board, away from the shed (and each other) we are quiet +— even gentle.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S19"></a> + +<p>"A great-horned ram, in poor condition, but shorn of a heavy +fleece, picks himself up at the foot of the `shoot', and +hesitates, as if ashamed to go down to the other end where the +ewes are. The most ridiculous object under Heaven.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S20"></a> + +<p>"A tar-boy of fifteen, of the bush, with a mouth so vile that +a street-boy, same age (up with a shearing uncle), kicks him +behind — having proved his superiority with his fists +before the shed started. Of which unspeakable little fiend the +roughest shearer of a rough shed was heard to say, in effect, +that if he thought there was the slightest possibility of his +becoming the father of such a boy he'd —— take +drastic measures to prevent the possibility of his becoming a +proud parent at all.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S21"></a> + +<p>"Twice a day the cooks and their familiars carry <a name= +"Page-135">buckets of oatmeal-water and tea to the shed, two each +on a yoke. We cry, `Where are you coming to, my pretty +maids?'</a></p> + +<a name="Rough-S22"></a> + +<p>"In ten minutes the surfaces of the buckets are black with +flies. We have given over trying to keep them clear. We stir the +living cream aside with the bottoms of the pints, and guzzle +gallons, and sweat it out again. Occasionally a shearer pauses +and throws the perspiration from his forehead in a rain.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S23"></a> + +<p>"Shearers live in such a greedy rush of excitement that often +a strong man will, at a prick of the shears, fall in a death-like +faint on the board.</p> + +<p>"We hate the Boss-of-the-Board as the shearers' `slushy' hates +the shearers' cook. I don't know why. He's a very fair boss.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S24"></a> + +<p>"He refused to put on a traveller yesterday, and the traveller +knocked him down. He walked into the shed this morning with his +hat back and thumbs in waistcoat — a tribute to man's +weakness. He threatened to dismiss the traveller's mate, a bigger +man, for rough shearing — a tribute to man's strength. The +shearer said nothing. We hate the boss because he <i>is</i> boss, +but we respect him because he is a strong man. He is as hard up +as any of us, I hear, and has a sick wife and a large, small +family in Melbourne. God judge us all!</p> + +<a name="Rough-S25"></a> + +<p>"There is a gambling-school here, headed by the shearers' +cook. After <a href="#Notes-S25">tea</a> they head-'em, and +advance cheques are passed from hand to hand, and thrown in the +dust until they are black. When it's too dark to see with nose to +the ground, they go inside and gamble with cards. Sometimes they +start on Saturday after<a name="Page-136">noon, heading 'em till +dark, play cards all night, start again heading 'em Sunday +afternoon, play cards all Sunday night, and sleep themselves sane +on Monday, or go to work ghastly — like dead men.</a></p> + +<a name="Rough-S26"></a> + +<p>"Cry of `Fight'; we all rush out. But there isn't much +fighting. Afraid of murdering each other. I'm beginning to think +that most bush crime is due to irritation born of dust, heat, and +flies.</p> + +<p>"The smothering atmosphere shudders when the sun goes down. We +call it the sunset breeze.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S27"></a> + +<p>"Saturday night or Sunday we're invited into the shearers' +hut. There are songs that are not hymns and recitations and +speeches that are not prayers.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S28"></a> + +<p>"Last Sunday night: Slush lamps at long intervals on table. +Men playing cards, sewing on patches — (nearly all +smoking) — some writing, and the rest reading Deadwood +Dick. At one end of the table a Christian Endeavourer +endeavouring; at the other a cockney Jew, from the hawker's boat, +trying to sell rotten clothes. In response to complaints, direct +and not chosen generally for Sunday, the shearers' rep. requests +both apostles to shut up or leave.</p> + +<a name="Rough-S29"></a> + +<p>"He couldn't be expected to take the Christian and leave the +Jew, any more than he could take the Jew and leave the Christian. +We are just amongst ourselves in our hell.</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Rough-S30"></a> + +<p>"Fiddle at the end of rouseabouts' hut. Voice of Jackeroo, +from upper bunk with apologetic oaths: `For God's sake chuck that +up; it makes a man think of blanky old things!'</p> + +<p>"A lost soul laughs (mine) and dreadful night smothers +us."<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-137"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Payable">Payable Gold</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Payable-S1"></a> + +<p>Among the crowds who left the Victorian side for New South +Wales about the time Gulgong broke out was an old Ballarat <a +href="#Notes-S6a">digger</a> named Peter McKenzie. He had married +and retired from the mining some years previously and had made a +home for himself and family at the village of St. Kilda, near +Melbourne; but, as was often the case with old diggers, the gold +fever never left him, and when the fields of New South Wales +began to blaze he mortgaged his little property in order to raise +funds for another campaign, leaving sufficient behind him to keep +his wife and family in comfort for a year or so.</p> + +<a name="Payable-S2"></a> + +<p>As he often remarked, his position was now very different from +what it had been in the old days when he first arrived from +Scotland, in the height of the excitement following on the great +discovery. He was a young man then with only himself to look out +for, but now that he was getting old and had a family to provide +for he had staked too much on this venture to lose. His position +did certainly look like a forlorn hope, but he never seemed to +think so.