1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885
8886
8887
8888
8889
8890
8891
8892
8893
8894
8895
8896
8897
8898
8899
8900
8901
8902
8903
8904
8905
8906
8907
8908
8909
8910
8911
8912
8913
8914
8915
8916
8917
8918
8919
8920
8921
8922
8923
8924
8925
8926
8927
8928
8929
8930
8931
8932
8933
8934
8935
8936
8937
8938
8939
8940
8941
8942
8943
8944
8945
8946
8947
8948
8949
8950
8951
8952
8953
8954
8955
8956
8957
8958
8959
8960
8961
8962
8963
8964
8965
8966
8967
8968
8969
8970
8971
8972
8973
8974
8975
8976
8977
8978
8979
8980
8981
8982
8983
8984
8985
8986
8987
8988
8989
8990
8991
8992
8993
8994
8995
8996
8997
8998
8999
9000
9001
9002
9003
9004
9005
9006
9007
9008
9009
9010
9011
9012
9013
9014
9015
9016
9017
9018
9019
9020
9021
9022
9023
9024
9025
9026
9027
9028
9029
9030
9031
9032
9033
9034
9035
9036
9037
9038
9039
9040
9041
9042
9043
9044
9045
9046
9047
9048
9049
9050
9051
9052
9053
9054
9055
9056
9057
9058
9059
9060
9061
9062
9063
9064
9065
9066
9067
9068
9069
9070
9071
9072
9073
9074
9075
9076
9077
9078
9079
9080
9081
9082
9083
9084
9085
9086
9087
9088
9089
9090
9091
9092
9093
9094
9095
9096
9097
9098
9099
9100
9101
9102
9103
9104
9105
9106
9107
9108
9109
9110
9111
9112
9113
9114
9115
9116
9117
9118
9119
9120
9121
9122
9123
9124
9125
9126
9127
9128
9129
9130
9131
9132
9133
9134
9135
9136
9137
9138
9139
9140
9141
9142
9143
9144
9145
9146
9147
9148
9149
9150
9151
9152
9153
9154
9155
9156
9157
9158
9159
9160
9161
9162
9163
9164
9165
9166
9167
9168
9169
9170
9171
9172
9173
9174
9175
9176
9177
9178
9179
9180
9181
9182
9183
9184
9185
9186
9187
9188
9189
9190
9191
9192
9193
9194
9195
9196
9197
9198
9199
9200
9201
9202
9203
9204
9205
9206
9207
9208
9209
9210
9211
9212
9213
9214
9215
9216
9217
9218
9219
9220
9221
9222
9223
9224
9225
9226
9227
9228
9229
9230
9231
9232
9233
9234
9235
9236
9237
9238
9239
9240
9241
9242
9243
9244
9245
9246
9247
9248
9249
9250
9251
9252
9253
9254
9255
9256
9257
9258
9259
9260
9261
9262
9263
9264
9265
9266
9267
9268
9269
9270
9271
9272
9273
9274
9275
9276
9277
9278
9279
9280
9281
9282
9283
9284
9285
9286
9287
9288
9289
9290
9291
9292
9293
9294
9295
9296
9297
9298
9299
9300
9301
9302
9303
9304
9305
9306
9307
9308
9309
9310
9311
9312
9313
9314
9315
9316
9317
9318
9319
9320
9321
9322
9323
9324
9325
9326
9327
9328
9329
9330
9331
9332
9333
9334
9335
9336
9337
9338
9339
9340
9341
9342
9343
9344
9345
9346
9347
9348
9349
9350
9351
9352
9353
9354
9355
9356
9357
9358
9359
9360
9361
9362
9363
9364
9365
9366
9367
9368
9369
9370
9371
9372
9373
9374
9375
9376
9377
9378
9379
9380
9381
9382
9383
9384
9385
9386
9387
9388
9389
9390
9391
9392
9393
9394
9395
9396
9397
9398
9399
9400
9401
9402
9403
9404
9405
9406
9407
9408
9409
9410
9411
9412
9413
9414
9415
9416
9417
9418
9419
9420
9421
9422
9423
9424
9425
9426
9427
9428
9429
9430
9431
9432
9433
9434
9435
9436
9437
9438
9439
9440
9441
9442
9443
9444
9445
9446
9447
9448
9449
9450
9451
9452
9453
9454
9455
9456
9457
9458
9459
9460
9461
9462
9463
9464
9465
9466
9467
9468
9469
9470
9471
9472
9473
9474
9475
9476
9477
9478
9479
9480
9481
9482
9483
9484
9485
9486
9487
9488
9489
9490
9491
9492
9493
9494
9495
9496
9497
9498
9499
9500
9501
9502
9503
9504
9505
9506
9507
9508
9509
9510
9511
9512
9513
9514
9515
9516
9517
9518
9519
9520
9521
9522
9523
9524
9525
9526
9527
9528
9529
9530
9531
9532
9533
9534
9535
9536
9537
9538
9539
9540
9541
9542
9543
9544
9545
9546
9547
9548
9549
9550
9551
9552
9553
9554
9555
9556
9557
9558
9559
9560
9561
9562
9563
9564
9565
9566
9567
9568
9569
9570
9571
9572
9573
9574
9575
9576
9577
9578
9579
9580
9581
9582
9583
9584
9585
9586
9587
9588
9589
9590
9591
9592
9593
9594
9595
9596
9597
9598
9599
9600
9601
9602
9603
9604
9605
9606
9607
9608
9609
9610
9611
9612
9613
9614
9615
9616
9617
9618
9619
9620
9621
9622
9623
9624
9625
9626
9627
9628
9629
9630
9631
9632
9633
9634
9635
9636
9637
9638
9639
9640
9641
9642
9643
9644
9645
9646
9647
9648
9649
9650
9651
9652
9653
9654
9655
9656
9657
9658
9659
9660
9661
9662
9663
9664
9665
9666
9667
9668
9669
9670
9671
9672
9673
9674
9675
9676
9677
9678
9679
9680
9681
9682
9683
9684
9685
9686
9687
9688
9689
9690
9691
9692
9693
9694
9695
9696
9697
9698
9699
9700
9701
9702
9703
9704
9705
9706
9707
9708
9709
9710
9711
9712
9713
9714
9715
9716
9717
9718
9719
9720
9721
9722
9723
9724
9725
9726
9727
9728
9729
9730
9731
9732
9733
9734
9735
9736
9737
9738
9739
9740
9741
9742
9743
9744
9745
9746
9747
9748
9749
9750
9751
9752
9753
9754
9755
9756
9757
9758
9759
9760
9761
9762
9763
9764
9765
9766
9767
9768
9769
9770
9771
9772
9773
9774
9775
9776
9777
9778
9779
9780
9781
9782
9783
9784
9785
9786
9787
9788
9789
9790
9791
9792
9793
9794
9795
9796
9797
9798
9799
9800
9801
9802
9803
9804
9805
9806
9807
9808
9809
9810
9811
9812
9813
9814
9815
9816
9817
9818
9819
9820
9821
9822
9823
9824
9825
9826
9827
9828
9829
9830
9831
9832
9833
9834
9835
9836
9837
9838
9839
9840
9841
9842
9843
9844
9845
9846
9847
9848
9849
9850
9851
9852
9853
9854
9855
9856
9857
9858
9859
9860
9861
9862
9863
9864
9865
9866
9867
9868
9869
9870
9871
9872
9873
9874
9875
9876
9877
9878
9879
9880
9881
9882
9883
9884
9885
9886
9887
9888
9889
9890
9891
9892
9893
9894
9895
9896
9897
9898
9899
9900
9901
9902
9903
9904
9905
9906
9907
9908
9909
9910
9911
9912
9913
9914
9915
9916
9917
9918
9919
9920
9921
9922
9923
9924
9925
9926
9927
9928
9929
9930
9931
9932
9933
9934
9935
9936
9937
9938
9939
9940
9941
9942
9943
9944
9945
9946
9947
9948
9949
9950
9951
9952
9953
9954
9955
9956
9957
9958
9959
9960
9961
9962
9963
9964
9965
9966
9967
9968
9969
9970
9971
9972
9973
9974
9975
9976
9977
9978
9979
9980
9981
9982
9983
9984
9985
9986
9987
9988
9989
9990
9991
9992
9993
9994
9995
9996
9997
9998
9999
10000
10001
10002
10003
10004
10005
10006
10007
10008
10009
10010
10011
10012
10013
10014
10015
10016
10017
10018
10019
10020
10021
10022
10023
10024
10025
10026
10027
10028
10029
10030
10031
10032
10033
10034
10035
10036
10037
10038
10039
10040
10041
10042
10043
10044
10045
10046
10047
10048
10049
10050
10051
10052
10053
10054
10055
10056
10057
10058
10059
10060
10061
10062
10063
10064
10065
10066
10067
10068
10069
10070
10071
10072
10073
10074
10075
10076
10077
10078
10079
10080
10081
10082
10083
10084
10085
10086
10087
10088
10089
10090
10091
10092
10093
10094
10095
10096
10097
10098
10099
10100
10101
10102
10103
10104
10105
10106
10107
10108
10109
10110
10111
10112
10113
10114
10115
10116
10117
10118
10119
10120
10121
10122
10123
10124
10125
10126
10127
10128
10129
10130
10131
10132
10133
10134
10135
10136
10137
10138
10139
10140
10141
10142
10143
10144
10145
10146
10147
10148
10149
10150
10151
10152
10153
10154
10155
10156
10157
10158
10159
10160
10161
10162
10163
10164
10165
10166
10167
10168
10169
10170
10171
10172
10173
10174
10175
10176
10177
10178
10179
10180
10181
10182
10183
10184
10185
10186
10187
10188
10189
10190
10191
10192
10193
10194
10195
10196
10197
10198
10199
10200
10201
10202
10203
10204
10205
10206
10207
10208
10209
10210
10211
10212
10213
10214
10215
10216
10217
10218
10219
10220
10221
10222
10223
10224
10225
10226
10227
10228
10229
10230
10231
10232
10233
10234
10235
10236
10237
10238
10239
10240
10241
10242
10243
10244
10245
10246
10247
10248
10249
10250
10251
10252
10253
10254
10255
10256
10257
10258
10259
10260
10261
10262
10263
10264
10265
10266
10267
10268
10269
10270
10271
10272
10273
10274
10275
10276
10277
10278
10279
10280
10281
10282
10283
10284
10285
10286
10287
10288
10289
10290
10291
10292
10293
10294
10295
10296
10297
10298
10299
10300
10301
10302
10303
10304
10305
10306
10307
10308
10309
10310
10311
10312
10313
10314
10315
10316
10317
10318
10319
10320
10321
10322
10323
10324
10325
10326
10327
10328
10329
10330
10331
10332
10333
10334
10335
10336
10337
10338
10339
10340
10341
10342
10343
10344
10345
10346
10347
10348
10349
10350
10351
10352
10353
10354
10355
10356
10357
10358
10359
10360
10361
10362
10363
10364
10365
10366
10367
10368
10369
10370
10371
10372
10373
10374
10375
10376
10377
10378
10379
10380
10381
10382
10383
10384
10385
10386
10387
10388
10389
10390
10391
10392
10393
10394
10395
10396
10397
10398
10399
10400
10401
10402
10403
10404
10405
10406
10407
10408
10409
10410
10411
10412
10413
10414
10415
10416
10417
10418
10419
10420
10421
10422
10423
10424
10425
10426
10427
10428
10429
10430
10431
10432
10433
10434
10435
10436
10437
10438
10439
10440
10441
10442
10443
10444
10445
10446
10447
10448
10449
10450
10451
10452
10453
10454
10455
10456
10457
10458
10459
10460
10461
10462
10463
10464
10465
10466
10467
10468
10469
10470
10471
10472
10473
10474
10475
10476
10477
10478
10479
10480
10481
10482
10483
10484
10485
10486
10487
10488
10489
10490
10491
10492
10493
10494
10495
10496
10497
10498
10499
10500
10501
10502
10503
10504
10505
10506
10507
10508
10509
10510
10511
10512
10513
10514
10515
10516
10517
10518
10519
10520
10521
10522
10523
10524
10525
10526
10527
10528
10529
10530
10531
10532
10533
10534
10535
10536
10537
10538
10539
10540
10541
10542
10543
10544
10545
10546
10547
10548
10549
10550
10551
10552
10553
10554
10555
10556
10557
10558
10559
10560
10561
10562
10563
10564
10565
10566
10567
10568
10569
10570
10571
10572
10573
10574
10575
10576
10577
10578
10579
10580
10581
10582
10583
10584
10585
10586
10587
10588
10589
10590
10591
10592
10593
10594
10595
10596
10597
10598
10599
10600
10601
10602
10603
10604
10605
10606
10607
10608
10609
10610
10611
10612
10613
10614
10615
10616
10617
10618
10619
10620
10621
10622
10623
10624
10625
10626
10627
10628
10629
10630
10631
10632
10633
10634
10635
10636
10637
10638
10639
10640
10641
10642
10643
10644
10645
10646
10647
10648
10649
10650
10651
10652
10653
10654
10655
10656
10657
10658
10659
10660
10661
10662
10663
10664
10665
10666
10667
10668
10669
10670
10671
10672
10673
10674
10675
10676
10677
10678
10679
10680
10681
10682
10683
10684
10685
10686
10687
10688
10689
10690
10691
10692
10693
10694
10695
10696
10697
10698
10699
10700
10701
10702
10703
10704
10705
10706
10707
10708
10709
10710
10711
10712
10713
10714
10715
10716
10717
10718
10719
10720
10721
10722
10723
10724
10725
10726
10727
10728
10729
10730
10731
10732
10733
10734
10735
10736
10737
10738
10739
10740
10741
10742
10743
10744
10745
10746
10747
10748
10749
10750
10751
10752
10753
10754
10755
10756
10757
10758
10759
10760
10761
10762
10763
10764
10765
10766
10767
10768
10769
10770
10771
10772
10773
10774
10775
10776
10777
10778
10779
10780
10781
10782
10783
10784
10785
10786
10787
10788
10789
10790
10791
10792
10793
10794
10795
10796
10797
10798
10799
10800
10801
10802
10803
10804
10805
10806
10807
10808
10809
10810
10811
10812
10813
10814
10815
10816
10817
10818
10819
10820
10821
10822
10823
10824
10825
10826
10827
10828
10829
10830
10831
10832
10833
10834
10835
10836
10837
10838
10839
10840
10841
10842
10843
10844
10845
10846
10847
10848
10849
10850
10851
10852
10853
10854
10855
10856
10857
10858
10859
10860
10861
10862
10863
10864
10865
10866
10867
10868
10869
10870
10871
10872
10873
10874
10875
10876
10877
10878
10879
10880
10881
10882
10883
10884
10885
10886
10887
10888
10889
10890
10891
10892
10893
10894
10895
10896
10897
10898
10899
10900
10901
10902
10903
10904
10905
10906
10907
10908
10909
10910
10911
10912
10913
10914
10915
10916
10917
10918
10919
10920
10921
10922
10923
10924
10925
10926
10927
10928
10929
10930
10931
10932
10933
10934
10935
10936
10937
10938
10939
10940
10941
10942
10943
10944
10945
10946
10947
10948
10949
10950
10951
10952
10953
10954
10955
10956
10957
10958
10959
10960
10961
10962
10963
10964
10965
10966
10967
10968
10969
10970
10971
10972
10973
10974
10975
10976
10977
10978
10979
10980
10981
10982
10983
10984
10985
10986
10987
10988
10989
10990
10991
10992
10993
10994
10995
10996
10997
10998
10999
11000
11001
11002
11003
11004
11005
11006
11007
11008
11009
11010
11011
11012
11013
11014
11015
11016
11017
11018
11019
11020
11021
11022
11023
11024
11025
11026
11027
11028
11029
11030
11031
11032
11033
11034
11035
11036
11037
11038
11039
11040
11041
11042
11043
11044
11045
11046
11047
11048
11049
11050
11051
11052
11053
11054
11055
11056
11057
11058
11059
11060
11061
11062
11063
11064
11065
11066
11067
11068
11069
11070
11071
11072
11073
11074
11075
11076
11077
11078
11079
11080
11081
11082
11083
11084
11085
11086
11087
11088
11089
11090
11091
11092
11093
11094
11095
11096
11097
11098
11099
11100
11101
11102
11103
11104
11105
11106
11107
11108
11109
11110
11111
11112
11113
11114
11115
11116
11117
11118
11119
11120
11121
11122
11123
11124
11125
11126
11127
11128
11129
11130
11131
11132
11133
11134
11135
11136
11137
11138
11139
11140
11141
11142
11143
11144
11145
11146
11147
11148
11149
11150
11151
11152
11153
11154
11155
11156
11157
11158
11159
11160
11161
11162
11163
11164
11165
11166
11167
11168
11169
11170
11171
11172
11173
11174
11175
11176
11177
11178
11179
11180
11181
11182
11183
11184
11185
11186
11187
11188
11189
11190
11191
11192
11193
11194
11195
11196
11197
11198
11199
11200
11201
11202
11203
11204
11205
11206
11207
11208
11209
11210
11211
11212
11213
11214
11215
11216
11217
11218
11219
11220
11221
11222
11223
11224
11225
11226
11227
11228
11229
11230
11231
11232
11233
11234
11235
11236
11237
11238
11239
11240
11241
11242
11243
11244
11245
11246
11247
11248
11249
11250
11251
11252
11253
11254
11255
11256
11257
11258
11259
11260
11261
11262
11263
11264
11265
11266
11267
11268
11269
11270
11271
11272
11273
11274
11275
11276
11277
11278
11279
11280
11281
11282
11283
11284
11285
11286
11287
11288
11289
11290
11291
11292
11293
11294
11295
11296
11297
11298
11299
11300
11301
11302
11303
11304
11305
11306
11307
11308
11309
11310
11311
11312
11313
11314
11315
11316
11317
11318
11319
11320
11321
11322
11323
11324
11325
11326
11327
11328
11329
11330
11331
11332
11333
11334
11335
11336
11337
11338
11339
11340
11341
11342
11343
11344
11345
11346
11347
11348
11349
11350
11351
11352
11353
11354
11355
11356
11357
11358
11359
11360
11361
11362
11363
11364
11365
11366
11367
11368
11369
11370
11371
11372
11373
11374
11375
11376
11377
11378
11379
11380
11381
11382
11383
11384
11385
11386
11387
11388
11389
11390
11391
11392
11393
11394
11395
11396
11397
11398
11399
11400
11401
11402
11403
11404
11405
11406
11407
11408
11409
11410
11411
11412
11413
11414
11415
11416
11417
11418
11419
11420
11421
11422
11423
11424
11425
11426
11427
11428
11429
11430
11431
11432
11433
11434
11435
11436
11437
11438
11439
11440
11441
11442
11443
11444
11445
11446
11447
11448
11449
11450
11451
11452
11453
11454
11455
11456
11457
11458
11459
11460
11461
11462
11463
11464
11465
11466
11467
11468
11469
11470
11471
11472
11473
11474
11475
11476
11477
11478
11479
11480
11481
11482
11483
11484
11485
11486
11487
11488
11489
11490
11491
11492
11493
11494
11495
11496
11497
11498
11499
11500
11501
11502
11503
11504
11505
11506
11507
11508
11509
|
<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en" xml:lang="en">
<head>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8" />
<title>Steve Brown’s Bunyip and Other Stories, by John Arthur Barry—A Project Gutenberg eBook</title>
<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" />
<style type="text/css">
/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */
div.frontcover, div.illo, div.halftitle, div.frontispiece,
div.titlepage, div.verso, div.intro, div.toc {
text-align: center;
margin: 6em auto;
}
div.frontcover, div.illo, div.illo+p, div.halftitle, div.frontispiece,
div.titlepage, div.verso, h2 {
page-break-before: always;
}
div.illo, div.frontispiece {font-size: 85%; }
h1, h2, h3, p.fakeh2 {
font-weight: normal;
text-indent: 0;
text-align: center;
word-spacing: 0.25em;
letter-spacing: 0.1em;
}
h1 {
margin: 3em auto 0.67em auto;
font-size: 200%;
}
h2 {
margin: 6em auto 0.83em auto;
font-size: 150%;
}
h2 big {font-size: 133%; }
.sprd {letter-spacing: 0.5em; }
.nosprd {letter-spacing: normal; }
p {
text-align: justify;
margin-top: 0;
}
p.noindent {text-indent: 0; }
p.rt, p.rtindent, div.frontispiece p.rt {
text-align: right;
text-indent: 0;
}
p.rtindent {padding-right: 1em; }
p.tbspace {padding-top: 1em; }
div.halftitle p, div.titlepage p, div.verso p, div.frontispiece p, div.illo p,
p.fakeh2, p.subtitle, p.tb, p.finis {
text-indent: 0;
text-align: center;
}
div.titlepage big, div.titlepage i {word-spacing: 0.333em; }
div.titlepage p {margin: 1em 0; }
div.frontispiece p {margin-bottom: 0.15em; }
#barry, #kipling {
line-height: 1.8;
padding: 1em 0;
}
#otherbooks {word-spacing: normal; }
p.tb {font-weight: bold; }
p.fakeh2 {
font-size: 150%;
margin: 0.83em auto;
}
p.finis {
margin: 2em auto;
word-spacing: 0.2em;
letter-spacing: 0.1em;
}
.oeng {font-family: "Old English Text MT", serif; }
table {
margin: auto;
border-spacing: 1px;
}
td {
text-indent: 0;
text-align: left;
font-variant: small-caps;
padding-bottom: 0.667em;
word-spacing: 0.33em;
}
th {
font-size: 50%;
text-align: right;
}
td.pg {
text-indent: 0;
text-align: right;
font-variant: normal;
max-width: 2em;
white-space: nowrap; direction: rtl;
}
td i {padding-left: 0.5em; }
td.dots {
max-width: 24em;
white-space: nowrap;
overflow: hidden;
}
td.dots:after {
content: " . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .";
white-space: nowrap;
word-spacing: normal;
margin-left: 0;
}
span.dotz, td i {background: Window; }
a:link {text-decoration: none; }
.poetry-container {
text-align: center;
padding-bottom: 0.25em;
font-size: 85%;
}
.poetry {
display: inline-block; /* note this interferes with page breaking */
text-align: left;
}
.poetry .stanza {
padding: 0.5em 0 0.75em 0;
page-break-inside: avoid;
}
.stanza div {
line-height: 1.3em;
margin: 0;
padding-left: 8em;
text-indent: -8em;
}
.stanza .i1 {text-indent: -7em; }
.stanza .i2 {text-indent: -6em; }
.stanza .i3 {text-indent: -5em; }
.stanza p {margin: 0 0 0.25em 0; }
div.intro {max-width: 24em; }
div.intro .poetry-container {font-size: 100%; }
div.intro div.poetry {
display: block; /* this poem spans multiple pages, so inline-block won't work */
max-width: 20em; /* the price of sacrificing inline-block is we lose "natural" width */
margin: 0 auto;
}
div.intro .stanza div {line-height: 1.7; }
div.preface p {font-size: 85%; }
div.illo img, div.frontispiece img {
margin-left: -12em;
margin-right: -12em;
}
/* footnotes */
div.footnotes {
margin: 2em 0 1em 2em;
line-height: 1.2;
font-size: 90%;
border-top: thin solid black;
}
div.footnotes p {
margin-left: 1em;
text-indent: -1em;
clear: both;
}
a:link {text-decoration: none; }
.fnanchor {
vertical-align: baseline;
position: relative;
bottom: 0.4em;
font-size: 80%;
}
.fnreturn {
float: right;
padding-left: 4em;
}
.unjust {
width: 1.5em;
text-align: left;
display: inline-block;
text-indent: 0;
}
hr.short {
width: 25%;
margin: 1em 37.5%;
}
hr.ww {
width: 100%;
height: 0.25em;
margin: 1em auto;
}
/* page numbers */
span.pagenum {
display: none; visibility: hidden; /* over-ridden for screen devices */
font-size: x-small;
font-family: serif;
font-variant: normal;
font-style: normal;
font-weight: normal;
line-height: 1.2;
