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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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