</p> + +<a name="Payable-S3"></a> + +<p>Peter must have been very lonely and low-spirited at times. A +young or unmarried man can form new ties, and even make new +sweethearts if necessary, but <a name="Page-138">Peter's heart +was with his wife and little ones at home, and they were +mortgaged, as it were, to Dame Fortune. Peter had to lift this +mortgage off.</a></p> + +<a name="Payable-S4"></a> + +<p>Nevertheless he was always cheerful, even at the worst of +times, and his straight grey beard and scrubby brown hair +encircled a smile which appeared to be a fixture. He had to make +an effort in order to look grave, such as some men do when they +want to force a smile.</p> + +<a name="Payable-S5"></a> + +<p>It was rumoured that Peter had made a vow never to return home +until he could take sufficient wealth to make his all-important +family comfortable, or, at least, to raise the mortgage from the +property, for the sacrifice of which to his mad gold fever he +never forgave himself. But this was one of the few things which +Peter kept to himself.</p> + +<a name="Payable-S6"></a> + +<p>The fact that he had a wife and children at St. Kilda was well +known to all the diggers. They had to know it, and if they did +not know the age, complexion, history and peculiarities of every +child and of the "old woman" it was not Peter's fault.</p> + +<a name="Payable-S7"></a> + +<p>He would cross over to our place and talk to the mother for +hours about his wife and children. And nothing pleased him better +than to discover peculiarities in us children wherein we +resembled his own. It pleased us also for mercenary reasons. +"It's just the same with my old woman," or "It's just the same +with my youngsters," Peter would exclaim boisterously, for he +looked upon any little similarity between the two families as a +remarkable coincidence. He liked us all, and was always very kind +to us, often standing between our backs and the rod that spoils +<a name="Page-139">the child — that is, I mean, if it +isn't used. I was very short-tempered, but this failing was more +than condoned by the fact that Peter's "eldest" was given that +way also. Mother's second son was very good-natured; so was +Peter's third. Her "third" had a great aversion for any duty that +threatened to increase his muscles; so had Peter's "second". Our +baby was very fat and heavy and was given to sucking her own +thumb vigorously, and, according to the latest bulletins from +home, it was just the same with Peter's "last".</a></p> + +<a name="Payable-S8"></a> + +<p>I think we knew more about Peter's family than we did about +our own. Although we had never seen them, we were as familiar +with their features as the photographer's art could make us, and +always knew their domestic history up to the date of the last +mail.</p> + +<a name="Payable-S9"></a> + +<p>We became interested in the McKenzie family. Instead of +getting bored by them as some people were, we were always as much +pleased when Peter got a letter from home as he was himself, and +if a mail were missed, which seldom happened — we almost +shared his disappointment and anxiety. Should one of the +youngsters be ill, we would be quite uneasy, on Peter's account, +until the arrival of a later bulletin removed his anxiety, and +ours.</p> + +<a name="Payable-S10"></a> + +<p>It must have been the glorious power of a big true heart that +gained for Peter the goodwill and sympathy of all who knew +him.</p> + +<p>Peter's smile had a peculiar fascination for us children. We +would stand by his pointing forge when he'd be sharpening picks +in the early morning, and watch his face for five minutes at a +time, wondering sometimes whether he was always <i>smiling +inside</i>, <a name="Page-140">or whether the smile went on +externally irrespective of any variation in Peter's condition of +mind.</a></p> + +<a name="Payable-S11"></a> + +<p>I think it was the latter case, for often when he had received +bad news from home we have heard his voice quaver with anxiety, +while the old smile played on his round, brown features just the +same.</p> + +<p>Little Nelse (one of those queer old-man children who seem to +come into the world by mistake, and who seldom stay long) used to +say that Peter "cried inside".</p> + +<a name="Payable-S12"></a> + +<p>Once, on Gulgong, when he attended the funeral of an old +Ballarat mate, a stranger who had been watching his face +curiously remarked that McKenzie seemed as pleased as though the +dead digger had bequeathed him a fortune. But the stranger had +soon reason to alter his opinion, for when another old mate began +in a tremulous voice to repeat the words "Ashes to ashes, an' +dust to dust," two big tears suddenly burst from Peter's eyes, +and hurried down to get entrapped in his beard.</p> + +<a name="Payable-S13"></a> + +<p>Peter's goldmining ventures were not successful. He sank three +duffers in succession on Gulgong, and the fourth shaft, after +paying expenses, left a little over a hundred to each party, and +Peter had to send the bulk of his share home. He lived in a tent +(or in a hut when he could get one) after the manner of diggers, +and he "did for himself", even to washing his own clothes. He +never drank nor "played", and he took little enjoyment of any +kind, yet there was not a digger on the field who would dream of +calling old Peter McKenzie "a mean man". He lived, as we know +from our own observations, in a most frugal <a name= +"Page-141">manner. He always tried to hide this, and took care to +have plenty of good things for us when he invited us to his hut; +but children's eyes are sharp. Some said that Peter half-starved +himself, but I don't think his family ever knew, unless he told +them so afterwards.</a></p> + +<a name="Payable-S14"></a> + +<p>Ah, well! the years go over. Peter was now three years from +home, and he and Fortune were enemies still. Letters came by the +mail, full of little home troubles and prayers for Peter's +return, and letters went back by the mail, always hopeful, always +cheerful. Peter never gave up. When everything else failed he +would work by the day (a sad thing for a digger), and he was even +known to do a job of fencing until such time as he could get a +few pounds and a small party together to sink another shaft.