letter-spacing: 0;
text-indent: 0;
text-align: left;
margin: 0;
padding: .05em 0.5em;
}
/* for transcriber's note at the end */
div.tnote {
padding: 1em;
margin: 6em auto 3em auto;
font-family: serif;
page-break-after: always;
}
div.tnote h2 {
text-align: left;
text-indent: 0;
font-size: large;
font-style: normal;
margin: 0 auto;
line-height: 1;
letter-spacing: 0;
padding-top: 0.667em;
font-weight: bold;
border-top: thin solid black;
}
div.tnote p {
text-align: left;
text-indent: 0;
margin-top: .5em;
font-size: 100%;
}
.ns {display: none; visibility: hidden; }
em, cite {font-style: italic; }
.nw {white-space: nowrap; }
.smc, .allsc, p.finis {font-variant: small-caps; }
.allsc, p.finis {text-transform: lowercase; }
@media print {
a:link {
color: black;
background-color: inherit;
text-decoration: none;
}
a:visited {
color: black;
background-color: inherit;
text-decoration: none;
}
p {
margin: 0 0 0.15em 0;
text-indent: 1em;
}
div.frontcover {padding-top: 3em; }
div.frontispiece, div.illo, h2 {padding-top: 6em; }
div.titlepage{padding-top: 1em; }
div.halftitle, div.verso {padding-top: 12em; }
.fnreturn {
display: none;
visibility: hidden;
}
}
@media screen {
body {
margin-left: 10%;
margin-right: 10%;
}
span.pagenum {
border-top: thin solid silver;
border-bottom: thin solid silver;
display: inline;
visibility: visible;
position: absolute;
left: 1%;
}
/* specify image widths only, so if scaled subject to max-width, aspect ratio is preserved */
#frontcover {width: 600px; } /* height: 800px; */
#frontis {width: 482px; } /* height: 700px; */
#i064fp {width: 395px; } /* height: 700px; */
#i088fp {width: 483px; } /* height: 700px; */
#i184fp {width: 472px; } /* height: 700px; */
#i192fp {width: 700px; } /* height: 486px; */
#i248fp {width: 467px; } /* height: 700px; */
}
@media print, screen {
div.preface, div.chap {margin: 0 auto; }
div.preface, div.frontispiece, div.chap {max-width: 32em; }
}
/* overrides for epub */
/* explicit overrides for styles defined in @media screen
because Kindle thinks it's a screen device */
@media handheld {
body {
margin-left: 0;
margin-right: 0;
}
span.pagenum, hr.ww, div.frontcover {
display: none;
visibility: hidden;
}
td.dots:after {content: ""; }
#frontis, #i064fp, #i088fp, #i184fp, #i192fp, #i248fp {max-width: 100%; }
}
/* XML end ]]>*/
</style>
</head>
<body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60482 ***</div>
<hr class="ww" />
<div class="frontcover">
<a name="cover" id="cover" href="#cover"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>cover<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a><img id="frontcover" src="images/cover.jpg"
alt="[Cover: Steve Brown’s Bunyip —
John Arthur Barry]" />
</div>
<div class="halftitle">
<p><a name="png.001" id="png.001" href="#png.001"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>i<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a><big>STEVE BROWN’S BUNYIP.</big></p>
</div>
<div class="frontispiece">
<a name="png.004" id="png.004" href="#png.004"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>iv<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a><img id="frontis" src="images/i_frontis.jpg" alt="[Illustration]"
/><p><span class="ns"> [Illustration: </span>‘Oh! Good Mister Bunyip,’ he quavered, ‘let’s off this oncest.’
(<a href="#illo_pg6">Page 6</a>.)<span class="ns">]</span></p>
<p class="rt"><small>[<i>Frontispiece</i></small></p>
</div>
<div class="titlepage">
<h1 title="Steve Brown’s Bunyip"><a name="png.005" id="png.005" href="#png.005"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>v<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>STEVE BROWN’S BUNYIP<br
/><small class="oeng"><small>And Other Stories</small></small></h1>
<p id="barry"><small>BY</small><br
/><big>JOHN ARTHUR BARRY</big></p>
<p id="kipling"><i>WITH INTRODUCTORY VERSES</i><br
/><small>BY</small><br
/><big>RUDYARD KIPLING</big></p>
<p><i>NEW EDITION</i></p>
<p><small><small><i id="otherbooks">Author of “In the Great Deep,” “The Luck of the Native Born,”<br
/>“A Son of the Sea,” “Red Lion and Blue Star,”<br
/>“Old and New Sydney,” etc.</i></small></small></p>
<p><big>N.S.W. BOOKSTALL CO.</big><br
/><small>SYDNEY.<br
/>———<br
/>1905</small></p>
<p><small><i>All Rights Reserved</i></small></p>
</div>
<div class="verso">
<p><a name="png.006" id="png.006" href="#png.006"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>vi<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a><small><i>John Sands, Printer, Sydney.</i></small></p>
</div>
<div class="toc">
<h2 title="Contents"><a name="png.007" id="png.007" href="#png.007"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>vii<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a><i class="sprd">CONTENT</i><i>S</i>.<br
/><small class="nosprd"><i>———o———</i></small>
</h2>
<table summary="Table of Contents">
<tr><th> </th><th>PAGE</th></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.011">Introduction</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.011">xi<!-- TN: original reads "x" --></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.015">Steve Brown’s Bunyip</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.015">1</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.025">Dead Man’s Camp</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.025">11</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.034">The Shanghai-ing of Peter Barlow</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.034">20</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.045">‘Ex Sardanapalus’</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.045">31</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.065">‘Mo-Poke’</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.065">51</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.074">Keeping School at ‘Dead Finish’</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.074">60</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.087">‘Number One North Rainbow’</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.087">71</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.109">The Protection of the ‘Sparrowhawk’</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.109">91</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.123">The Duke of Silversheen</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.123">105</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.134">The Officer in Charge</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.134">116</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.141">‘Sojur Jim’</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.141">123</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a name="png.008" id="png.008" href="#png.008"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>viii<span class="ns">]</span></span></a><a
href="#png.154">Far Inland Football</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.154">136</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.164">On the Grand Stand</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.164">146</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.182">Too Far South</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.182">164</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.197">The Mission to Dingo Creek</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.197">179</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.212">Books at Barracaboo</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.212">192</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.230">‘Barton’s Jackaroo<!-- original reads "Jackeroo" but p208ff is consistently "jackaroo" -->’</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.230">208</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.251">Told in the ‘Corona’s’ Cabin</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.251">229</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.289">‘Dot’s Claim’</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.289">265</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="dots"><span class="dotz"><a href="#png.301">A Cape Horn Christmas</a></span></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.301">277</a></td></tr>
</table>
</div>
<div class="preface">
<h2 title="Again"><a name="png.009" id="png.009" href="#png.009"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>ix<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a><span class="sprd">AGAI</span>N.</h2>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smc">There</span> have been occasions when, after long rest as a hulk
lying in some land-locked cove, with little of its past
history except the name left in people’s memories, that
once again the old ship has been brought forth, staunch as
ever, to perform, it is hoped, faithful service on the outer
seas.</p>
<p>Something of this kind has happened in the case of
“Steve Brown’s Bunyip.” The book has been so long out
of print as to perhaps render any apology for its re-appearance
needless. All the more so, as from many quarters
through the years that have elapsed since its retirement,
there have been frequent and kindly enquiries after its
welfare. Also, numerous requests have reached the author
that the book might again be allowed to test the weather
of popular opinion, and, if possible, hold its own as it did
aforetime.</p>
<p>Thus, in a new guise, and in a new land, the old
“Bunyip,” rejuvenated and embellished, with, so to speak,
colours flying and band playing, leaves its long rest at
moorings, and once more sets sail in modest confidence
that age will not have rendered its timbers less seaworthy,
but rather have preserved and toughened them in such wise
as may enable the old vessel to successfully compete with
the modern craft of her class that have since appeared.</p>
<p class="rtindent"><span class="smc">The Author.</span></p>
</div>
<div class="intro">
<h2 title="Introduction"><a name="png.011" id="png.011" href="#png.011"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>xi<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a><i class="sprd">INTRODUCTIO</i><i>N</i>.</h2>
<hr class="short" />
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div><span class="smc">There</span> dwells a Wife by the Northern March</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>And a wealthy Wife is she.</div>
<div>She breeds a breed o’ rovin’ men</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>And casts them over sea.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
/></span></div><!-- stanza -->
<div class="stanza">
<div>And some they drown in deep water,</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>And some in sight of shore;</div>
<div>And word goes back to the carline Wife</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>And ever she sends more.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
/></span></div><!-- stanza -->
<div class="stanza">
<div>For since that Wife had gate or gear,</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Or hearth or garth or bield,</div>
<div>She wills her sons to the white harvest,</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>And that is a bitter <span class="nw">yield—</span></div>
<span class="ns"><br
/></span></div><!-- stanza -->
<div class="stanza">
<div><a name="png.012" id="png.012" href="#png.012"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>xii<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>She wills her sons to the wet ploughing</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>To ride the horse o’ tree,</div>
<div>And syne her sons come home again</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Far spent from out the sea.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
/></span></div><!-- stanza -->
<div class="stanza">
<div>The good Wife’s sons come home again</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Wi’ little into their hands</div>
<div>But the lear o’ men that ha’ dealt wi’ men</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>In the new and naked <span class="nw">lands—</span></div>
<span class="ns"><br
/></span></div><!-- stanza -->
<div class="stanza">
<div>But the faith o’ men that ha’ proven men</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>By more than willing breath,</div>
<div>And the eyes o’ men that ha’ read wi’ men</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>In the open books o’ Death.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
/></span></div><!-- stanza -->
<div class="stanza">
<div>Rich are they, rich in wonders seen,</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>But poor in the goods o’ men:</div>
<div>And what they ha’ got by the skin o’ their teeth</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>They sell for their teeth again.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
/></span></div><!-- stanza -->
<div class="stanza">
<div>Ay, whether they lose to the naked life,</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Or win to their hearts’ desire,</div>
<div>They tell it all to the carline Wife</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>That nods beside the fire.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
/></span></div><!-- stanza -->
<div class="stanza">
<div><a name="png.013" id="png.013" href="#png.013"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>xiii<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Her hearth is wide to every gust</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>That gars the dead ash <span class="nw">spin—</span></div>
<div>And tide by tide and ’twixt the tides</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Her sons go out and in.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
/></span></div><!-- stanza -->
<div class="stanza">
<div>[Out in great mirth that do desire</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Hazard of trackless ways,</div>
<div>In wi’ great peace to wait their watch</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>And warm before the blaze.]</div>
<span class="ns"><br
/></span></div><!-- stanza -->
<div class="stanza">
<div>And some return in broken sleep</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>And some in waking dream,</div>
<div>For she hears the heels o’ the dripping ghosts</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>That ride the long roof-beam.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
/></span></div><!-- stanza -->
<div class="stanza">
<div>Home—they come home from all the <span class="nw">seas—</span></div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>The living and the <span class="nw">dead—</span></div>
<div>The good Wife’s sons come home again</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>For her blessing on their head.</div>
</div><!-- stanza -->
</div><!-- poetry -->
<p class="rt"><span class="smc">Rudyard Kipling.</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Steve Brown’s Bunyip"><a name="png.015" id="png.015" href="#png.015"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>1<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a><big><i>Steve Brown’s Bunyip.</i></big><br
/><small class="nosprd"><i>———o———</i></small></h2>
<p class="fakeh2">STEVE BROWN’S BUNYIP.</p>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smc">The</span> general opinion of those who felt called upon to
give it was that Steve Brown, of the Scrubby Corner,
‘wasn’t any chop.’</p>
<p>Not that, on the surface, there seemed much evidence
confirmatory of such a verdict—rather, indeed, the contrary.</p>
<p>If a traveller, drover or teamster lost his stock, Steve,
after a long and arduous search, was invariably the first
man to come across the missing animals—provided the
reward was high enough.</p>
<p>Yet, in spite of this useful gift of discovery, its owner
was neither liked nor trusted. Uncharitable people—especially
the ones whom he took such trouble to
oblige—would persist in hinting that none knew so well
where to find as those that hid.</p>
<p>All sorts of odds and ends, too, from an unbranded
calf to a sheepskin, from a new tarpaulin to a pair of
<a name="png.016" id="png.016" href="#png.016"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>2<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>hobbles, had a curious knack of disappearing within a
circuit of fifty miles of the Browns’ residence.</p>
<p>In appearance, Steve was long, lathy, awkward and
freckled, also utterly ignorant of all things good for man
to know.</p>
<p>Suspicious, sly and unscrupulous, just able by a sort of
instinct to decipher a brand on an animal, he was a
thorough specimen of the very worst type of far inland
Australian Bush Native, and only those who have met
him can possibly imagine what that means.</p>
<p>Years ago, his parents, fresh from the wilds of Connemara,
had squatted on this forest reserve of Scrubby
Corner. How they managed to live was a mystery. But
they were never disturbed; and in time they died, leaving
Steve, then eighteen, to shift for himself, by virtue of
acquired knowledge.</p>
<p>Shortly after the death of his mother, he took unto
himself the daughter of an old shepherd on a run adjoining—a
fit match in every way—and continued to keep
house in the ramshackle shanty in the heart of the
Corner.</p>
<p>He had never been known to do a day’s work if he
could possibly get out of it; much preferring to pick up
a precarious living by ‘trading’ stock, ‘finding’ stragglers,
and in other ways even less honest than the last,
but which nobody, so far, had taken the trouble of bringing
home to him.</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>It was Sunday, and the caravan was spelling for the
day.</p>
<p><a name="png.017" id="png.017" href="#png.017"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>3<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Greg, having had his dinner—only a half ration, as
feed was scarce—and feeling but little inclined for a chat
with the tiger, or the lion, or the bear, or any other of
the sulky, brooding creatures behind the iron bars, whom
he saw every day, and of whose company he was heartily
tired, took it into his great head to have a look at the
country.</p>
<p>So, unperceived of Hassan Ali, who was fast asleep in
the hot sunshine, or any of the rest dozing in the tents,
Greg, plucking a wattle up by the roots to keep the flies
off, sauntered quietly away. He was not impressed by inland
Australia. In the first place it was hot and dusty, also
the flies were even worse than in his native Ceylon. Nor,
so far as he could discover, was there anything to chew—that
is—no tender banana stems, no patches of
young rice or succulent cane. All that he tried tasted
bitter, tasted of gum, peppermint, or similar abominations.