</p> + +<a name="Payable-S15"></a> + +<p>Talk about the heroic struggles of early explorers in a +hostile country; but for dogged determination and courage in the +face of poverty, illness, and distance, commend me to the +old-time digger — the truest soldier Hope ever had!</p> + +<a name="Payable-S16"></a> + +<p>In the fourth year of his struggle Peter met with a terrible +disappointment. His party put down a shaft called the Forlorn +Hope near Happy Valley, and after a few weeks' fruitless driving +his mates jibbed on it. Peter had his own opinion about the +ground — an old digger's opinion, and he used every +argument in his power to induce his mates to put a few days' more +work in the claim. In vain he pointed out that the quality of the +wash and the dip of the bottom exactly resembled that of the +"Brown Snake", a rich Victorian claim. In vain he argued that in +the case of the <a name="Page-142">abovementioned claim, not a +colour could be got until the payable gold was actually reached. +Home Rule and The Canadian and that cluster of fields were going +ahead, and his party were eager to shift. They remained +obstinate, and at last, half-convinced against his opinion, Peter +left with them to sink the "Iawatha", in Log Paddock, which +turned out a rank duffer — not even paying its own +expenses.</a></p> + +<a name="Payable-S17"></a> + +<p>A party of Italians entered the old claim and, after driving +it a few feet further, made their fortune.</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Payable-S18"></a> + +<p>We all noticed the change in Peter McKenzie when he came to +"Log Paddock", whither we had shifted before him. The old smile +still flickered, but he had learned to "look" grave for an hour +at a time without much effort. He was never quite the same after +the affair of Forlorn Hope, and I often think how he must have +"cried" sometimes "inside".</p> + +<a name="Payable-S19"></a> + +<p>However, he still read us letters from home, and came and +smoked in the evening by our kitchen-fire. He showed us some new +portraits of his family which he had received by a late mail, but +something gave me the impression that the portraits made him +uneasy. He had them in his possession for nearly a week before +showing them to us, and to the best of our knowledge he never +showed them to anybody else. Perhaps they reminded him of the +flight of time — perhaps he would have preferred his +children to remain just as he left them until he returned.</p> + +<a name="Payable-S20"></a> + +<p>But stay! there was one portrait that seemed to give Peter +infinite pleasure. It was the picture of a chubby infant of about +three years or more. It was <a name="Page-143">a fine-looking +child taken in a sitting position on a cushion, and arrayed in a +very short shirt. On its fat, soft, white face, which was only a +few inches above the ten very podgy toes, was a smile something +like Peter's. Peter was never tired of looking at and showing the +picture of his child — the child he had never seen. +Perhaps he cherished a wild dream of making his fortune and +returning home before <i>that</i> child grew up.</a></p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Payable-S21"></a> + +<p>McKenzie and party were sinking a shaft at the upper end of +Log Paddock, generally called "The other end". We were at the +lower end.</p> + +<p>One day Peter came down from "the other end" and told us that +his party expected to "bottom" during the following week, and if +they got no encouragement from the wash they intended to go +prospecting at the "Happy Thought", near Specimen Flat.</p> + +<a name="Payable-S22"></a> + +<p>The shaft in Log Paddock was christened "Nil Desperandum". +Towards the end of the week we heard that the wash in the "Nil" +was showing good colours.</p> + +<p>Later came the news that "McKenzie and party" had bottomed on +payable gold, and the red flag floated over the shaft. Long +before the first load of dirt reached the puddling machine on the +creek, the news was all round the diggings. The "Nil Desperandum" +was a "Golden Hole"!</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="Payable-S23"></a> + +<p>We will not forget the day when Peter went home. He hurried +down in the morning to have an hour or <a name="Page-144">so with +us before Cobb and Co. went by. He told us all about his little +cottage by the bay at St. Kilda. He had never spoken of it +before, probably because of the mortgage. He told us how it faced +the bay — how many rooms it had, how much flower garden, +and how on a clear day he could see from the window all the ships +that came up to the Yarra, and how with a good telescope he could +even distinguish the faces of the passengers on the big ocean +liners.</a></p> + +<a name="Payable-S24"></a> + +<p>And then, when the mother's back was turned, he hustled us +children round the corner, and surreptitiously slipped a +sovereign into each of our dirty hands, making great pantomimic +show for silence, for the mother was very independent.</p> + +<p>And when we saw the last of Peter's face setting like a +good-humoured sun on the top of Cobb and Co.'s, a great feeling +of discontent and loneliness came over all our hearts. Little +Nelse, who had been Peter's favourite, went round behind the +pig-stye, where none might disturb him, and sat down on the +projecting end of a trough to "have a cry", in his usual +methodical manner. But old "Alligator Desolation", the dog, had +suspicions of what was up, and, hearing the sobs, went round to +offer whatever consolation appertained to a damp and dirty nose +and a pair of ludicrously doleful yellow eyes.<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-145"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Oversight">An Oversight of Steelman's</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="Oversight-S1"></a> + +<p>Steelman and Smith — professional wanderers — +were making back for Wellington, down through the wide and rather +dreary-looking Hutt Valley. They were broke. They carried their +few remaining belongings in two skimpy, amateurish-looking swags. +Steelman had fourpence left. They were very tired and very +thirsty — at least Steelman was, and he answered for both. +It was Smith's policy to feel and think just exactly as Steelman +did. Said Steelman:</p> + +<a name="Oversight-S2"></a> + +<p>"The landlord of the next <a href="#Notes-S15">pub.</a> is not +a bad sort. I won't go in — he might remember me. You'd +best go in. You've been tramping round in the Wairarapa district +for the last six months, looking for work. You're going back to +Wellington now, to try and get on the new corporation works just +being started there — the sewage works. You think you've +got a show. You've got some mates in Wellington, and they're +looking out for a chance for you. You did get a job last week on +a sawmill at Silverstream, and the boss sacked you after three +days and wouldn't pay you a penny. That's just his way. I know +him — at least a mate of mine does. I've heard of him +often enough. His name's Cowman. Don't forget the name, whatever +you do. The landlord here hates him like <a name= +"Page-146">poison; he'll sympathize with you. Tell him you've got +a mate with you; he's gone ahead — took a short cut across +the paddocks. Tell him you've got only fourpence left, and see if +he'll give you a drop in a bottle. Says you: `Well, boss, the +fact is we've only got fourpence, but you might let us have a +drop in a bottle'; and very likely he'll stand you a couple of +pints in a gin-bottle. You can fling the coppers on the counter, +but the chances are he won't take them. He's not a bad sort. +Beer's fourpence a pint out here, same's in Wellington. See that +gin-bottle lying there by the stump; get it and we'll take it +down to the river with us and rinse it out."</a></p> + +<a name="Oversight-S3"></a> + +<p>They reached the river bank.</p> + +<p>"You'd better take my swag — it looks more decent," +said Steelman. "No, I'll tell you what we'll do: we'll undo both +swags and make them into one — one decent swag, and I'll +cut round through the lanes and wait for you on the road ahead of +the pub."</p> + +<p>He rolled up the swag with much care and deliberation and +considerable judgment. He fastened Smith's belt round one end of +it, and the handkerchiefs round the other, and made a towel serve +as a shoulder-strap.</p> + +<a name="Oversight-S4"></a> + +<p>"I wish we had a canvas bag to put it in," he said, "or a +cover of some sort. But never mind. The landlord's an old +Australian bushman, now I come to think of it; the swag looks +Australian enough, and it might appeal to his feelings, you know +— bring up old recollections. But you'd best not say you +come from Australia, because he's been there, and he'd soon trip +you up. He might have been where you've <a name="Page-147">been, +you know, so don't try to do too much. You always do mug-up the +business when you try to do more than I tell you. You might tell +him your mate came from Australia — but no, he might want +you to bring me in. Better stick to Maoriland. I don't believe in +too much ornamentation. Plain lies are the best."</a></p> + +<a name="Oversight-S5"></a> + +<p>"What's the landlord's name?" asked Smith.</p> + +<p>"Never mind that. You don't want to know that. You are not +supposed to know him at all. It might look suspicious if you +called him by his name, and lead to awkward questions; then you'd +be sure to put your foot into it."</p> + +<p>"I could say I read it over the door."</p> + +<a name="Oversight-S6"></a> + +<p>"Bosh. Travellers don't read the names over the doors, when +they go into pubs. You're an entire stranger to him. Call him +`Boss'. Say `Good-day, Boss,' when you go in, and swing down your +swag as if you're used to it. Ease it down like this. Then +straighten yourself up, stick your hat back, and wipe your +forehead, and try to look as hearty and independent and cheerful +as you possibly can. Curse the Government, and say the country's +done. It don't matter what Government it is, for he's always +against it. I never knew a real Australian that wasn't. Say that +you're thinking about trying to get over to Australia, and then +listen to him talking about it — and try to look +interested, too! Get that damned stone-deaf expression off your +face! . . . He'll run Australia down most likely (I never knew an +Other-sider that had settled down over here who didn't). But +don't you make any mistake and agree with him, <a name= +"Page-148">because, although successful Australians over here +like to run their own country down, there's very few of them that +care to hear anybody else do it. . . . Don't come away as soon as +you get your beer. Stay and listen to him for a while, as if +you're interested in his yarning, and give him time to put you on +to a job, or offer you one. Give him a chance to ask how you and +your mate are off for tobacco or <a href="#Notes-S26">tucker</a>. +Like as not he'll sling you half a crown when you come away +— that is, if you work it all right. Now try to think of +something to say to him, and make yourself a bit interesting +— if you possibly can. Tell him about the fight we saw +back at the pub. the other day. He might know some of the chaps. +This is a sleepy hole, and there ain't much news knocking round. +. . . I wish I could go in myself, but he's sure to remember +<i>me</i>. I'm afraid he got left the last time I stayed there +(so did one or two others); and, besides, I came away without +saying good-bye to him, and he might feel a bit sore about it. +That's the worst of travelling on the old road. Come on now, wake +up!"</a></p> + +<a name="Oversight-S7"></a> + +<p>"Bet I'll get a quart," said Smith, brightening up, "and some +tucker for it to wash down."</p> + +<p>"If you don't," said Steelman, "I'll <a href= +"#Notes-S24">stoush</a> you. Never mind the bottle; fling it +away. It doesn't look well for a traveller to go into a pub. with +an empty bottle in his hand. A real swagman never does. It looks +much better to come out with a couple of full ones. That's what +you've got to do. Now, come along."