He spat them out with a grunt of disgust, and
meandered on.</p>
<p>Presently the scrub grew thicker, and, heated more
than ever by the exertion of pushing his huge body
through an undergrowth of pine and wattle, he hailed
with delight the sight of a big waterhole, still and dark,
in the very heart of it. Descending the slope at the far
side of the thickly-grassed, open glade, Steve Brown,
driving a couple of ‘lost’ horses, paused in dismay and
astonishment at sight of the immense beast, black, shining
wetly, and sending up thick jets of water into the
sunlight to an accompaniment of a continuous series of
grunts and rumbling noises.</p>
<p><a name="png.018" id="png.018" href="#png.018"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>4<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘<em>Hrrmp! hrrmp!</em>’ blared Greg, in friendly greeting,
as he caught sight of the figure staring fascinated.</p>
<p>And then he laughed to himself as he saw how the
loose horses, snorting with terror, galloped off one way,
and the horseman another.</p>
<p>But it was getting late; so, coming out of the water,
and striking a well-beaten pad, he followed it. Supper
time was approaching, and he kept his ears open for the
shrill cry of Hassan Ali.</p>
<p>Meanwhile Steve had made a bee-line on the spur for
home, with some vague idea surging through his dull
brain of having caught a glimpse of an Avenging Power.
It is mostly in this way that anything of the sort strikes
the uneducated conscience.</p>
<p>‘What’s the matter now?’ asked his wife as he entered,
pale, and with hurried steps. ‘You looks pretty badly
scared. Did the traps spot yer a-plantin’ them mokes,
or what?’</p>
<p>‘Traps be hanged!’ replied Steve. ‘I seen somethin’
wuss nor traps. I seen the bunyip down at the big
waterhole.’</p>
<p>‘Gam, yer fool!’ exclaimed his wife, who was tall, thin,
sharp-faced, and freckled, like himself. ‘What are you
a-givin’ us now? Why, yer gittin’ wuss nor a black fellow
wi’ yer bunyips!’</p>
<p>‘Well,’ said Steve, fanning himself with his old cabbage-tree
hat, and glancing nervously out of the door, ‘I’ll
tell yer how it was. Ye knows as how I dropped acrost
that darkey’s mokes when he was camped at the Ten
Mile. Well, o’ course, I takes ’em to the water in the
<a name="png.019" id="png.019" href="#png.019"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>5<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>scrub—you knows the shop—intendin’ to hobble ’em out
till such time as inquiries come this road. Well, jist as I
gets in sight o’ the water I seen, right in the middle of it,
I seen—I seen—’ but here he paused dead for want of a
vocabulary.</p>
<p>‘Well, thick-head, an’ wot was it ye seed—yer own
hugly shadder, I s’pose?’ said Mrs Brown, as she caught
up and slapped the baby playing with a pumpkin on the
floor. ‘Look better on yer, it would, to wind me up a
turn o’ water, an’ it washin’ day to-morrer, ’stead o’
comin’ pitchin’ fairy stories.’</p>
<p>‘It warn’t,’ replied Steve, taking no notice of the latter
part of her speech. ‘But it was as big—ay, an’ a lot
bigger’n this hut. All black, an’ no hair it was; an’ ’t’ad
two white tushes’s, long as my leg, only crookt, an’ a
snout like a big snake, an’ it were a-spoutin’ water forty
foot high, and soon’s it seen me it bellered agin and
agin.’</p>
<p>‘You bin over to Walmsley’s shanty to-day?’ asked
his wife, looking hard at his pale face and staring eyes.</p>
<p>‘No, s’elp me!’ replied Steve; ‘not fer a month or
more! An’ yer knows, Mariar, as it aint very often I
touches a drop o’ ennythin’ when I does go over.’
Which was strictly true, for Steve was an abstemious
rogue.</p>
<p>‘Well, then, you’ve got a stroke o’ the sun,’ said his
better-half, dogmatically, ‘an’ you’d best take a dose of
salts at oncest, afore ye goes off yer ’ead wuss.’</p>
<p>‘<em>Hrrmp! hrrmp! hrrmp!</em>’ trumpeted Greg cheerfully,
as at this moment, interposing his huge bulk before
<a name="png.020" id="png.020" href="#png.020"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>6<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>the setting sun, he looked in at the back door with
twinkling eyes.</p>
<p>With a scream the woman, snatching up her child,
bolted into the bedroom, leaving Steve quaking in an
ecstasy of terror, as Greg, spying the pumpkin, deftly
reached in with his trunk and asked for it with an
insinuating grunt.</p>
<p>But Steve, pretty certain that it was himself who was
wanted, and that his time had come at last, tumbled off
the stool and grovelled before the Unknown Terror.</p>
<p>Without coming in further, Greg could not get within a
foot of the coveted article. To come in further would be
to lift the house on his shoulders, so Greg hesitated.</p>
<p>For ten years—long ago in the days of his youth—he
had been a member of the Ceylon Civil Service, and had
learnt discipline and respect for the constituted authorities.
Also, besides being chief constable of his fellows, he had
been a favourite at headquarters, had borne royalty itself,
and was even named after Governor Gregory. Therefore,
hungry as he was, Greg hesitated about demolishing a
house for the sake of a pumpkin; but Steve, now on his
knees in the middle of the floor, with that curling, snakelike
thing twisting and twitching before his eyes, knew
less than nothing of all this.</p>
<p>Had he been able, he would doubtless have prayed in
an orthodox manner to be delivered out of the clutches
of the Evil One. Being unable to pray, he did the best
he could, which was indifferent.</p>
<p><a name="illo_pg6" id="illo_pg6">‘Oh good Mister Bunyip,’ he quavered,</a> ‘let’s off this
oncest, an’ I’ll takes them mokes back to the nigger.
<a name="png.021" id="png.021" href="#png.021"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>7<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>I’ll give up them two unbranded foals as I shook off the
carrier larst week, likewise the bag o’ flour off his waggin.
If yer’ll go away, Mr Bunyip, I’ll never plant nor shake
nothin’ no more. I won’t<!-- TN: original reads "wont" -->—s’elp me! An’ if yer’ll go
back quiet’—here the wall-plate began to crack, and
Steve’s voice to rise into a howl—‘I’ll promise faithful
never to come next anigh yer waterhole over yonder to
plant hosses.’</p>
<p>As he concluded, Greg, having at length jammed his
big head in far enough to just reach the pumpkin with
his trunk, withdrew, taking both doorposts with him.</p>
<p>‘He’s gone, Mariar,’ said Steve, after a pause, wiping
his wet face; ‘but it wor the narriest squeak you ever
seed. Took nothin’, he didn’t, only that punkin as was
on the floor. Tell you wot,’ as his wife came trembling
out of the other room, ‘we’re a-goin’ to shift camp.
Neighbours o’ that sort ain’t ter be played with. Ain’t it
a wonder, bein’ so handy like, as he never come afore?
I knows how it was, now!’ he exclaimed, a happy inspiration
seizing him. ‘It were all through them two larst
cussed mokes! The feller as owns ’em’s a flash blackfeller
shearer. I had a pitch with him the night afore
an’ he reckons as how he’d just cut out ov a big shed on
the Marthaguy. So I sez to myself, “You’re good enough,
ole chap, fer a fiver, ennyhow.”’</p>
<p>‘What’s that got to do with it?’ asked his wife
softly, regarding the crushed doorway with affrighted
face.</p>
<p>‘Don’t yer see? The bunyip’s the blackfeller’s Devil.
Ole Billy Barlow tell’d me oncest as he seen the head ov
<a name="png.022" id="png.022" href="#png.022"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>8<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>one rise up out of a lagoon. I’ll have to fossick up them
mokes, Mariar, an’ take ’em to that darkey straight away,
afore wuss ’appens. S-sh, sh-sh! Wot’s that?’</p>
<p>It was Greg, who wanted his supper badly, and was
soliloquising at the other end of the hut. He had been
down to a little fenced-in paling paddock on the flat,
and, looking over, to his delight had seen a crop of
maize, sweet and juicy and not too ripe, also more
pumpkins.</p>
<p>But with the love of the law and the memory of discipline
still strong in him, he had returned to ask permission
of the owner—the stupid white man who sat in his hut
and talked nonsense. And now he was holding council
with himself how best to make the fool understand that
he was hungry, and wanted for his supper something
more than a solitary pumpkin.</p>
<p>Hassan Ali, he knew, had but dried hay and the rinds
of melons to give him. Here, indeed, was a delectable
change, and Greg’s mouth watered as he gurgled gently
in at the opening which did duty for a window, and close
to which the family crouched in terror.</p>
<p>Why could not the stupid fellow understand? Could
it be that he and his were deaf? A bright idea, and one
to be acted upon, this last!</p>
<p>Therefore, carefully lifting up and displacing half the
bark roof, Greg looked benignly down and trumpeted
mightily until the hut shook as with an earthquake, and
the whole land seemed to vibrate, whilst his audience
grovelled speechless. Then, finding no resulting effect,
and secure in the sense of having done his uttermost to
<a name="png.023" id="png.023" href="#png.023"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>9<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>make himself understood, he went off with a clear
conscience to the corn-patch and luxuriated.</p>
<p>‘It ain’t no bunyip, Steve,’ wailed his wife, as they
heard the retreating steps; ‘it’s the “Destryin’ Hangel”
as I heerd a parson talk on oncest when I was a kid, an’
that wor the “Last Tramp”—the noise wot shows as the
world is comin’ to an ind. It ain’t no use o’ runnin’.
We’re all agoin’ to git burnt up wi’ fire an’ bremston!
Look out, Steve, an’ see if there’s a big light ennywheres.’</p>
<p>‘Sha’n’t,’ replied Steve. ‘Wot’s the good? If it’s the
end o’ the world, wot’s the use o’ lookin’? An’ I b’lieve
’ere’s yer blasted Hangel a-comin’ agen!’</p>
<p>Sure enough, Greg, having had a snack, was returning
just to assure the folk that he was doing well; that his
belly was half full, and that he was enjoying himself
immensely.</p>
<p>So he <em>hrrmped</em> softly round about in the darkness, and
scratched his sides against the rough stone fireplace, and
took off one of the rafters for a toothpick, and rumbled
and gurgled meditatively, feeling that if he could only
drop across a couple of quarts of toddy, as in the old
Island days, his would be perfect bliss.</p>
<p>All through the hot summer night he passed at intervals
from the paddock to the house and back, and all the
night those others lay and shivered, and waited for the
horror of the Unknown.</p>
<p>Then, a little after sunrise, a long, loud, shrill call was
heard, answered on the instant by a sustained hoarse
blare, as Greg recognised the cry of his mahout and
keeper.</p>
<p><a name="png.024" id="png.024" href="#png.024"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>10<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>And presently Steve, plucking up courage in the light,
arose, and, looking out, shouted to his wife <span class="nw">triumphantly,—</span></p>
<p>‘Now, then, Mariar, who’s right about the bunyip!
There he goes off home to the waterhole with a black
nigger on his back!’</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Dead Man’s Camp"><a name="png.025" id="png.025" href="#png.025"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>11<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>DEAD MAN’S CAMP.</h2>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smc">One</span> lurid summer, in 1873, I was crossing over from
Saint George’s Bridge, on the Balonne, to Mitchell, on
the Maranoa. I had been to a rush at Malawal, N.S.W.,
but as it proved a rank duffer, got up by the local storekeepers
in a last effort to keep the township in existence,
I made back again by ‘The Bridge,’ on chance of
getting a job of droving with some of the mobs of sheep
or cattle always passing through the Border town, bound
south from the Central and Gulf stations.</p>
<p>Queenslanders will remember that summer, on certain
days of which men were stricken down in dozens, and
birds fell dead off the trees in the fierce heat.</p>
<p>There is no drearier track in Australia than the one I
speak of—all pine-scrub, too thick for a dog to bark in,
and the rest sand and ant-hills.</p>
<p>There was nothing doing just then in ‘The Bridge,’
so I pushed on for the Maranoa. It was only the beginning
of summer, and I reckoned on finding water twenty-five
miles along the track, at a hole in the Wullumgudgeree
Creek, known of aforetime.</p>
<p>It was a dismal ride, with nothing but walls of close-set
scrub on each side, and sand, heavy underfoot, and
glaring ahead. Even the horses seemed to feel its
<a name="png.026" id="png.026" href="#png.026"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>12<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>influence as they ploughed along, heads bent down, coats
black with sweat, and big clusters of flies swarming
thickly at their leather eye-guards. Even one’s own
close-knit veil was but poor protection, for the pests
gathered on it in such numbers as to almost obscure the
sight. The flies and mosquitoes<!-- TN: original reads "mosquitos" --> were a caution that
summer. However, shogging steadily on, with a pull at
the water-bag now and then, I at length reached the
creek, dry as a bone where it crossed the road. But,
following it down through the scrub, I found the hole,
pretty muddy and fast diminishing. Nor was it improved
by the dog and the pack-horse rushing into it and rolling
before I could stop them.</p>
<p>The sun was setting, a big red ball, over the tops of the
pines as I hobbled out, pitched the tent on one side of
the round open space, lit a fire, and slung the billy.
There was not bad picking for the horses, and as I belled
the pack I fervently trusted they would not stray far in
such a God-forsaken spot.</p>
<p>After supper—damper, mutton and sardines, washed
down by tea, boiled, skimmed and strained three times
before coming to table—I felt pretty comfortable, and
lay down with my head on one of the swags to enjoy a
smoke and fight the mosquitoes<!-- TN: original reads "mosquitos" -->, who were beginning to
sample freely. The sun had set, but the moon, big,
yellow and hot-looking, hung in a hazy sky.</p>
<p>But for the buzzing of the insects and the snoring of
the dog, fast asleep in a deep hole scratched in the sand,
everything was very quiet. The thick scrub into which
the horses had retreated deadened the sound of the bell.</p>
<p><a name="png.027" id="png.027" href="#png.027"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>13<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Presently, however, evidently compassionating my
lonely state, a little bird, after partaking of the remnants
of my supper, came and perched on the ridge-pole of the
tent, and piped forth at short intervals in a shrill monotone.
‘Sweet, pretty creature! Pretty, sweet, little
creature!’ He was company of a sort, spite of his
egoism. But there was other toward.</p>
<p>The flies had, ere this, gone to roost, but the mosquitoes
were troublesome. They had also taken anticipatory
possession of the tent. Burning some old rags, I cleared
them out of that, fixed up the netting, and was preparing
to turn in, when I heard the sound of hoofs coming
thump, thump, down the dry creek bed. The dog,
awaking, barked loudly, and in a minute or two a man
and a woman rode into the bright firelight. They each
had a big swag in front of them; and at a glance I saw
that their horses were not only well-bred, but had come
far and fast.</p>
<p>‘Water!’ exclaimed the man.</p>
<p>I gave him some; and he lifted the woman off and
handed her the mug.</p>
<p>‘We’re travellin’, mate,’ said he, as I helped him
to unsaddle. ‘Got bushed atween ’ere an’ the Maranoa.
A bit o’ damned bad country!’</p>
<p>He had not come from that direction at all; but in
such a scrub all directions were much alike. And, anyhow,
it was no business of mine. They had plenty of
tucker, and I put the billy on again.</p>
<p>As the woman stood at the fire, holding up her riding-dress
with one hand and with the other hastily fastening
<a name="png.028" id="png.028" href="#png.028"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>14<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>some stray braids of long hair that had come adrift,
I saw that she was a fresh-faced, pleasant-featured girl of
about eighteen or nineteen. As she presently dropped
her skirt, took off her hat, and used both hands to her
hair, I noticed by the flickering light a red, angry-looking
scar extending from the bridge of the nose up to and
across the left eyebrow.</p>
<p>Her companion was a type I knew well. A cattleman
all over, from the long, lean, curved legs of him to the
sharp-eyed, tanned, resolute face. And from the swag I
saw sticking out the curiously-carved handle of a stockwhip.
They both seemed weary and thoughtful, and
after supper I offered them the shelter of the tent. The
man thanked me.</p>
<p>‘The missus,’ said he, ‘’ll be only too glad of the
chance. She ain’t much used to campin’ out.’</p>
<p>So they lugged their belongings inside, whilst, making
up the fire, and throwing some green bushes on it to
drive the skeeters away, I laid on my blankets, with the
pack-saddle for a pillow, and the dog at my feet.</p>
<p>Awaking about midnight, as most bushmen do, I saw
that big clouds were sailing fast across the moon. The
air had become rather chilly, and, throwing more wood
on the fire, I stood warming myself and filling my pipe.
The dog, also getting up, yawned sleepily, and came and
gazed into the blaze. The little bird from the ridge-pole
still chirped its eulogistic call, but drowsily, and with
effort, as of one who nods and winks. From the scrub
came the faint tinkling of bells, showing that the horses
were feeding steadily.</p>
<p><a name="png.029" id="png.029" href="#png.029"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>15<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Suddenly the silence was broken by the peculiar long,
rumbling whinny with which a straggling horse greets the
presence of others. Then I heard the hobble-chains
clanking as our horses galloped up to inspect the newcomer.
Then ensued a short pause, followed by the
sound of a wild snorting stampede as they crashed away,
their hobbles jingling and bells ringing furiously through
the scrub.</p>
<p>‘Bother!’ thought I, as the noise grew fainter and
fainter, ‘that means, most likely, a long walk in the
morning. Hang all brombees!’</p>
<p>Preparing to lie down again, in not the best of tempers,
I became aware of at least one horse steadily making
towards the camp. As the steps approached, the dog,
growling low, and with every hair bristling, backed
towards the tent. A cold feeling of disquiet and nervousness
took possession of me as I saw this.</p>
<p>Turning from watching the animal, my eye caught a
dark mass between scrub and fire. Just then the moon
shone out from behind a bank, and, not ten yards away,
stood a horseman, his head drooping on his chest, his
body rocking slightly in the saddle.</p>
<p>I gave a sigh of relief. Drunken riders are common
enough in the Bush. And, with all trepidation vanished,
I sang out gruffly <span class="nw">enough,—</span></p>
<p>‘Better get off, mate, before you fall off! Come and
have a drink of tea!’</p>
<p>He would be a nuisance, of course, with the inevitable
bottle of rum in his swag, and in his person all the
loathsome imbecility inseparable from the sobering-up
<a name="png.030" id="png.030" href="#png.030"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>16<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>process. But, as an institution, he had to be attended
to.</p>
<p>And I repeated my invitation irritably to him, sitting
there in the bright moonlight, one hand grasping the
reins, the other resting on the wither, his chin on his
breast, staring fixedly at me from under the broad-leafed
hat.</p>
<p>‘Oh,’ I muttered, ‘you drunken brute! I’ve got to
lift you down, have I! About all you’re fit for is to
frighten people’s horses away.’</p>
<p>The dog, only his head protruding from under the tent,
kept up a long, snarling, choking growl, broken by gasps
for fresh breath.</p>
<p>Advancing, I placed my hand upon the horseman’s.
It was like ice. Looking up, I saw a black-whiskered
face, ashen-grey under the hat-leaf, and apparently leaning
forward to gaze into mine out of wide-open, staring,
glassy eyes.</p>
<p>Suddenly, realising the meaning of the thing, I ran to
one side and shouted hurriedly—I know not what.</p>
<p>Then I heard someone in the tent cursing the dog,
who yelped, as from a kick, and, presently, the stranger
came out and walked up to the fire. Standing away, and
in deep shadow, he did not see me. But, catching sight
of that dread rider, sitting motionless, he went over and
peered into its face.</p>
<p>Then with a tremendous oath he sprang back, and I
could see his sharp-cut features working with emotion as
he exclaimed, ‘George! What game’s this?’</p>
<p>Advancing again he stroked the horse, and, as I had
<a name="png.031" id="png.031" href="#png.031"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>17<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>done, placed one of his hands on that other so cold
one.</p>
<p>Apparently convinced, he ran into the tent, whence
came in a minute an excited murmur of voices.</p>
<p>A heavy cloud was across the moon, but I could make
out the pair fumbling for their bridles amongst a heap of
saddlery at the foot of a sapling.</p>
<p>Meanwhile the horse was making ineffectual tugs at the
bridle to get its head down to some dry tussocks growing
near. But all its straining could not relax by one inch
the steel-like grip of those dead fingers. Only the corpse
at each jerk nodded in a ghastly cordial sort of fashion.</p>
<p>Presently, moonlight filled the little plain again, and
the horse, growing impatient, turned and made off towards
the sound of the distant bells.</p>
<p>Taking heart of grace, I ran up and caught it. As I
led it back I noticed that the rider’s legs were bound
tightly to the saddle by straps passed from the front D’s
over the thighs to the ones on the cantle.</p>
<p>As I began to undo them I saw the man slinging off
into the scrub with the woman at his heels. I shouted
to them. But they took no notice.</p>
<p>Working away at the knots and buckles, the chin-strap
slipped, the jaw fell, and the gleaming teeth showed in
such an awful grin that I involuntarily stepped back.</p>
<p>Now the hat tumbled off, revealing the features of a
young man with coal-black hair and moustache, and
beard flecked with spots of dry white foam.</p>
<p>Even at its best, I should have called it a hard, cruel
face. It was simply hideous now.</p>
<p><a name="png.032" id="png.032" href="#png.032"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>18<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>As I stood irresolutely staring, a voice behind me made
me jump. It was the woman.</p>
<p>‘Here,’ she said, as with trembling fingers she essayed
to loosen the dead grasp on the reins, ‘I’ll help you. He
was a real bad un! But he couldn’t scare me when he
were alive, an’ I aint goin’ to let him do it now. See’
(pointing to the cut on her forehead), ‘this is the last
thing he done. Slip your knife through them reins,’ she
continued. ‘He’s had a fit, or a stroke o’ the sun, an’
he’ll never slacken his grip, no more’n he would my
throat if he could ha’ got hold on it. He was my husband;
an’ jealous of his own shadder. But I never minded
much till he took to knockin’ me about. I couldn’t
stand that. So I cleared with Jim yonder.’</p>
<p>By this, we had undone the saddle and breast-plate
straps with which the man, feeling himself mortally
struck, and wishful to avoid falling off and lying there to
rot in that wild scrub, had, in perhaps his last agony, tied
himself to the saddle. And between us we let him slide
gently down on to the sand, whilst the horse shook itself,
sniffed unconcernedly at the body, and wandered away
to the others.</p>
<p>For a while she stood gazing on the thing as it lay
there with stiffly curved legs and upturned glassy
eyes.</p>
<p>Then she smiled a little out of a white face, set hard
with horror and detestation, <span class="nw">saying,—</span></p>
<p>‘After all, perhaps, he thought a lot of me!’ And,
going to the tent, she returned with a blanket, and carefully
spread it over the corpse.</p>
<p><a name="png.033" id="png.033" href="#png.033"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>19<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Then, as the man came up with the horses and began
to saddle them, she said, holding out her <span class="nw">hand,—</span></p>
<p>‘So long! an’ many thanks. You’ve bin a real right
bower. We’re a-goin’ into the Bridge, an’ we’ll send
the traps out, all square an’ fair. So long! agen.’</p>
<p>‘So long, mate!’ shouted the man, with a tremor in
his voice lacking in the woman’s. And then they rode
away, two dark shapes against the moonlit scrub.</p>
<p>‘Died by the visitation of God,’ said the Coroner’s Jury.</p>
<p>‘Served him damned well right!’ said the district
generally, who knew the story.</p>
<p>But travellers along the Maranoa track make a point of
giving ‘Dead Man’s Camp’ a very wide berth.</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="The Shanghai-ing of Peter Barlow"><a name="png.034" id="png.034" href="#png.034"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>20<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>THE SHANGHAI-ING OF PETER
BARLOW.</h2>
<p class="noindent">‘<span class="smc">Yes</span>, Peter, no doubt they’re a couple of fine colts, and
should make good steppers. I hope you’ll have them
well broken in for the drag by the time I return. Then,
with the other pair of browns, they ought to turn out
about the smartest four-in-hand in the district.’</p>
<p>‘Goin’ away, sir?’ asked Peter Barlow, Head Stockman
and Chief of Horse at Wicklow Downs.</p>
<p>‘Yes, Peter; I’m thinking of taking a trip to the Old
Country,’ replied Mr Forrest, owner of the big cattle
station on the border. ‘I mean to take Mrs Forrest and
the children, and be away twelve months; so you’ll have
plenty of time to fix up a team. We start in three weeks
from to-day.’</p>
<p>‘Well, sir,’ said Peter, ‘afore you goes I shouldn’t
mind takin’ a spell down country myself, if you haven’t
no objection.’</p>
<p>His employer turned sharply round from the horse-yard
rail, and looked at the young fellow.</p>
<p>Twenty-five, born on the station, an orphan, fairly
steady, very useful, the best rough-rider in the district,
<a name="png.035" id="png.035" href="#png.035"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>21<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>never more than fifty miles away from home in his life.
Such was the record of Peter Barlow, who chewed a
straw, and smiled as he noticed his master’s surprise.</p>
<p>‘Why, what’s bitten you, my lad,’ said the latter, ‘that
you want to get away amongst the spielers and forties of
the big smoke? Isn’t Combington large enough for a
spree?’</p>
<p>‘Well, sir,’ replied Peter, rather sheepishly, ‘you see,
they’re always a-poking borack an’ a-chiackin’ o’ me over
in the hut because I’ve never seed nothin’. There’s
chaps there as has been everywheres, an’ can talk nineteen
to the dozen o’ the things they’ve gone through, an’
me a-settin’ listenin’ like a stuffed dummy.’</p>
<p>‘I see, Peter,’ said Mr Forrest, laughing, ‘you want to
travel. “Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits,”
eh, Peter? Believe me, my lad, for all that, you’re
better off as you are, notwithstanding the gas of those
other fellows. However, you may take a month if you
like. I think, though, that you’ll be glad to get back in
the half of it. But how would it do for you to come
down with us? I shall be staying in town for a week or
so, and could often see you, and that you didn’t get into
any mischief.’</p>
<p>But Peter shook his head sagely, <span class="nw">saying,—</span></p>
<p>‘You see, sir, I’d like to git back in about a fortnight
or so. There’s that lot o’ calves in the heifer paddock
to be weaned, an’ that last lot o’ foals ’ll want brandin’,
<span class="nw">an’—’</span></p>
<p>‘All right, Peter, my boy,’ interrupted the squatter,
laughing again. ‘Put money in thy purse, go forth and
<a name="png.036" id="png.036" href="#png.036"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>22<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>see the world. Only, when you’re tired, don’t forget the
track back to the old station.’</p>
<p>So, after a day or two, Peter rode 150 miles to
the railway terminus, and, leaving his horse in a paddock,
embarked on a very strange adventure, and one
that will be handed down with ever-increasing embroidery
to each generation of Barlows, until, in time,
the narrative overshadows that of Munchausen. It
would be tedious to attempt to depict Peter’s astonishment
at the first sight of steam. As a matter of fact, he
was not a bit surprised—or, if he was, he didn’t show it.
It takes more than the first sight of an express train to
upset the marvellous stoicism, or adaptability—which is
it?—of the Native-Born. It takes all that subsequently
befel<!-- TN: a bit old-fashioned but ok by OED --> to do so. Peter arrived in safety at the first large
inland town. Here he tarried awhile and enjoyed himself
after the manner of his kind. He stared into shop
windows; went to a race meeting, and there lost five
pounds to a monte man. With a dim notion percolating
under his cabbage-tree that he had been cheated, he
made a furious attack on both man and table. Sequel—five
shillings or twenty-four hours. This, now, was something
like life! Would he not soon be able to ruffle it
with the loudest of them on his return?</p>
<p>After this exploit Peter decided to proceed on his travels.</p>
<p>His first emotion of expressed surprise was displayed
at sight of the sea. As the train ran along the embankment,
and the stretch of water studded with ships’ masts
caught his eye, he <span class="nw">exclaimed,—</span></p>
<p>‘By Jinks! that’s a thunderin’ big lagoon if yer likes.
<a name="png.037" id="png.037" href="#png.037"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>23<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>But what’s all that dead timber a-stickin’ up in it?
Must ha’ been a good-sized flood hereabout!’</p>
<p>Then his fellow-travellers laughed; and Peter, abashed,
withdrew into himself, but stared steadily over that
wondrous expanse of water whose like so far exceeded
his imaginings.</p>
<p>At the port Fate led him—of all people in the world—to
put up at a sailors’ boarding-house. And here, for the
first time in his life, he found himself an oracle.</p>
<p>Many sailors ‘go up the Bush.’ But those who get so
far as where Peter hailed from seldom or never return to
the sea.</p>
<p>Therefore, no one criticising, wondrous were the yarns
he spun to an ever-shifting audience of all nations. Wondrous
yarns of fierce blacks, of men perishing of thirst and
hunger in the lonely bush, of wild cattle, of bucking horses,
of the far inland life. And, in return, they told him tales of
the stormy seas, and drank heartily at his expense. The
port was busy, wages high, and men scarce. But Peter’s
audience never failed him. The fame of the ‘Jolly
Bushman down at Gallagher’s’ had spread about the
shipping, and whole crews used to drop in of an evening
to listen to Peter and drink his beer and rum.</p>
<p>It would have taken a longer purse than Peter’s to
stand this kind of thing.</p>
<p>He had put aside enough money to take him back, and
now he resolved to travel no further. He had heard and
seen sufficient; and, above all, been listened to with
deference and attention.</p>
<p>Besides, had he not been on board of ships and there
<a name="png.038" id="png.038" href="#png.038"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>24<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>drank rum of such strength as made his very hair stand
on end; and eaten biscuits and salt junk.</p>
<p>Moreover, once his friends had taken him out and
away upon the ‘lagoon,’ away so far, than when he
looked for his native land he beheld it not. Then the
water, hitherto smooth, gradually began to heave and
swell into hills as tall as the Wonga Ranges, and,
presently, he fell deadly sick and lay in the salt water in
the boat’s bottom, feeling as if the very soul-bolts were
being wrenched out of him.</p>
<p>Afterwards his friends had apologised, and said something
about ‘a squall.’ But Peter would venture no more.</p>
<p>These things, and many others, would he have to tell.
Also the time was approaching for the weaning of calves
and branding of foals. He had spent nearly all his money.
But that did not trouble him. For the future he must be a
bold man who, in the hut, or on the run, could snub Peter
Barlow. One last jovial evening he and his sea-friends
would have together, and then, hey for the far-inland
scrubs and rolling downs.</p>
<p>So far as Peter recollected, it <em>was</em> a jovial evening.