</p> + +<p>Steelman turned off into a lane, cut across the <a name= +"Page-149">paddocks to the road again, and waited for Smith. He +hadn't long to wait.</a></p> + +<a name="Oversight-S8"></a> + +<p>Smith went on towards the public-house, rehearsing his part as +he walked — repeating his "lines" to himself, so as to be +sure of remembering all that Steelman had told him to say to the +landlord, and adding, with what he considered appropriate +gestures, some fancy touches of his own, which he determined to +throw in in spite of Steelman's advice and warning. "I'll tell +him (this) — I'll tell him (that). Well, look here, boss, +I'll say you're pretty right and I quite agree with you as far as +that's concerned, but," &c. And so, murmuring and mumbling to +himself, Smith reached the hotel. The day was late, and the bar +was small, and low, and dark. Smith walked in with all the +assurance he could muster, eased down his swag in a corner in +what he no doubt considered the true professional style, and, +swinging round to the bar, said in a loud voice which he intended +to be cheerful, independent, and hearty:</p> + +<p>"Good-day, boss!"</p> + +<a name="Oversight-S9"></a> + +<p>But it wasn't a "boss". It was about the hardest-faced old +woman that Smith had ever seen. The pub. had changed hands.</p> + +<p>"I — I beg your pardon, missus," stammered poor +Smith.</p> + +<p>It was a knock-down blow for Smith. He couldn't come to time. +He and Steelman had had a landlord in their minds all the time, +and laid their plans accordingly; the possibility of having a she +— and one like this — to deal with never entered +into their calculations. Smith had no time to reorganise, even <a +name="Page-150">if he had had the brains to do so, without the +assistance of his mate's knowledge of human nature.</a></p> + +<a name="Oversight-S10"></a> + +<p>"I — I beg your pardon, missus," he stammered.</p> + +<p>Painful pause. She sized him up.</p> + +<p>"Well, what do you want?"</p> + +<p>"Well, missus — I — the fact is — will +you give me a bottle of beer for fourpence?"</p> + +<p>"Wha—what?"</p> + +<a name="Oversight-S11"></a> + +<p>"I mean ——. The fact is, we've only got +fourpence left, and — I've got a mate outside, and you +might let us have a quart or so, in a bottle, for that. I mean +— anyway, you might let us have a pint. I'm very sorry to +bother you, missus."</p> + +<p>But she couldn't do it. No. Certainly not. Decidedly not! All +her drinks were sixpence. She had her license to pay, and the +rent, and a family to keep. It wouldn't pay out there — it +wasn't worth her while. It wouldn't pay the cost of carting the +liquor out, &c., &c.</p> + +<a name="Oversight-S12"></a> + +<p>"Well, missus," poor Smith blurted out at last, in sheer +desperation, "give me what you can in a bottle for this. I've +— I've got a mate outside." And he put the four coppers on +the bar.</p> + +<p>"Have you got a bottle?"</p> + +<p>"No — but ——"</p> + +<p>"If I give you one, will you bring it back? You can't expect +me to give you a bottle as well as a drink."</p> + +<p>"Yes, mum; I'll bring it back directly."</p> + +<p>She reached out a bottle from under the bar, and very +deliberately measured out a little over a pint and poured it into +the bottle, which she handed to Smith without a cork.</p> + +<a name="Page-151"><a name="Oversight-S13"></a></a> + +<p>Smith went his way without rejoicing. It struck him forcibly +that he should have saved the money until they reached Petone, or +the city, where Steelman would be sure to get a decent drink. But +how was he to know? He had chanced it, and lost; Steelman might +have done the same. What troubled Smith most was the thought of +what Steelman would say; he already heard him, in imagination, +saying: "You're a mug, Smith — Smith, you <i>are</i> a +mug."</p> + +<a name="Oversight-S14"></a> + +<p>But Steelman didn't say much. He was prepared for the worst by +seeing Smith come along so soon. He listened to his story with an +air of gentle sadness, even as a stern father might listen to the +voluntary confession of a wayward child; then he held the bottle +up to the fading light of departing day, looked through it (the +bottle), and said:</p> + +<p>"Well — it ain't worth while dividing it."</p> + +<a name="Oversight-S15"></a> + +<p>Smith's heart shot right down through a hole in the sole of +his left boot into the hard road.</p> + +<p>"Here, Smith," said Steelman, handing him the bottle, "drink +it, old man; you want it. It wasn't altogether your fault; it was +an oversight of mine. I didn't bargain for a woman of that kind, +and, of course, <i>you</i> couldn't be expected to think of it. +Drink it! Drink it down, Smith. I'll manage to work the oracle +before this night is out."</p> + +<p>Smith was forced to believe his ears, and, recovering from his +surprise, drank.</p> + +<a name="Oversight-S16"></a> + +<p>"I promised to take back the bottle," he said, with the ghost +of a smile.</p> + +<a name="Page-152"></a> + +<p>Steelman took the bottle by the neck and broke it on the +fence.</p> + +<p>"Come on, Smith; I'll carry the swag for a while."</p> + +<p>And they tramped on in the gathering starlight.<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<a name="Page-153"></a> + +<center> +<h2><a name="How">How Steelman told his Story</a></h2> +</center> + +<a name="How-S1"></a> + +<p>It was Steelman's humour, in some of his moods, to take Smith +into his confidence, as some old bushmen do their dogs.</p> + +<p>"You're nearly as good as an intelligent sheep-dog to talk to, +Smith — when a man gets tired of thinking to himself and +wants a relief. You're a bit of a mug and a good deal of an +idiot, and the chances are that you don't know what I'm driving +at half the time — that's the main reason why I don't mind +talking to you. You ought to consider yourself honoured; it ain't +every man I take into my confidence, even that far."</p> + +<p>Smith rubbed his head.