He had sung his famous ballad of ‘The Wild Australian
Boy,’ applauded to the echo as he had never been at
home. He had drunk healths innumerable in divers
liquors; had accepted as much strong ‘niggerhead’ in
parting gifts—it was all they possessed—as would have
stocked a tobacconist’s shop, and seen the last guest
lurch out into the night.</p>
<p>Then Gallagher had proposed one more drink, ‘for
luck!’ After that—oblivion.</p>
<p class="tb"><a name="png.039" id="png.039" href="#png.039"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>25<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>When Peter awoke, his first thought was that he must
have fallen asleep in the saddle, as he had done before
now when camping out with cattle from the back of the run.</p>
<p>But, on this occasion, his throat was hot and dry, and
his head full of ringing bells. Raising himself, he
bumped his nose sharply, and fell back to consider.</p>
<p>It was almost dark, and he could hear a noise of wind
and of rushing waters. Also he felt a rocking motion
which assuredly was not that of a feeding horse.</p>
<p>He had heard the same sounds and felt the same
motion recently, but he could not recollect when.
Presently a door slid open, and a flood of sunshine came
in, with a black face in the midst of it.</p>
<p>‘Ahi,’ said a voice, as Peter blinked at its owner.
‘You ’wake now, eh? Copper hot, I ’spect? Have
drink?’ and the speaker handed up a hook-pot full of
water.</p>
<p>Peter drank copiously, and made shift to get out.</p>
<p>‘Where the blazes am I?’ he exclaimed, weak and
trembling all over, as his feet touched the deck.</p>
<p>‘Barque <cite>John F. Harkins</cite>, o’ Boston, State o’ Maine.
I’m de doctor. Guess you’ve been shanghaied. Best
come out afore de greaser gets mad.’</p>
<p>This was Greek to poor Peter. But, stumbling over
the door-sill, he gazed about him with a wildly-amazed
look, which made the negro cook grin more widely than
ever.</p>
<p>All around was blue water, blue water from where it
touched the sky-line to where, close to him, it rushed
<a name="png.040" id="png.040" href="#png.040"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>26<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>swiftly past, curling, white-tipped. Above his head acres
of snowy canvas bellied in graceful curves aloft into a
blue sky; everywhere a maze of ropes and gear, crossed
and re-crossed like the threads of a spider’s web.</p>
<p>Peter gasped. He was astonished and dismayed too
deeply for words; and at the expression of his face the
darkey laughed outright.</p>
<p>The ship giving a sudden lurch, he staggered, slipped
over to leeward, and clutched a belaying pin. Then he
heard a bell strike somewhere. Then men came out of a
hole in the deck near by, and one, staring hard, <span class="nw">exclaimed,—</span></p>
<p>‘Why, damn my rags, if this ain’t the Jolly Bushman
come to sea!’</p>
<p>‘What!’ shouted the mate, walking for’ard to meet his
watch. ‘Isn’t he a sailor-man?’</p>
<p>‘Nary sailor-man,’ replied the other. ‘He’s a fellow
from the country—a good sort o’ chap—but as green’s
they make ’em as regards o’ salt water.’</p>
<p>‘Damn that Gallagher!’ exclaimed the officer. ‘He
brought the coon aboard, an’ got the bounty, swearin’ he
was a shellback all over—blood Stockholm tar, and every
hair on his head a rope yarn! If ever we fetch Coalport
again I’ll skin that Irish thief!’</p>
<p>So also affirmed the captain of the <cite>John F. Harkins</cite>,
who was out of pocket a month’s advance, besides two
pounds “head money,” to the crimp who had netted
poor Peter.</p>
<p>Luckily, very luckily for Peter, he had not fallen into
the hands of a set of ‘white-washed Americans,’
half Irish, half anything, proficients in the art of
<a name="png.041" id="png.041" href="#png.041"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>27<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>sea-bullying, and in the use of revolvers and knuckle-dusters.</p>
<p>The officers and most of the men of the <cite>John F.</cite> were
genuine Down-Easters, natives of Salem, Martha’s Vineyard,
and thereabout, shrewd and kindly people; and,
though all naturally indignant at the trick played upon
them, too just to visit their wrath on its unfortunate object.</p>
<p>Presently Peter was recognised by the steward, who
had tasted of his hospitality ashore, and who now, seeing
the poor fellow still suffering from the effects of the
narcotic administered in that last ‘for luck’ drink of
scamp Gallagher’s, put him to bed and brought him
restoratives. So, in due course, Peter became his own
man again, and got fine-weather sea-legs upon him, and
would have been comparatively happy but for thoughts
of those far-away calves and foals, and the clumsy fingers
of a certain assistant stockman. They taught him how
to sweep decks, coil up ropes, and make sinnet. They
also coaxed him aloft; but he never could get further up
the rigging than the futtock-shrouds. There he stuck
helplessly, and over them he never went. He was young
and light and active; but, somehow, he couldn’t bend his
body outward into empty air and trust its weight to
a little bit of rope no thicker than a clothes-line. It
didn’t seem natural. One cannot make a sailor at
twenty-five.</p>
<p>The <cite>John F.</cite> was bound for Colombo, thence to Hamburg,
and, so far, everything had been fine sailing. But
one day a dead-ahead gale arose and blew fiercely for
three days.</p>
<p><a name="png.042" id="png.042" href="#png.042"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>28<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Then it was that Peter began to realise earnestly what
he had before but dimly suspected, viz., that on such an
occasion one foot of dry land is worth ten thousand
acres of foaming ocean. Easier by far would it have
been for him to sit the roughest colt that ever
bucked than to stand a minute erect on the barque’s
deck.</p>
<p>Of such jumping and rearing, plunging and swerving,
Peter had possessed no conception before, except in the
saddle. There, however, he would have been comparatively
safe. Here he was tossed about apparently at
the pleasure of the great creature beneath him—one
minute on to the back of his head, the next in the
lee-scuppers. When he arose, dripping and grasping
blindly for support, the rushing past of big seas, the wild,
stern hum in the strained rigging, the roar of the blast
in the bellies of the tugging topsails, and the swirling of
green water round his legs, so bewildered him that he
was unable to distinguish one end of the ship from the
other.</p>
<p>Under the circumstances, he did the wisest thing he
could, and turned into his bunk. There he lay, and
wondered with all his might why men should go to sea.</p>
<p>On the fourth day, the gale moderating, they made sail
again. During this operation an unfortunate A.B. fell from
the main-yard, and broke his leg. The captain did his
best, but he was, like the rest, quite unskilled, and the
poor fellow lay in agony. Two days after this, when
nearly a calm, the mate roused the skipper out of a nap
<span class="nw">with,—</span></p>
<p><a name="png.043" id="png.043" href="#png.043"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>29<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Here’s one of them big packet boats a-overhaulin’ us,
sir.’</p>
<p>‘Well,’ replied the skipper sleepily, ‘what about it?
Let her rip. I don’t want her. Wish we had her wind,
that’s all.’</p>
<p>‘Poor Bill’s leg, sir,’ answered the other.</p>
<p>‘Why, of course; I forgot,’ said the skipper. ‘Stop the
beggar, by all manner of means. She’ll have a doctor,
an’ ice, an’ all sorts o’ fixin’s on board. Run the gridiron
half-mast, Mr Stokes. They packets don’t care much
about losin’ time for sich a trifle as a broken leg, but thet
oughter ease her down.’</p>
<p>And so it did. No sooner was the American flag seen
flying half-way up the signal halliards than the steamer
kept away, and came thundering down upon the barque.</p>
<p>‘What’s the matter?’ shouted someone, as she slowed
nearly alongside.</p>
<p>‘A doctor!’ roared the mate. ‘Man very bad with a
broken leg!’</p>
<p>‘Send him on board, and look smart,’ was the reply.</p>
<p>So a boat was lowered, and amongst its crew was Peter
Barlow, who, from the first, had been told off to attend
the injured man, and who assisted to carry him up the
gangway-ladder of the R.M.S. <cite>Barcelona</cite>.</p>
<p>‘Umph, umph,’ said the surgeon; ‘he’ll have to stay
here if he wants to save his leg.’ Then to Peter, ‘Off
you go back, my lad, and get his kit and what money’s
coming to him. It’ll be many a long day before he sails
the sea again.’</p>
<p>But Peter, whose eyes had been roving over the
<a name="png.044" id="png.044" href="#png.044"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>30<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>surrounding crowd, suddenly, to the medico’s astonishment,
shouting,—‘The boss, by G—d!’ rushed through the
people, and, regardless of appearances, seized a gentleman’s
hand and shook it frantically, <span class="nw">exclaiming,—</span></p>
<p>‘Oh, Mr Forrest, sir, don’t you know me? I’m Peter,
sir—Peter Barlow, from the ole station. I’ve been
shanghaied an’ locussed away to sea, an’ I wants to git
back home again!’</p>
<p>Mr Forrest was more astonished than Peter at such a
meeting. Matters, however, were soon arranged.</p>
<p>Peter went on to Colombo in the <cite>Barcelona</cite>, and, in a
fortnight, joining another boat, duly arrived at Wicklow
Downs, whence he has never since stirred.</p>
<p>And, if the reader chance one day to journey thither,
he may hear at first hand this story, embellished with
breezy Bush idioms and phrases that render it infinitely
more graphic and stirring a version, but which, somehow,
do not read well in type.</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="‘Ex Sardanapalus’"><a name="png.045" id="png.045" href="#png.045"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>31<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘EX SARDANAPALUS.’</h2>
<p class="noindent">‘<span class="smc">Make</span> it eight bells! Go below, the starboard watch!’</p>
<p>A few minutes later, and eight men sat on eight sea-chests,
looking hungrily across at one another. Between
them lay an empty meat-kid.<a name="fn1" id="fn1"></a><a title="Go to footnote 1"
href="#Footnote1" class="fnanchor"><span
class="ns">[Footnote </span>1<span class="ns">]
</span></a> In a box alongside were
some biscuits, black and honeycombed with weevil-holes.
Dinner was over in the <cite>Sardanapalus’</cite> fo’c’stle, but still
her starboard watch glared hungrily at each other.</p>
<p>‘I’ve lost two good stone since I jined this starvation
hooker!’ presently growled one. ‘I ain’t never full, and
I kin feel them cussed worms out o’ the bread a-crawlin’
about in my stummick like so many snakeses.’</p>
<p>‘Same ’ere, matey,’ chimed in another. ‘A mouthful
o’ salt horse an’ a bite o’ rotten bread for breakfus, ditto
for dinner, an’ a soldier’s supper;<a name="fn2" id="fn2"></a><a title="Go to footnote 2"
href="#Footnote2" class="fnanchor"><span
class="ns">[Footnote </span>2<span class="ns">]
</span></a> with lime-juice an’
winegar chucked in, according to the Hack,<a name="fn3" id="fn3"></a><a title="Go to footnote 3"
href="#Footnote3" class="fnanchor"><span
class="ns">[Footnote </span>3<span class="ns">]
</span></a> ain’t to say
fattenin’.’</p>
<p>‘That’s wot’s the matter, when the skipper finds the
ship,’ remarked a third. ‘Yer gets yer whack, an’ ye gits
nae mair, as the Scotchies has it.’</p>
<p>‘We doesn’t even get that itself,’ put in another, who
<a name="png.046" id="png.046" href="#png.046"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>32<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>was sitting on the edge of his bunk. ‘That yaller hound
of a steward gives short weight all round. <!-- TN: superfluous opening single quote -->Lord!’ he
continued, ‘only to think that, this time last year, I was
a-smackin’ my chops over mutton uns; an’ full and plenty
of everythin’ in the Hostralian Bush. What a hass I was
to leave it! One’d think there was some sort o’ damned
magic in the sea to be able to draw a feller a thousand
miles down from good times, good tucker, good pay, an’
all night in, with a spree whenever you felt fit.’</p>
<p>‘Too good, Billy, altogether,’ piped up a grey-headed
old chap. ‘An’ that’s what’s the matter. You gets up
the Bush, you gets as fat as a bacon hog, you lives like a
gentleman, an’, in the long run, it don’t agree with your
constitooshun. You gets the boil,<a name="fn4" id="fn4"></a><a title="Go to footnote 4"
href="#Footnote4" class="fnanchor"><span
class="ns">[Footnote </span>4<span class="ns">]
</span></a> an’ your liver turns
a sort o’ dandy-grey, russet-colour, and you misses the
gravy-eye<a name="fn5" id="fn5"></a><a title="Go to footnote 5"
href="#Footnote5" class="fnanchor"><span
class="ns">[Footnote </span>5<span class="ns">]
</span></a> trick at the wheel, an’ you misses the jumpin’
out o’ a wet bunk, all standin’ in wet clothes, and the
hissle o’ the gale in your ears, an’ the woof o’ the cold
water over your boot-tops, an’ down the small o’ your
back as ye comes a-shiverin’ an’ a-shakin’ on deck.
You’ve bin used to this sort o’ thing all your life, Billy,
an’ your liver an’ all the other innard parts gives notice
when they’re a-tired o’ the soft lyin’ an’ the good livin’
up-country, an’ drives ye back to the old life an’ the old
ways agin. That’s where the magic comes in, my
son.’</p>
<p>After this there was silence for a while. Each man’s
face poked over his bunk with a short clay pipe in its
<a name="png.047" id="png.047" href="#png.047"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>33<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>mouth. Strong, rank fumes of tobacco filled the
place.</p>
<p>‘I say, boys,’ suddenly exclaimed one, ‘what’s this
hooker got in her?’</p>
<p>‘General,’ replied the old man, whose name was
Nestor. ‘I heerd the customs officer at Gravesend say
as it was one o’ the walluablest general cargers as ’ad
ever left the docks.’</p>
<p>‘Well then, mates,’ said the other, ‘all I’ve got to remark
is as we’re the biggest an’ softest set o’ fools as ever
left the docks, to go a-starvin’ in this fashion, when t’other
side o’ that there bulkhead’s every sort o’ tucker you can
mention.’</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>‘Make it eight bells! Go below, the starboard watch!’</p>
<p>The same eight men sat on their respective sea-chests.</p>
<p>Between them stood their allowance of beef and biscuit.
But it was untouched. Yet the meal had been in
progress an hour.</p>
<p>Alongside of him every man had one or more tins of
some kind of preserved provisions, out of which he was
keeping his plate supplied to an accompaniment of plain
and fancy biscuits.</p>
<p>‘Try a little o’ this ’ere fresh herrin’, Jim,’ said one to
his neighbour very politely; ‘I kin recommend it as
tasty.’</p>
<p>‘Thank ye, Billy (looking at the label, and passing his
own tin), and ’ere’s some sheep’s tongues with tomaty
sauce, which p’raps ’ll remind you on the Bush of Australier.’</p>
<p><a name="png.048" id="png.048" href="#png.048"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>34<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Ah, if we’d only a drop o’ good stuff now, to wash
these ’ere tiddlewinks down with,’ exclaimed Nestor, ‘I’d
feel happy as a king—an’ as full!’</p>
<p>‘All in good time, dad,’ remarked Billy; ‘this ’ere’s
only what the swells’d call a hinstalment—a triflin’ hinstalment
o’ what the <cite>Sardinapples</cite> owes us for a whole
month’s out-an’-out starvin’. Just wait awhile till we
gets to the bottled ale an’ porter, which’ll likely be in
the lower tiers, an’ then we’ll begin to live like gentlemen-shellbacks
oughter.’</p>
<p>‘I votes as how we should let on to the port watch,’
presently said a man, as he finished off his repast with a
handful of muscatels and blanched almonds.</p>
<p>‘Ay,’ responded old Nestor. ‘It do seem mean, us
livin’ high, an’ them a-drawin’ their belts tighter every
day. Besides,’ added he, meditatively, ‘company is
pleasing; an’ there’ll be all the more for Pentridge. Not
that I thinks it needs come to that if we’re careful. But
(with a doubtful shake of the head) I’m afraid the grog’ll
be too much for some of us when we gits to it.’</p>
<p>A word here as to the <cite>Sardanapalus</cite>.</p>
<p>She was one of the old-fashioned frigate-built ships—somewhat
slow, but comfortable.<!-- TN: punctuation invisible --> Carrying, as per
owner’s advertisement, ‘a first-class milch cow and surgeon,’
she was rather a favourite with that description of
passengers who, obeying a doctor’s prescription, were
obliged to take ‘a long sea voyage.’ The passage money
was very high. There were no ‘intermediates,’ no subdivisions.
A very good table was kept, and the ‘dog-basket’
and ‘menavelings’ from it alone would have
<a name="png.049" id="png.049" href="#png.049"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>35<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>supplied the fo’c’stle twice over. But for these leavings
a host of ill-fed, brass-bound apprentices, boys, and
petty officers were ever on the watch—the former knowing
as crows, sharp as kites. Foremast Jack had not the
ghost of a chance with them.</p>
<p>Ever since she slipped along the ways the <cite>Sardanapalus</cite>
had borne the reputation of being a ‘hungry ship.’
More than half-a-dozen times had she hauled into dock
with a collar of clean picked beef bones around her
figure-head. It was currently understood that the
skipper ‘found’ the ship. He was an Orkney man,
owned a part of her; and probably did so. She was a
regular trader at that time. She is now a custom-house
hulk in an East Indian harbour.</p>
<p>The chief officer was a native of Vermont, U.S., and,
with regard to the crew, a bit of a bully. As he was
wont to often inform them, with the national snuffle
<span class="nw">intensified,—</span></p>
<p>‘I’m a big lump of a horse—a high-bred stepper—an’
when I kick bones fly.’</p>
<p>He came out a loser by this gift, as will be presently
seen.</p>
<p>Long before the opening of this yarn the crew had
remonstrated with their superiors about their food. The
captain had laughed at them, and the mate inquired
whether they imagined the <cite>Sardanapalus</cite> had been
specially fitted out as a cook-shop for their pleasure.</p>
<p>Perhaps it was this that now made them linger joyfully
over their stolen meals; and, occasionally, explore with
naked lights the ‘general’ when they ought to have
<a name="png.050" id="png.050" href="#png.050"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>36<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>been sleeping on empty stomachs in their watch
below.</p>
<p>It being an article of faith with the crew that the chief
mate was responsible for the cargo, they felt a thorough
pleasure in its total destruction. Nestor, old sea-lawyer
that he was, had told them that, although a parcel might
be opened and the contents abstracted, yet, could the
smallest portion of the case, cask, or whatever it chanced
to be, be produced, the mate would be held blameless.
But, on the other hand, if not a vestige of anything were
to be found to correspond with the item in the manifest,
then would the chief assuredly be mulcted in the full
value of the missing article. With this devoutly-wished-for
end in view, any light package was dragged for’ard,
handed up, and given a free passage. This was criminal
and indefensible. But they hated the Yankee with a
very hearty hatred. Had they not been able to discharge
some of it in this manner there would have surely been a
mutiny, and possibly bloodshed, before the termination
of the passage.</p>
<p>In his character of ‘horse’ the mate had one day
broken a poor submissive German sailor’s ribs by repeated
kicks from his heavy sea-boots. Such things
create antipathies, even on board ship. Consignors and
consignees alike would have danced with wrath and
anguish could they have witnessed that night’s jettison.</p>
<p>The forecastle was what is known as a ‘lower’ one.
A bulkhead separated the two watches. This partition
was composed of very heavy hardwood planking, on the
after side of which was the fore-hatchway, filled up to
<a name="png.051" id="png.051" href="#png.051"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>37<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>within six feet of the deck by a collection of sails, rope,
water-tanks, bundles of hay for the cow, etc. Aft of
these, at about the same height, stretched the cargo. It
will thus be noticed that the <cite>Sardanapalus</cite> was not a
‘full ship.’</p>
<p>The starboard watch had removed two of the broad
massive bulk-head planks. The port watch two also.
At such times as a fresh supply of provisions was needed,
four men from each watch in turn exploited the cargo.
The others kept a look-out aft, and stood by the scuttle
to receive and give things ‘a passage.’ As time passed,
the crew, under the new regimen, began to grow fat and
jolly-looking. They worked with a will, and as a pleasure
to themselves. Also, to the utter astonishment of their
superiors, they sang and skylarked in the second dog watch.</p>
<p>‘And these,’ exclaimed the captain, ‘are the scoundrels
who growled about their food!’</p>
<p>He visited the galley, and sniffed and peered into the
fo’c’sle coppers, and also cross-examined the cook and the
steward.</p>
<p>‘Give the beggars more rice,’ said he to the latter
official—a sleek, oily quadroon. ‘Let ’em have “banyan
day” three times a week. We’ll have enough meat
left then for the trip home without buying any in
port.’</p>
<p>The crew grinned, but said nothing. The skipper was
bothered.</p>
<p>‘Had the fore-hatch off yesterday, didn’t you?’ he
asked the mate.</p>
<p>‘Yaas, sir,’ snuffled he.</p>
<p><a name="png.052" id="png.052" href="#png.052"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>38<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Everythin’ seem all right? No cargo shifted or
broached?’</p>
<p>‘Naw,’ replied the mate; ‘seems ’bout the saame as
when we left dock; an’ I oughter know, for I hed a sight
o’ trouble fixin’ that deadweight so’s to trim her forrard.
I wonder, naow,’<!-- TN: original has double quote --> he continued with a chuckle as at some
joke, ‘how <em>It’s</em> a-gettin’ on down below thar?’</p>
<p>‘Damn <em>It</em>!’ answered the captain shortly, as he turned
away. He was in a bad temper that night. He hated
to hear the men jolly; and instead of lying moodily about,
silent and depressed, as of yore, in the six till eight
watch, here were both watches on the t’gallant fo’c’stle
putting all the strength of their united lungs into ‘Marching
through Georgia.’</p>
<p>Such a thing had never happened to Captain Flett
before, and he took it as a personal insult. The mate,
snubbed, went down on the main-deck and put a stopper
on the singing with a yell of ‘Lee fore-braces there, and
chuck yourselves about a bit!’ The yards didn’t want
trimming in the least. So the men, who knew this,
pulled slowly and silent, each with his mouth full of
choice sweetmeats discovered the night previous.</p>
<p>As yet they had found no strong liquors. But they
had found nearly everything else. ‘Dry goods’ of every
description, jewellery, clocks, firearms, stationery, patent
medicines, etc. They had commenced operations, in
the first place, under the main hatch, leaving all the fore
part of the hold untouched. Without a purposeful
search, no one would imagine cargo to have been
broached. The throwing things, except <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">débris</i>—empty
<a name="png.053" id="png.053" href="#png.053"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>39<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>cases, bottles, baskets, etc.—overboard had been discontinued.
It took up too much time, and the labour was
too heavy. Besides, reckoning by Nestor’s calculation,
the mate’s pay-day was worth already some hundreds of
pounds less than nothing.</p>
<p>But one night, coming across a case of toilet soaps,
pomades, scented oils, etc., the temptation proved irresistible,
and a stock was laid in. The love of personal
adornment runs strong at all times in Jack’s heart. On
the following Sunday morning the t’gallant fo’c’sle
resembled a barber’s shop in a big way of business. Jack
clipped and shaved and anointed himself until he fairly
shone and reeked with the produce of Rimmel. Never had
fore part of ship smelled so sweetly. The passengers staggered
about with their heads well up, sniffing delightedly.</p>
<p>‘Oh, captain,’ said one—a gushing widow whose age
was uncertain, but mourning fresh—‘we really must be
approaching some tropical climes. These are the lovely
“spicy breezes,” you know, “blowing soft o’er Ceylon’s
isle.”’</p>
<p>The skipper didn’t know, but, sniffing also, <span class="nw">answered,—</span></p>
<p>‘Very likely, ma’am. But there’s no islands nearer ’n
Tristan da Cunha, an’ I don’t think that there’s much
spice about that one. I expect,’ he continued, glancing
for’ard, ‘that it’s some of the hands titivatin’ themselves
up. You see, ma’am, these scamps get all sorts of
rubbishy oils and essences on an eastern voyage. One
of ’em’s evidently found a bottle or two in the locker of
his chest; and, now, he and his mates are swabbing
themselves down with it.’</p>
<p><a name="png.054" id="png.054" href="#png.054"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>40<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Dear me, how very interesting,’ replied the widow
blandly, with a languishing glance at the skipper. ‘But’<!-- TN: closing quote invisible -->
(as a burst of hoarse laughter came on the scented wind)
‘they’re a terribly rough set, are they not, captain? I’m
sure, but for yourself and your brave officers, I shouldn’t
feel safe for a minute. I think I heard someone say, too,
that they actually complained about their food at the
beginning of the journey.’</p>
<p>This was touching the skipper on a tender spot.</p>
<p>‘At first, ma’am, at first,’<!-- TN: original has double quote --> assented he severely, after a
sharp suspicious look at the somewhat faded features.
‘But they’ve found me out, now, ma’am. They know
John Flett’s up to ’em and their little games. The less
food you give a sailor, ma’am, the better he works. Full
an’ plenty’s a mistake. Give ’em a belly full an’ they’ll
growl from mornin’ till night, an’ all night through.
They’ll growl, ma’am, I do assure you, at the very best of
beef and pork, the whitest of biscuits, an’ the plumpest
of rice. Growl! They’d growl if you gave ’em toasted
angels!’</p>
<p>‘What horrible wretches!’ exclaimed the widow sympathetically.
‘And what a lot of worry you must have
with them, captain!’</p>
<p>‘No one but myself can imagine it, ma’am,’ replied
the skipper, as he moved off, meditating on the possibility
of stopping the usual dole of treacle for the Sunday
duff. That laughter from for’ard annoyed him beyond
endurance.</p>
<p>Presently the cuddy went to luncheon; and the starboard
watch to its dinner.</p>
<p><a name="png.055" id="png.055" href="#png.055"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>41<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>The lump of dark unleavened dough and hook-pot
full of molasses were there, but untouched, and awaiting
the ocean sepulchre which had been their fate for many
past Sundays.</p>
<p>‘I ralely don’t know what this is,’ said Bill, as he
helped himself to a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">paté de foie gras</i> out of a dozen which
lay on the deck. ‘But whatever it is, it ain’t to be
sneezed at. Some sorter swell pie, I reckons. Talk
’bout jelly, lor! What you got there, Ned?’</p>
<p>‘Looks like soup an’ bully ’ithout the bully,’ answered
the man addressed, who was pouring a steaming mixture
out of a tin which he had just taken from over the big
slush lamp—‘But it says on the paper “Ju-li-enne.”
Sounds as if some woman had a hand in it. It don’t
go very high,’ he resumed, after a few mouthfuls, ‘seems
thinnish-like—no body—give us some o’ your meat to
mix with it, Nestor.’</p>
<p>‘’Taint meat,’ said the old man. ‘It’s what they calls
jugged ’are, and there’s no bones in it.’</p>
<p>‘Pity we couldn’t manage to hot this duff up,’ sighed
one, cutting a huge slice off a big plum pudding; ‘but
they’d smell it all over the ship.’</p>
<p>‘The cake for me!’ exclaimed another, attacking one
of Gunter’s masterpieces. ‘I ain’t seen a three-decker
like this since I was a kid, an’ used to hang about
smellin’ at the tip-top cook-shops in the Mile-End Road!’</p>
<p>‘Wade in, my bullies, an’ line yer ribs,’ croaked old
Nestor. ‘It’s the spiciest Sunday’s feed I’ve ’ad in forty
year o’ the sea. I kin do three months chokey at the
end o’ this trip, flyin’; an’ kin live on the smell of an
<a name="png.056" id="png.056" href="#png.056"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>42<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>oil rag all the time! If we on’y ’ad a few nips a-piece,
now, it would be parfect!’</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>Midnight in the hold of the <cite>Sardanapalus</cite>. Four
red spots moving slowly about in the thick gloom.
From the irregular, tightly-packed mass proceeds all
sorts of eerie creakings and groanings. The ship is
pitching into a head sea and, at times, a wave catching
her a thunderous slap, makes her seem to fairly stand
still and shudder all over. The atmosphere is thick,
and stuffy with an indescribable stuffiness. Presently
the four points of light clustered together.</p>
<p>‘What is it, I wonder?’ said Billy, sticking his candle
into a crevice, and pointing to a long, square, narrow
case embedded in a pile of others.</p>
<p>‘Don’t know,’ replied another, stooping. ‘Got no
marks, only “<i>Ex Sardinapples</i>—With great care.” Had
any luck, you two?’</p>
<p>‘Try this,’ answered one, holding out a bottle which
old Nestor immediately clutched.</p>
<p>‘Wine o’ some sort,’ was his verdict. ‘Poor stuff—got
no grip o’ the throat—sourish. Let’s see what it sez
on the bottle. “Chat-oo Mar-goox,” read he, straddling,
with legs wide apart, and bottle and candle close to his nose.</p>
<p>‘Ay, ay,’ he continued, ‘I thought’s much. Dutch,
I reckon. Much the same kind o’ tipple as ye gets at
the dance-houses in Hamburg. We wants a warmer
drink for these ’ere latichudes—not but what it’s a cut
above that sarseperiller, an’ ’op bitters, an’ such like slush
as we bin livin’ on lately.’</p>
<p><a name="png.057" id="png.057" href="#png.057"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>43<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Well,<!-- TN: original has period -->’ asked Billy, tapping the case, as he spoke,
with a short iron bar, ‘shall we see what’s in this?’</p>
<p>‘Not worth while,’ replied Nestor, who had finished
the claret, not without many <span class="nw">grimaces—</span></p>
<p>‘It’s only china crockery, or somethin’ o’ that. They
always put “With great care,” an’ “This side hup” on
sich. Blast the old hooker, how she do shove her
snout into it!’</p>
<p>This last, as a tremendous forward send of the ship
nearly carried him off his legs.</p>
<p>Billy, however, appeared determined on seeing the
contents of the case, whose peculiar shape had aroused
his curiosity, and started to break it out by himself.
Finally the others came to his assistance, and a quarter-of-an-hour’s
work hove it up from its nest. To their
surprise it was locked and hinged. Curiosity took hold
upon them. They prised and hammered, and strove,
until, with a crash, the top flew back.</p>
<p>‘Kind o’ cork chips!’ exclaimed Nestor, taking up a
handful and putting it to his nose. ‘Poof! smells like a
chemist’s shop, full o’ camphor an’ drugs.’</p>
<p>‘’Ere’s another box inside this un,’ said Bill, who had
been groping amongst the odoriferous mass. And so it
proved; another long, narrow case, also locked and
hinged, made of some polished wood whose surface
reflected dimly the faces bending over it.</p>
<p>Subjected to similar treatment with its outer shell, it,
too, soon yielded.</p>
<p>As the lid, which was thickly padded, flew off under
the pressure of the iron levers, the four men shrank away
<a name="png.058" id="png.058" href="#png.058"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>44<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>as if they had stumbled on a den of venomous serpents.</p>
<p>On a strip of soft black velvet lay the shrouded corpse
of a man. The grizzled head rested on a pillow, and
the hands were crossed on the breast. Thin slats fitting
athwartships kept the body in position. Although
the eyes were closed, the features looked unnaturally
natural. There even seemed to be a tinge of colour in
the dead cheeks. But the artist had failed with the lips.
The upper one had shrivelled and curled up over the
white teeth, imparting a sardonic, grinning semblance to
the whole face, unutterably ghastly to look upon, especially
just then.</p>
<p>This it was, and the life-like seeming of <em>It</em>, that frightened
the cargo broachers so badly. And they <em>were</em>
terribly frightened. They were too frightened to run,
even had running been practicable. But the man who
attempts such tricks in a ship’s hold at night, and with a
heavy head sea on, comes to rapid grief at the second
step. So they just stood still, gripping each other’s
arms, and swearing under their breath, as is the wont of
the British seaman when badly scared.</p>
<p>The old man, Nestor, was the first to speak. In
quavering tones he <span class="nw">said,—</span></p>
<p>‘It’s only a wax himmidge.’</p>
<p>‘Nothin’ o’ the kind,’ replied Bill, the boldest of the
group, letting go his hold and coming a little closer.
‘It’s a ’barmed corpus, that’s wot <em>It</em> is. I was shipmates
with one on ’em afore. A soger officer he were. He
were lashed under the mizzen-top, an’ labelled
<a name="png.059" id="png.059" href="#png.059"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>45<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>“Combustibles; do not touch!” in big black letters. One fine
mornin’ he come down by the run an’ busted the case.
He was just the same’s this un, only they hadn’t put that
howdacious grin on to him. It were in the old <cite>Euryalus</cite>,
man-o’-war, so we had to suffer him; an’ a most hunlucky
trip it were. Run her ashore twice. Took the sticks
out on her twice. Lost four men overboard. No wonder
<em>we’ve</em> had three weeks o’ head winds. But this joker
’ll get a free passage without much delay, if I’ve got to
give it him single-handed.’ So saying, he advanced,
picked up the lid, and began to fasten it down.</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>The next morning dawned bright and clear; but the
head wind still stood, and there was a nasty lump of a
sea on. For the comparatively high latitude the air was
warm and comfortable.</p>
<p>Most of the passengers came up on the poop after
breakfast. Presently, with the assistance of the skipper’s
arm, the widow began a promenade.</p>
<p>‘What an exhibition she’s making of herself! Her
husband, if she ever had one, can’t be six months dead
yet, by her mourning. She ought to be ashamed of herself—the
sly thing!’</p>
<p>If the widow did not exactly hear all this, she felt it,
and cast looks of triumphant defiance at her female
friends, clustered in groups, most of them holding on to
something unassisted. Elderly unmarried convalescents,
and very spiteful, the majority.</p>
<p>‘Something—on—the—lee-quarter, sir!’ came down
from aloft.</p>
<p><a name="png.060" id="png.060" href="#png.060"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>46<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>The skipper called for his glass, without quitting his
companion.</p>
<p>‘Keep her away a couple of points,’ he commanded,
as he brought the instrument to bear.</p>
<p>‘Can’t make it out at all,’ he went on, after a minute’s
focussing. ‘Something white, jumping up and down.