</p> + +<a name="How-S2"></a> + +<p>"I'd sooner talk to you — or a stump — any day +than to one of those silent, suspicious, self-contained, +worldly-wise chaps that listen to everything you say — +sense and rubbish alike — as if you were trying to get +them to take shares in a mine. I drop the man who listens to me +all the time and doesn't seem to get bored. He isn't safe. He +isn't to be trusted. He mostly wants to grind his axe against +yours, and there's too little profit for me where there are two +axes to grind, and no stone — though I'd manage it once, +anyhow."</p> + +<a name="Page-154"></a> + +<p>"How'd you do it?" asked Smith.</p> + +<a name="How-S3"></a> + +<p>"There are several ways. Either you join forces, for instance, +and find a grindstone — or make one of the other man's +axe. But the last way is too slow, and, as I said, takes too much +brain-work — besides, it doesn't pay. It might satisfy +your vanity or pride, but I've got none. I had once, when I was +younger, but it — well, it nearly killed me, so I dropped +it.</p> + +<p>"You can mostly trust the man who wants to talk more than you +do; he'll make a safe mate — or a good grindstone."</p> + +<a name="How-S4"></a> + +<p>Smith scratched the nape of his neck and sat blinking at the +fire, with the puzzled expression of a woman pondering over a +life-question or the trimming of a hat. Steelman took his chin in +his hand and watched Smith thoughtfully.</p> + +<a name="How-S5"></a> + +<p>"I — I say, Steely," exclaimed Smith, suddenly, sitting +up and scratching his head and blinking harder than ever — +"wha—what am I?"</p> + +<p>"How do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Am I the axe or the grindstone?"</p> + +<a name="How-S6"></a> + +<p>"Oh! your brain seems in extra good working order to-night, +Smith. Well, you turn the grindstone and I grind." Smith settled. +"If you could grind better than I, I'd turn the stone and let +<i>you</i> grind, I'd never go against the interests of the firm +— that's fair enough, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Ye-es," admitted Smith; "I suppose so."</p> + +<p>"So do I. Now, Smith, we've got along all right together for +years, off and on, but you never know what might happen. I might +stop breathing, for instance — and so might you."</p> + +<a name="Page-155"></a> + +<p>Smith began to look alarmed.</p> + +<a name="How-S7"></a> + +<p>"Poetical justice might overtake one or both of us — +such things have happened before, though not often. Or, say, +misfortune or death might mistake us for honest, hard-working +mugs with big families to keep, and cut us off in the bloom of +all our wisdom. You might get into trouble, and, in that case, +I'd be bound to leave you there, on principle; or I might get +into trouble, and you wouldn't have the brains to get me out +— though I know you'd be mug enough to try. I might make a +rise and cut you, or you might be misled into showing some +spirit, and clear out after I'd <a href="#Notes-S24">stoushed</a> +you for it. You might get tired of me calling you a mug, and +bossing you and making a tool or convenience of you, you know. +You might go in for honest <a href="#Notes-S8">graft</a> (you +were always a bit weak-minded) and then I'd have to wash my hands +of you (unless you agreed to keep me) for an irreclaimable mug. +Or it might suit me to become a respected and worthy fellow +townsman, and then, if you came within ten miles of me or hinted +that you ever knew me, I'd have you up for vagrancy, or +soliciting alms, or attempting to levy blackmail. I'd have to fix +you — so I give you fair warning. Or we might get into +some desperate fix (and it needn't be very desperate, either) +when I'd be obliged to sacrifice you for my own personal safety, +comfort, and convenience. Hundreds of things might happen.</p> + +<a name="How-S8"></a> + +<p>"Well, as I said, we've been at large together for some years, +and I've found you sober, trustworthy, and honest; so, in case we +do part — as we will sooner or later — and you +survive, I'll give you some advice from my own experience.</p> + +<a name="Page-156"><a name="How-S9"></a></a> + +<p>"In the first place: If you ever happen to get born again +— and it wouldn't do you much harm — get born with +the strength of a bullock and the hide of one as well, and a +swelled head, and no brains — at least no more brains than +you've got now. I was born with a skin like tissue-paper, and +brains; also a heart.</p> + +<a name="How-S10"></a> + +<p>"Get born without relatives, if you can: if you can't help it, +clear out on your own just as soon after you're born as you +possibly can. I hung on.</p> + +<a name="How-S11"></a> + +<p>"If you have relations, and feel inclined to help them any +time when you're flush (and there's no telling what a weak-minded +man like you might take it into his head to do) — don't do +it. They'll get a down on you if you do. It only causes family +troubles and bitterness. There's no dislike like that of a +dependant. You'll get neither gratitude nor civility in the end, +and be lucky if you escape with a character. (You've got +<i>no</i> character, Smith; I'm only just supposing you have.) +There's no hatred too bitter for, and nothing too bad to be said +of, the mug who turns. The worst yarns about a man are generally +started by his own tribe, and the world believes them at once on +that very account. Well, the first thing to do in life is to +escape from your friends.</p> + +<a name="How-S12"></a> + +<p>"If you ever go to work — and miracles have happened +before — no matter what your wages are, or how you are +treated, you can take it for granted that you're sweated; act on +that to the best of your ability, or you'll never rise in the +world. If you go to see a show on the nod you'll be found a +comfortable seat in a good place; but if you pay the chances are +the ticket clerk will tell you a lie, and you'll have <a name= +"Page-157">to hustle for standing room. The man that doesn't ante +gets the best of this world; anything he'll stand is good enough +for the man that pays. If you try to be too sharp you'll get into +gaol sooner or later; if you try to be too honest the chances are +that the bailiff will get into your house — if you have +one — and make a holy show of you before the neighbours. +The honest softy is more often mistaken for a swindler, and +accused of being one, than the out-and-out scamp; and the man +that tells the truth too much is set down as an irreclaimable +liar. But most of the time crow low and roost high, for it's a +funny world, and you never know what might happen.</a></p> + +<a name="How-S13"></a> + +<p>"And if you get married (and there's no accounting for a +woman's taste) be as bad as you like, and then moderately good, +and your wife will love you. If you're bad all the time she can't +stand it for ever, and if you're good all the time she'll +naturally treat you with contempt. Never explain what you're +going to do, and don't explain afterwards, if you can help it. If +you find yourself between two stools, strike hard for your own +self, Smith — strike hard, and you'll be respected more +than if you fought for all the world. Generosity isn't understood +nowadays, and what the people don't understand is either `mad' or +`cronk'. Failure has no case, and you can't build one for it. . . +. I started out in life very young — and very soft."</p> + +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<a name="How-S14"></a> + +<p>"I thought you were going to tell me your story, Steely," +remarked Smith.</p> + +<p>Steelman smiled sadly.<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><br> +[End of original text.]<br> +<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> + +<center> +<h2><a name="Notes">About the Author and other Notes</a></h2> +</center> + +<h3>About the author:</h3> + +<p>Henry Lawson was born near Grenfell, New South Wales, +Australia on 17 June 1867. Although he has since become +Australia's most acclaimed writer, in his own lifetime his +writing was often "on the side" — his "real" work being +whatever he could find. His writing was frequently 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 <a href="#Notes-S6a">diggers</a> +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 at Sydney, 2 September +1922. He is most famous for his short stories.</p> + +<a name="Notes-S2"></a> + +<p>"On the Track" and "Over the Sliprails" were both published at +Sydney in 1900, the prefaces being dated March and June +respectively — and so, though printed separately, a +combined edition was printed the same year (the two separate, +complete works were simply put together in one binding); hence +they are sometimes referred to as "On the Track and Over the +Sliprails".</p> + +<!-- Section Numbers are largely based on Paragraphs. However --> +<!-- they may contain up to 6 short "paragraphs", especially dialogue. --> +<!-- Page Numbers are from the original edition of 1900 --> +<center> +<p>. . . . .</p> +</center> + +<h3>An incomplete Glossary of Australian terms and concepts which +may prove helpful to understanding this book:</h3> + +<a name="Notes-S4"></a> + +<p><b>Anniversary Day</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>Alluded to 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.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S5"></a> + +<p><b>Billy</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil +water for tea.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S6"></a> + +<p><b>Cabbage-tree/Cabbage-tree hat</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>A wide-brimmed hat made with the leaves of the +cabbage tree palm (Livistona australis). It was a common hat in +early colonial days, and later became associated with +patriotism.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S6a"></a> + +<p><b>Digger</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>Miner.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S7"></a> + +<p><b>Gin</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>An aboriginal woman; use of the term is analogous to +"squaw" in N. America. May be considered derogatory in modern +usage.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S8"></a> + +<p><b>Graft</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>Work; hard work.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S9"></a> + +<p><b>Humpy</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>(Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in +the bush, especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. +A gunyah, wurley, or mia-mia.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S10"></a> + +<p><b>Jackeroo/Jackaroo</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>At the time Lawson wrote, a Jackeroo 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.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S11"></a> + +<p><b>Jumbuck</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>A sheep.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S12"></a> + +<p><b>Larrikin</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>A hoodlum.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S13"></a> + +<p><b>Lollies</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>Candy, sweets.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S14"></a> + +<p><b>'Possum/Possum</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>In Australia, a class of marsupials that were +originally mistaken for the American animal of the same name. +They are not especially related to the possums of North and South +America, other than being marsupials.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S15"></a> + +<p><b>Public/Pub.</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>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.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S16"></a> + +<p><b>Push</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>A group of people sharing something in common; Lawson +uses the word in an older and more particular sense, as a gang of +violent city hoodlums.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S17"></a> + +<p><b>Ratty</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>Shabby, dilapidated; somewhat eccentric, perhaps even +slightly mad.