Bit of wreckage, spar, or the like, I expect. Keep her
away another point. Take a peep, ma’am. Your bright
eyes ’ll perhaps distinguish it.’</p>
<p>The widow bridled coquettishly and, supported by the
skipper, put herself in what she fancied an appropriate
and elegant position.</p>
<p>‘Oh!’ she squealed presently, ‘I see it, captain; it’s
coming this way. How very interesting! “A message
from the sea,” “Strange tale of the ocean,” and all that
sort of thing, you know, that one reads about in the
papers. What an exciting adventure!’ The widow had
taken the glass from her eye whilst speaking.</p>
<p>Suddenly a passenger <span class="nw">cried,—</span></p>
<p>‘I see it! Look! On top of that wave!’ But even
as he spoke it disappeared.</p>
<p>The starboard watch had been called aft by the second
mate to try and jam the main-yards still further into the
slack of the lee-rigging. The men now remained together
with the eager knot of passengers staring over
the quarter.</p>
<p>All at once, and with startling unexpectedness, there
bobbed up on a sea almost level with the taffrail, a nude
figure, nearly upright. One arm, by some eccentric
working of the water, was jerked backwards and forwards
<a name="png.061" id="png.061" href="#png.061"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>47<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>from the face with an awfully grotesque motion of throwing
kisses to the horrified watchers.</p>
<p>The notion was intensified by the grin on the lifelike
features, startlingly distinct in the sunlight, as the embalmed
figure, kept erect by the greater weight of its extremities,
rose up and down, now in a hollow, now on a
crest, not ten yards away.</p>
<p>‘It’s <span class="allsc">IT</span>, by G—d!’ shouted Nestor, who happened to
be at the wheel.</p>
<p>But no one took any notice of him in the general
confusion.</p>
<p>The male passengers stood stock still, fascinated by the
spectacle. The female ones shrieked, and a couple
fainted. But louder and higher than any of them
shrieked the widow, who had got both arms around the
skipper’s neck, to which she hung, half choking him,
whilst her feet rattled frantically on the deck.</p>
<p>‘Let go, ma’am!’ he gurgled. ‘Damn it, let go, can’t you?’</p>
<p>‘It’s his ghost!’ she screamed, taking another horrified
glance at the bobbing, grimacing thing as it travelled
slowly across the broad wake. ‘What have I done,
James, that you should appear like this?’ she moaned.
‘I’m sure I thought you’d be comfortable down there!’
And here she began to laugh hysterically; and, held
forcibly on the deck by the sorely-tried skipper, went off
into a succession of violent fits.</p>
<p>‘Main topsail braces there, some of you!’ roared the
mate, who, aroused by the cry of ‘Man overboard!’
uttered by one of the boys, had rushed on deck. ‘Come
here, four hands, and clear away the life-boat.’</p>
<p><a name="png.062" id="png.062" href="#png.062"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>48<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Don’t be a fool, Mr Sparkes!’ shouted the skipper,
still struggling with the widow, who had got one hand in
his long beard and was pulling it out by the roots.</p>
<p>‘Never mind the boat!’ he panted, for the real state of
the case had broken upon him. ‘But come and take
this she-devil away! Let <em>It</em> go to blazes as fast as it
likes! It’s got a fair wind, seemingly, and that’s more’n
we have!’</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>Anchor watch off Geelong, Victoria.</p>
<p>Apparently the whole thing had quietly blown over.
When the mate, with a terribly long face, had reported
to the captain, as nearly as he could, the amount of cargo
missing, and proposed as a set-off, to put one-half of each
watch in irons until arrival, the skipper had only laughed.</p>
<p>He obviously enjoyed the responsible man’s dismay.</p>
<p>‘Nothing of the sort,’ he replied. ‘We can’t do
without ’em. We’re bound to get a good blow or two
’tween here and Port Phillip Heads, and where would we
be with half the men in irons, and the rest sulking?
You’re a fool, Sparkes. I’m goin’ to smooth ’em down.
They’ll have cabin biscuits and plum-duff three times a
week from this out. And you knock off hazing ’em about
so much’—chuckling heartily at the other’s stare of
amazement—‘till we get abreast of Sandridge Pier. Then
up goes the police flag. I’ll surprise the varmin, or my
name ain’t John Flett! Meanwhile, let a couple of the
hard-bargains<a name="fn6" id="fn6"></a><a title="Go to footnote 6"
href="#Footnote6" class="fnanchor"><span
class="ns">[Footnote </span>6<span class="ns">]
</span></a> sling their hammocks in the after-hold.
<a name="png.063" id="png.063" href="#png.063"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>49<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>That’ll stop any more larks with the cargo. Has she
been up in your watch since?’</p>
<p>‘Never seen a rag of her,’ answered the mate, who
knew well to whom the skipper referred. ‘Kept her
cabin ever since, I do believe.’</p>
<p>‘Damned good job too!’ said his superior, as he
tenderly felt his face. ‘Who’d have thought that <em>It</em> was
hers anyhow!’</p>
<p>But ‘hard-bargains’ have long ears. One of them
overheard the above conversation, and, reporting it to
the crew, they got ready.</p>
<p>Also, on making the land, everything went wrong.
Twelve hours vain signalling for a pilot made a big hole
in the skipper’s temper. So when, at last, one came off,
and, to his astonishment, got soundly rated, with a
promise of report, he, in revenge, box-hauled the
<cite>Sardanapalus</cite> about until dark, and then brought-up
with every link of hawse out, in a particularly muddy
spot opposite Geelong.</p>
<p>Anchor watch had been set; and as old Nestor struck
four bells in the chill morning and croaked hoarsely out
his ‘All’s well!’ the stars saw a crowd of men in
stockinged feet, and bearing bundles, slipping silently
aft.</p>
<p>The gig was hanging at the stern-davits. Noiselessly
as greased falls could slide over greased sheaves she was
lowered without a creak or a splash.</p>
<p>The man who had been standing over the cuddy
companion with a handspike joined his fellows. Fortunately—for
themselves—no one had shown up. The
<a name="png.064" id="png.064" href="#png.064"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>50<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>boat pushed off, Bill sculling. The <cite>Sardanapalus</cite> was
crewless.</p>
<p>Half-an-hour afterwards, the great Australian Bush
took to itself sixteen hairy-breasted able seamen and
this story.</p>
<div class="footnotes">
<p><small><span class="unjust"><a name="Footnote1" id="Footnote1"><span class="ns">[Footnote </span
>1<span class="ns">: </span></a> </span>Small wooden tub.<span class="ns">]</span>
<a title="Return to text" href="#fn1" class="fnreturn"
><i>Return to text</i></a></small></p>
<p><small><span class="unjust"><a name="Footnote2" id="Footnote2"><span class="ns">[Footnote </span
>2<span class="ns">: </span></a> </span>A smoke and a drink of water.<span class="ns">]</span>
<a title="Return to text" href="#fn2" class="fnreturn"
><i>Return to text</i></a></small></p>
<p><small><span class="unjust"><a name="Footnote3" id="Footnote3"><span class="ns">[Footnote </span
>3<span class="ns">: </span></a> </span>Merchant Seamen’s Act.<span class="ns">]</span>
<a title="Return to text" href="#fn3" class="fnreturn"
><i>Return to text</i></a></small></p>
<p><small><span class="unjust"><a name="Footnote4" id="Footnote4"><span class="ns">[Footnote </span
>4<span class="ns">: </span></a> </span>Bile.<span class="ns">]</span>
<a title="Return to text" href="#fn4" class="fnreturn"
><i>Return to text</i></a></small></p>
<p><small><span class="unjust"><a name="Footnote5" id="Footnote5"><span class="ns">[Footnote </span
>5<span class="ns">: </span></a> </span>Four till six a.m.<span class="ns">]</span>
<a title="Return to text" href="#fn5" class="fnreturn"
><i>Return to text</i></a></small></p>
<p><small><span class="unjust"><a name="Footnote6" id="Footnote6"><span class="ns">[Footnote </span
>6<span class="ns">: </span></a> </span>Apprentices.<span class="ns">]</span>
<a title="Return to text" href="#fn6" class="fnreturn"
><i>Return to text</i></a></small></p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="‘Mo-poke!’"><a name="png.065" id="png.065" href="#png.065"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>51<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘MO-POKE!’</h2>
<p class="noindent">‘<span class="smc">Yes</span>, I’m from out back,’ said a dark, wiry little man,
as he dismounted from his horse at a Queensland
frontier-township hotel, in answer to a question from
one of a knot of bushmen and drovers assembled in the
verandah. ‘Out back beyond the Warburton, an’ a
nice warm time I’ve had of it, too!’</p>
<p>‘My eye!’ exclaimed the first speaker. ‘Been right
away in that new country we been hearin’ of, eh? What
like a shop is it, mate?’</p>
<p>‘Oh, the country’s right enough; lots o’ grass an
water,’ replied the newcomer, as, giving his horse to the
groom, he strode into the bar, ‘only the mopokes is so
cussed bad an’ thick in them parts that there’s no livin’<!-- TN: apostrophe invisible -->
for a quiet man. Roll up, lads, an’ give it a name!
It’s a long time since I felt so dry!’</p>
<p>‘What did yer mean by “mopokes,” just now, mate?’
queried an elderly, grizzled overlander, as, lighting their
pipes, the party sat down on the wide wooden bench.
‘Was it snakes?’</p>
<p>‘No, friend, it weren’t snakes. Wusser—a heap.<!-- TN: original has ' -->
Howsomever—I reckon it’s a hour or more till supper,
so I’ll just tell you how it all happened. Gosh!’<!-- TN: closing quote invisible --> he
<a name="png.066" id="png.066" href="#png.066"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>52<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>exclaimed emphatically, ‘what a comfort it is to git into
a Chrischin place agin!’</p>
<p>‘Well, boys,’ commenced the stranger, ‘last April, I
’greed with ole Davies—him as owns “Tylunga,” not
far from this—to go out an’ herd cattle for him on his
new Adelaide country. Wages was good, three notes a
week—I reckoned it were worth thirty afore I left—but
as for the tucker, well, a feller never knows what he can
live on till he tries it.</p>
<p>‘Howsomever, out we goes—him an’ me an three
others; an’ in time we gets there all right, an’ musters
the cattle, which was bein’ tailed at the head station—as
they calls ’arf-a-dozen bark humpies on a waterhole.
Then we drafts ’em into four mobs, an’ each on us takes
one away out to blazes into the bush, where the old
chap shows us our runs, which was about six or seven
mile apart.</p>
<p>‘Us herders had each a little hut to himself; so you
see, mates, a feller warn’t likely to quarrel with his
neighbours.</p>
<p>‘“Now, Wilson,” sez old Davies, as he gits ready to
start, arter puttin’ the things out o’ the waggonette at my
hut—sez he, “Now, Wilson, take good care of them
cattle in your charge, an’ mind none o’ them black
rascals come sneakin’ about ’em. If you sees any,
pepper ’em well. You’ve got a gun, an’ lots of ammunition.”</p>
<p>‘You’ll obsarve, mates, that, like a good many more
of his sort, he never thinks o’ the man. It’s only the
dashed stock as troubles ’em.</p>
<p><a name="png.067" id="png.067" href="#png.067"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>53<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Howsomever, off he drives, an’ presently I catches a
horse, as it was gettin’ close to sundown, an’ roun’s up
the mob an’ puts ’em on camp, ties the dog up, lights a
fire, an’ tries to make myself at home ’s well ’s I
could.</p>
<p>‘So a week or two slips away quiet enough, an’ I was
gettin’ awful tired of the game. The cattle didn’t hardly
want any lookin’ after, an’ all I could find to do was
cuttin’ up green-hide an’ plaiting whips. I thought that
the month ’d never go by till rations—such as they was—was
due from the head station on Wild Horse Lagoon,
nigh on thirty miles away.</p>
<p>‘Up to this I’d never heard a bird singin’ out after
dark. But one night, as I was just a-fallin’ off to sleep,
mopokes begins cryin’ like anything in the scrub close to
the clear patch where the hut was. Suddently the dog
starts barkin’ like mad, an’ I gets up an’ gives him a cut
with the whip. Back I goes to the bunk, an’ lies down
a-listenin’ to them birds, an’ thinkin’ to myself as all the
mopokes in Australy had got roun’ the hut that night.
Well, I cussed an’ swore at ’em no end for kickin’ up
such a shine; an’ Towzer a-growlin’, an’ a-snappin’, an’
pullin’ at his chain all the time. In a bit, up I gets
agen, and catches hold of the ole gun, opens the door,
an’ lets her off, both barrels. It was a moonlight night,
an’ I could see the backs of a few of the cattle from
where I stood, as, scared by the row, they gets off their
camp, an’ I hears the horse-bell just over in the scrub.
No more mopokes that night. But the next, at it they
goes agen. Now one’d call, it seemed like close to the
<a name="png.068" id="png.068" href="#png.068"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>54<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>chimbly, then another, right at the head o’ my stretcher—outside,
o’ course—“mopoke!” “more-pork!” “mo-po!”
till I’m blessed if I didn’t get properly on my tail,
an’ takin’ the gun, I lets Towzer off o’ the chain, and
runs out an’ bangs away, as fast as I could load her, at
the scrub, where I reckoned them blasted fowls was
a-roostin’. An’ Towzer, he tears away into the bushes,
barkin’ most furious. No more mopokin’ that night, but
Towzer he never comes back agen. Thinkin’ he’d took
arter a kangaroo-rat, I goes inside, makes up the fire,
boils a quart o’ tea, an’ waits for daylight, which I
know’d couldn’t be long.</p>
<p>‘“I never did hear yet,” I says to myself, “of a feller
bein’ harnted by a pack o’ birds; but I’m blessed if this
game don’t ’pear somethin’ like it.”</p>
<p>‘You see, mates, I never dropped to the meanin’ o’ the
racket; for though I’ve been stock-keepin’ an’ drovin’
pretty near five-an’-twenty year now, I never had no experience
afore o’ the kind o’ gutter-snipes as was disturbin’
me these last two nights.</p>
<p>‘At bird-twitter, out I goes, ’spectin’ to see Towzer
under his sheet o’ bark. I seen no Towzer; an’, what’s
more, I seen no cattle neither. They never moved off
camp afore sunrise; an’, fearin’ les’ they’d made a clean
break of it, I runs into the hut, collars my bridle, an’ off
after the mokes.</p>
<p>‘When I gets into the scrub, I hears the bell just
ahead, an’ I hears, too, a few o’ them cussed birds
a-strainin’ their throats, callin’ about, as if they hadn’t
done enough through the night.</p>
<p><a name="png.069" id="png.069" href="#png.069"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>55<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Well, I follers the bell back’ards an’ for’ards, without
seemin’ to get any nearer to the horses, till I was nigh
sick o’ stumblin’ over logs; an’ o’ swearin’ what I
wouldn’t do to ’em when I gets ’em, an’ o’ singin’ out for
Towzer.</p>
<p>‘All of a suddent, the bell sounds not ten yards away
in a patch o’ thick dogwood scrub, an’ as I makes off
full trot, I nearly falls over somethin’ soft. Lookin’
down, I sees poor ole Towzer lyin’ there with his
head caved in, and a bit o’ broken spear stickin’ in
him.</p>
<p>‘My Colonial, mates! I tumbles fast enough then,
when it were too late. Jumpin’ through the scrub to
where I last heard the bell, I runs slap up agen six ugly
black beasts o’ niggers, an’ one on ’em was just a-startin’ to
shake the dashed bell, which was hangin’ roun’ his neck.
Close to ’em lies my best horse, ole “Cossack,” dead’s a
herrin’.</p>
<p>‘I takes it all in in a flash; an’ afore you could say
“knife” I’d slung the bridle in their faces, and was
makin’ tracks for the hut at the rate o’ sixty miles a hour—leastways
it seemed so to me.</p>
<p>‘Whizz, whizz! come the spears; but the scrub was
too thick, and ne’er a one touches me. Yellin’ like ole
Nick, after me they tears, full split, but I show’s ’em
good foot for it till I comes in sight o’ the hut, a-standin’
there so quiet-like, with the chimbly smokin’ away, an’
the door wide open.</p>
<p>‘Now, mates, what should make me, insted o’ rushin’
in an’ gettin’ the gun, an’ lettin’ the darkies know what
<a name="png.070" id="png.070" href="#png.070"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>56<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>o’clock it was, rip right past the hut an’ shin up a big
gum tree about twenty yards away? I can’t make out
what come over me to do sich a thing. But so it were.
An’ up I swarms to nearly the top limb as the murderin’
willians comes out on to the open. In another minute
eight or nine others tumbles out o’ the hut, where they’d
been waitin’ on chance I might git away from the fust
gang, an’ they all gathers roun’ the ole gum, a-lookin’ up,
for all the world like a lot o’ hungry dogs at a
’possum.</p>
<p>‘“Mo-poke, mo-poke!” sings out one, an’ another lot
comes runnin’ up from the back scrub, just about where
I should ha’ hit if the Lord hadn’t put it into my mind
to take the tree for it.</p>
<p>‘But this pitchin’s terrible dry work, lads,’ suddenly
broke off the narrator. ‘Come inside, an’ let’s have
another long-sleever apiece, an’ then I’ll finish the yarn.