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S18"></a> + +<p><b>Selector</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled +land by lease or license from the government.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S19"></a> + +<p><b>Shout</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>To buy a round of drinks.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S20"></a> + +<p><b>Sliprails/slip-rails</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>movable rails, forming a section of fence, which can +be taken down in lieu of a gate.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S21"></a> + +<p><b>Sly grog shop or shanty</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>An unlicensed bar or liquor-store, especially one +selling cheap or poor-quality liquor.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S22"></a> + +<p><b>Squatter</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>A person who first settled on land without government +permission, and later continued by lease or license, generally to +raise stock; a wealthy rural landowner.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S23"></a> + +<p><b>Station</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or +sheep.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S24"></a> + +<p><b>Stoush</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>Violence; to do violence to.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S25"></a> + +<p><b>Tea</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>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.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S26"></a> + +<p><b>Tucker</b>:</p> + +<blockquote>Food.</blockquote> + +<br> +<br> + <a name="Notes-S27"></a> + +<p><br> +<b>Also</b>: a hint with the seasons — remember that the +seasons are reversed from those in the northern hemisphere, hence +June may be hot, but December is even hotter. Australia is at a +lower latitude than the United States, so the winters are not +harsh by US standards, and are not even mild in the north. In +fact, large parts of Australia are governed more by "dry" versus +"wet" than by Spring-Summer-Fall-Winter.</p> + +<p>(Alan Light, Monroe, North Carolina, March 1998.)</p> + +<a name="Notes-S28"></a> + +<p><br> +<br> +The text (from the original edition of 1900) was manually entered +twice and electronically compared for better accuracy, by Alan R. +Light, alight@vnet.net. HTML (4.0) also by <a href= +"mailto:alight@vnet.net">Alan Robert Light</a>.</p> + +<p>A few obvious errors in the original text were corrected, +after being confirmed against other editions.</p> + +<p>To wit:</p> + +<p>Throughout text, where the original text uses more than three +(in the middle of a sentence) or four (at the end) dots for an +ellipsis, it has been standardized.</p> + +<p>"The Songs they used to Sing":</p> + +<p>[ "Hoh, my heart!" then she cried. ]<br> + changed to:<br> +[ Hoh, my heart!" then she cried. ]</p> + +<p>About half-way through, the quoted sections of songs start to +be printed in italics. As these italics are unnecessary, +internally inconsistent, and not repeated in later editions, they +have been ignored.</p> + +<p>"A Vision of Sandy Blight":</p> + +<p>[ and watched me for awhile ] changed to: [ and watched me for +a while ]<br> + (This is standard English usage.)</p> + +<p>[ sat smoking for awhile ] changed to: [ sat smoking for a +while ]</p> + +<p>[ They were very fond of each other, ]<br> + changed to:<br> +[ "They were very fond of each other, ]</p> + +<p>"Andy Page's Rival:</p> + +<p>[ until a spring cart rattled up ]<br> + changed to:<br> +[ until a spring-cart rattled up ]<br> + In conformance with Lawson's usage elsewhere and sense.</p> + +<p>"Middleton's Peter":</p> + +<p>[ The reader may doubt that a "sly grogshop" could openly +carry on business ]<br> + changed to:<br> +[ The reader may doubt that a "sly grog shop" could openly carry +on business ]</p> + +<p>"The Mystery of Dave Regan":</p> + +<p>[ how he was, he said: "Ah, well! Let's have a drink.' ]<br> + changed to:<br> +[ how he was, he said: `Ah, well! Let's have a drink.' ]</p> + +<p>"No Place for a Woman":</p> + +<p>[ beyond the track to the selection I heard, "Hi, Mister?" +]<br> + changed to:<br> +[ beyond the track to the selection I heard, "Hi, Mister!" ]<br> + (All other sources agree.)</p> + +<p>[ the billies had heen scraped ] changed to: [ . . . been +scraped ]</p> + +<p>[ sit silent for awhile ] changed to: [ sit silent for a while +]</p> + +<p>[ wait for me on the road; on — the road." . . . . +]<br> + changed to:<br> +[ wait for me on the road; on — the road. . . ." ]</p> + +<p>[ The wife'll be waiting. . . He was off the track again. +]<br> + changed to:<br> +[ The wife'll be waiting. . . ." He was off the track again. +]</p> + +<p>"Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster":</p> + +<p>A number of the quotation marks were off in the original +— missing double-quotes or double-quotes where they should +be single-quotes. These were modified.</p> + +<p>[ Go, it, old cock! ] changed to: [ Go it, old cock! ]</p> + +<p>"A Rough Shed":</p> + +<p>[ beneath me to try to climb to the proud position of "ringer" +of the shed. ]<br> + changed to:<br> +[ beneath me to try to climb to the proud position of `ringer' of +the shed. ]</p> + +<p>[ But what I am growling about? ]<br> + changed to:<br> +[ But what am I growling about? ]</p> + +<p>"Payable Gold":</p> + +<p>[ went on externally irrespective or any variation ]<br> + changed to:<br> +[ went on externally irrespective of any variation ]</p> + +<p>The Peter McKenzie in this story is apparently not the same +one described in "The Songs They used to Sing"?</p> + +<p>"An Oversight of Steelman's":</p> + +<p>[ "No — but" —— ] changed to: [ "No +— but ——" ]</p> + +<p>End of this Project Gutenberg HTML Etext of OntheTrack, +byHenryLawson</p> + +<p><a href="#ToC">Contents</a></p> +</body> +</html> + + diff --git a/old/old/ontrk10h.zip b/old/old/ontrk10h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..cc30b88 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/ontrk10h.zip |