Spite o’ them “mopokes” I’ve got a bit o’ stuff left
yet.</p>
<p>‘Well, mates,’ went on Wilson, as the party resumed
their seats, ‘the darkies throwed their spears, an’ slings
their bommerangs, but it weren’t no use, I was too high
up for ’em, and the nighest spear as come out of a
couple o’ dozen, sticks in a good six foot below my
limb. Seein’ this, one beggar gets the axe from the
wood-heap. But she were old an’ blunt like her owner,
ole Davies, an’ I soon see by the way they shapes as
it’d take ’em a couple o’ years to fall me. For a while
they niggles away at the big butt, turn an’ turn about,
then jacks the contract, gruntin’ like a lot o’ pigs.</p>
<p><a name="png.071" id="png.071" href="#png.071"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>57<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Next move were, one gets the gun out o’ the hut,
an’ I scwoushes down into a six-inch heap, till I remembers
she weren’t loaded; an’ I didn’t give ’em
credit for knowin’ how to do that.</p>
<p>‘The mopoke as got her points her most careful, with
the stock agen his belly, an’ with a grin at his mates, as
much as to reckon, “You watch me pot him,” he
shouts “Bung!” an’ as true’s I’m sittin’ here, I bursts
out larfin’ to see them black fools a-starin’ up so
hard, and wonderin’ why I didn’t fall down dead
man.</p>
<p>‘Presen’ly, ’bout half way up my tree, they spots
a good-sized pipe, an’ bringin’ a fire-stick from the hut,
up one comes like a lamplighter. I knowed the ole
gum was sound an’ green enough at the butt, but I sees
by the pipe that some of the top limbs must be holler,
an’ I didn’ fancy this last move a little bit. So, as he’s
busy straddled-out, a-blowin’ and a-puffin’ to raise the
flame, I nips down, pulls out the spear, an’ lets drive at
him ’s hard ’s I could. You never see such a thing in
your lives! It hit him just acrost the loins, an’ goes
more’n half way through him. He just gives a wriggle
or two and twists over into a fork and lies there, a
proper stiff ’un.</p>
<p>‘You bet, lads, I was proud’s a dog with a tin tail; an’
sez I, “One for poor Towzer, you pot-bellied willian!”
By gosh! didn’t they yell, an’ dance, an’ carry on when
they sees this, an’ me safe agen back in the ole
perch.</p>
<p>‘Runnin’ to the hut, they tears out the slabs in a
<a name="png.072" id="png.072" href="#png.072"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>58<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>wink, piles ’em up at the butt of the ole gum, and sets
fire to ’em.</p>
<p>‘In a minute or two, I couldn’t see a stem for smoke;
but, as they was green belar, not a blaze could they get
out of ’em.</p>
<p>‘Well, I was squattin’ up there, a-peepin’ down
through the smoke for the next feller as wanted to
show off his climbin’ abilities, when I hears a noise of
horses gallopin’, an’ men shoutin’, an’ shots a-poppin’ off
like Billy-ho.</p>
<p>‘Down I comes through the smoke, an’ just clear
o’ the tree was five darkies a-lyin’<!-- TN: punctuation invisible --> stretched out as would
never cry “mo-poke!” no more. Not another soul,
dead or alive, could I see. But presen’ly back canters
ole Davies, an’ says he, cool as you like, “Hello,
Wilson,” says he, “is that you? Where’s the rest o’ the
cattle? There’s eight head short yet!” Darn his ole
skin, an’ all bosses like him, as thinks more of a few
head o’ stock than a man’s life!</p>
<p>‘You see, lads, when the cattle, disturbed by poor
Towzer a-barkin’, and me a-firin’, moves quietly off afore
daybreak, one lot of nigs follers ’em up, an’ one lot stops
to ’tend on me.</p>
<p>‘Them with the cattle, after they’d gone a little way,
starts a-spearin’ ’em, an’ the mob breaks, an’ never stops
till they gets to the fust seven-mile hut, where the other
lot was; and the chap there, seein’ some with spears
stickin’ in ’em, gallops off to the head station, and out
comes ole Davies an’ all hands.</p>
<p>‘No; no more new country for me—not if I knows it!
<a name="png.073" id="png.073" href="#png.073"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>59<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>I’m a-gettin’ too old now for such a little game as they
played on me out there. Is that the supper-bell a-ringin’?
Well, it’s the finest sound I’ve heard for five
’underd miles an’ more.’</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Keeping School at ‘Dead Finish’"><a name="png.074" id="png.074" href="#png.074"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>60<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>KEEPING SCHOOL AT ‘DEAD FINISH.’</h2>
<p class="subtitle"><span class="smc">A Reminiscence of ‘The Rivers.’</span></p>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smc">The</span> people at Dead Finish had never applied for such a
thing, nor dreamt of, nor wished for it, neither they nor
their children. These latter were mostly of an age now
to be of use about the house or in the field. They had
imagined themselves, these half-a-dozen or so of scattered
families hidden in the gloomy recesses of coastal scrubs,
quite secure from any officious interference with their
offspring by the Government. And, without exception,
they took it as a most uncalled-for act of tyranny, this
proposed establishment of a school and a teacher in their
midst, and well within the two-mile radius from all.</p>
<p>Here was the corn just ready to be pulled and husked,
and got ready for Tuberville, and who was to do it with
Tom, Jack and Bill wasting their time at a school?</p>
<p>‘If Mr Gov’ment was here,’ growled ‘Brombee’
O’Brien, the largest selector of the lot, ‘I’d give ’im a bit
o’ my mind. Wot bizness he got, comin’ an’ takin’ the
kids just as they’re a-gittin’ handy? Why didn’t he come
afore, when they was bits o’ crawlers, an’ no use to no
one? Anyhow, me an’ the missis niver ’ad no schoolin’;
<a name="png.075" id="png.075" href="#png.075"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>61<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>an’ why should they? Will learnin’ cut through a two-foot
log? Will ’rethmetic split palin’s or shingles? Will
readin’ an’ writin’ run brombees, or drive a team o’
bullocks, or ’elp to plough or ’arrer? No; it ain’t likely.
Then wot’s the good of it? Garn? Wot they givin’ us?’</p>
<p>Thus Mr O’Brien, at a meeting of neighbours specially
convened to confront the unlooked-for emergency, and
whose own ideas he voices to the letter.</p>
<p>And when, later, the Inspector (taken at first for the
‘Gov’ment’) puts in an appearance, the case is set
before him precisely as above. But, instead of listening
to reason, he only rated them, told them they ought
to be ashamed of themselves, and dilated largely on the
beauty and advantage of a State education at only threepence
per week each child, and one shilling for seven or
over. A paternal Government, he said, had long
mourned over their degraded and benighted condition;
and, at last, having, after much trouble, and at great
expense, secured a most accomplished gentleman as
a teacher, resolved that one of his first tasks should be
that of making Dead Finish an ornament, in place of a
reproach, to the district.</p>
<p>This was, so the Inspector thought, putting the thing
neatly indeed. But it was all of no avail. They not
only unanimously refused to have anything to do with
the erection of the school, but also to receive the teacher
when he arrived. They swore, too, that their children
should not leave work for education, and in the end,
used language unrecordable here, and such as the Inspector
had never in all his life heard before. But he
<a name="png.076" id="png.076" href="#png.076"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>62<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>persevered; and, bringing a couple of men from the
township fifty miles away, set them to work.</p>
<p>Dead Finish was situated at the extreme head of one
of those short Australian coastal rivers whose existence
begins in boggy swamps and ends in a big sand-bar.</p>
<p>The country was mountainous and scrubby, abounding
in ‘falls,’ springs, morasses, giant timber, dingoes, ticks,
leeches, and creeks. The wonder was, not that anybody
should ever have settled on it, but that, once there, they
should ever manage to get out of it, as they did once
in six months.</p>
<p>But for these few families on Dead Finish Creek, the
district was totally uninhabited. It was hard to say
where they came from originally. They were not a
communicative people; but they were a hard-working,
hard-living one, whose only wish was to be left at peace
on the little patches they had hewn for themselves out of
the mighty primeval forest that, dark and solemn, walled
them in on every side. The spot chosen by the Inspector
as the site of the new school was on the extreme
edge of one of the lesser falls that ran sloping swiftly
down three hundred feet or more into a small valley,
generally full of mist and the noise of running waters.</p>
<p>A mile away lived a settler named Brown, who, after
an infinity of coaxing and persuasion, and to the utter
disgust of his neighbours, had consented to receive and
board the teacher on trial. As with the rest of the Dead
Finishers, ready money was so rare that the thoughts of
that proffered twelve shillings a week tempted him, and
he fell, and became a Judas to his fellows, and a mark
<a name="png.077" id="png.077" href="#png.077"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>63<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>for the finger of scorn—he and his wife and their ten
children.</p>
<p>But the Inspector was jubilant; and after a last look
around the little hut, smelling of fresh-cut wood, with its
three forms, one stool, and bright, new blackboard, he
departed, congratulating himself on the satisfactory finish
of the campaign. Also he indited a minute and two
memorandums to his Department with the intimation that
‘Provisional School No. 28,890, Parish of Dead Finish,
County of Salamanca,’ was completed and ready for
occupation. Whereupon, an animated correspondence
took place, which, after lasting six months, was at last
closed by the announcement that a teacher had been
appointed. Then both sides rested from their labours,
and the Inspector, feeling that his annual holiday had
been well earned, took it.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, the little building perched on the brink of
the gulf grew bleached and weather-beaten with wind and
rain and fog, and the Dead Finishers derided ‘ole
Gov’ment,’ and the Brown family emerged from Coventry<!-- TN: original reads "coventry" -->,
and all was once more peace along the creek.</p>
<p>The winter passed, and a young man with thin legs
and body, red hair, and freckled face, appeared in
Tuberville and remarked to the residents generally
that he would like to get to Dead Finish. He also
added that he was the ‘new teacher’ for that place. He
at once became an object of interest. People stared at
him in much the same way as did those others, of whom
we read, at Martin Chuzzlewit and the faithful Mark
Tapley on their departure for Eden.
<a name="png.078" id="png.078" href="#png.078"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>64<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>The Tuberville people—the majority of them at least—knew
of the Dead Finishers only by repute. These
latter came in but twice a year to exchange corn and
hardwood for stores, potatoes, and a little cash. At
these times the programme was invariably the same.
Their business done, the long-haired, touzly-bearded men
drove their teams outside the town, and, leaving the
bullocks in charge of the wild, bare-footed, half-clad
boys, returned, and, clubbing their money, drank solidly
as long as it lasted—generally two days.</p>
<p>They kept well together, and no one molested or
interfered with them. It was not worth while. Their
especial house was a short distance out, and when, borne
up on the wind, came the roar of bush revelry, strange
and uncouth, the townspeople merely remarked one to
the other that ‘Them Dead Finishers must be in again
down at Duffy’s.’</p>
<p>Hence the interest taken in Mr Cruppy.</p>
<p>The Dead Finishers all drank ‘rum straight,’ and
about two gallons was their respective allowance. That
safely stowed away, they took their long whips out of the
corner of the bar, called their rough cattle-dogs, lying
beside them, and made off to the wilderness again for
another fight with fire and axe against the stubborn
forest, and to raise corn enough for the next trip to market.</p>
<div class="illo">
<a name="png.079" id="png.079" href="#png.079"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>64a<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a><img id="i064fp" src="images/i_064fp.jpg" alt="[Illustration]"
/><p><span class="ns"> [Illustration: </span>But presently there was a report, a cloud of smoke, and a
flash out of the little window. (<a href="#illo_p68">Page 68</a>.)<span class="ns">]</span></p>
</div>
<p>That half-yearly or so excursion was their one treat,
such as it was; and the toiling, hard-featured women at
home, who never got away, acquiesced tacitly in the
liquid wind-up of it. They never looked for any money
on their men’s return. What was the good of money at
<a name="png.081" id="png.081" href="#png.081"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>65<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>Dead Finish? No wonder the people laughed when the
Inspector talked to them of ‘school fees.’</p>
<p>At last Mr Cruppy drifted into the ‘Bushman’s Home’
in search of information. Could Mr Duffy tell him how to
get to a place called Dead Finish? No; Mr Duffy was
sorry, but he really couldn’t. All he knew about it was
that it was up in the mountains, and a rough, long road to
travel. The new teacher, was he? Well, he was pleased
to hear it, but opined that he’d find some pretty hard
cases amongst the kids up there. Did he know Mr Brown at Dead Finish? Yes, he thought he did, and a
very strong cup of tea he was. Going to stay there, was
he? Well, he hoped that Mr Brown would make him
comfortable. But, somehow, he was doubtful. As to
getting there, he would have to trust to Providence.
After a little more talk, however, Mr Cruppy discovered
that Providence, in this case, meant the sum of £4
sterling, for which the publican expressed his willingness
to do his best to find the Dead Finish.</p>
<p>They were four days on the road, got bogged twice,
capsized twice, and broke the pole of the buggy before
they found Brown, who received them with more surprise
than cordiality. Foreseeing ostracism again, he wished
to go back from his agreement, and was surly to a
degree.</p>
<p>He said he should get his head caved in. If no one
else did it, ‘Brombee’ O’Brien would. A week’s
payment in advance mollified him somewhat. But, if
Mr Cruppy had not been an orphan, friendless, and on
his first appointment, he would have returned with
<a name="png.082" id="png.082" href="#png.082"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>66<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>Mr Duffy, who, very much to his surprise, had by the time
he reached home, fairly earned his money.</p>
<p>The teacher’s bedroom was a bark lean-to; his bed
sacks stuffed with corn husks—and cobs. The food
was hominy and pork, washed down with coffee made
from corn roasted and ground. He ventured to remark
that the accommodation was rough.</p>
<p>‘It are,’ replied Mr Brown. ‘We’s rough. Take it
or leave it. We niver arst fer no schoolin’. I’ll get
stoushed over this job yet. Brombee’s got it in for me.
So’s the Simmses, an’ all the rest ov ’em.’</p>
<p>With much difficulty the teacher got one of the boys
to show him the way to the school. They had to
cross Dead Finish Creek fourteen times to get there.
Regarding the youngster as his first scholar, Mr Cruppy
endeavoured to detain him, but with a yell he fled
down the mountain; and, figuratively, the fiery cross
was sent round.</p>
<p>Each day the teacher went up and waited in vain. No
one came near the school. Then he essayed a journey
of remonstrance from farm to farm, got bushed, was out
for two nights, and would have been left out altogether
only that Mandy Brown, who pitied him, went away
and brought him in after running his tracks for a whole
day. Then he simply sat down and waited despairingly.
Then the Inspector came back from his holiday and
visited Dead Finish, expecting to find everything in full
swing. In his wrath he took out summonses against the
whole settlement. No notice was taken of these until
four troopers paid it a visit. Then it went into
<a name="png.083" id="png.083" href="#png.083"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>67<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>Tuberville in a body, and was promptly fined and admonished.
Returning, it sent its children to school—a horde of
young barbarians, unkempt, unwashed, almost unclad,
but stout and sturdy. And it was the time of the pulling
of the corn! Therefore the elders had to work double
tides to make up for the lost labour of their offspring,
stolidly glaring at poor Cruppy as he tried to beat into
their shock heads the mystery of A B C.</p>
<p>Amanda Brown was eighteen, buxom, bare-footed,
curly-haired, red-cheeked, could ride as she put it ‘anythin’
with hair on,’ use an axe like a Canadian, and was
reckoned the best hand at breaking in a young bullock
to the team of anyone about. And she, since her finding
of Cruppy in the ranges, leech-infested and draggled,
had taken him under her protection. But even she was
powerless to influence the feeling of public indignation,
daily growing stronger, against the Inspector, the teacher,
and the ‘Gov’ment,’ and which ended in Cruppy being
requested to clear out from Brown’s. As the latter put
it, ‘Mister,’ said he, ‘it ain’t no good shenaneckin’!<!-- TN: original reads "shenaneckin!'" -->
I dussent keep you no longer. It’s as much ’s our
lives is wuth. Brombee an’ them’s gittin’ madder an’
madder. Ef you won’t slither complete, you’ll ’ave to
go an’ camp in the schoolhouse up yonder. We’ll sell
you a pot an’ a bit o’ ration, an’ ye’ll have to do the
best ye can.’ So Cruppy went, seeing nothing else for
it, and Mr Brown once more held up his head amongst
his fellows.</p>
<p>Despite his lack of physique, Cruppy had a certain
amount of stubborn resistance and endurance within
<a name="png.084" id="png.084" href="#png.084"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>68<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>him, often observable in red-headed people. He was,
in short, plucky, and unwilling to give in. And Mandy,
out of the largeness of her heart, helped him all she
knew how.</p>
<p>For instance, when Tom O’Brien (eldest son of
‘Brombee’) made his intention known of scaring the
teacher out of Dead Finish, from Mandy came the few
words of warning and the present of the old gun and
some ammunition. Thus it happened that one night,
when awakened by eerie yells from his lonely slumber,
the teacher looked out and saw a wild figure clad in
skins, and with a pair of bullock’s horns spreading from
its head, he felt no whit dismayed. Capering and
shouting round the hut under the dim moonlight went
the weird thing, enough in that desolate spot to make
even a brave man shudder with the uncanny grotesqueness
of it.</p>
<p><a name="illo_p68" id="illo_p68">But presently there was a report—a cloud of smoke</a>,
and a flash out of the little window, and with a scream
the thing dropped, then got up again, and ran swiftly
out of sight.</p>
<p>‘Caught him fair smack, ye did,’ said Mandy, afterwards.
‘Them pellets o’ coarse salt touched ’im up
properly. He don’t set down now without lookin’
fer pillers. Tom won’t try no more gammonin’ to
be a yahoo. He’s full ’s a tick ov sich sport, he
is.’</p>
<p>Other attempts were from time to time made to
frighten Cruppy out of the district, but they were of no
avail. The holidays were approaching, and he had made
<a name="png.085" id="png.085" href="#png.085"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>69<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>up his mind to hold out at least until then in hopes of
getting a shift from Dead Finish.</p>
<p>But one night, in melancholy mood, watching a piece
of salt beef boil, and leaning over every now and again
to take the scum off the pot, he heard the tramp of
horses outside. Opening the door cautiously, he saw
Mandy riding her own pony <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en cavalier</i>, and leading
another one ready saddled.</p>
<p>‘Come along,’ she said, without dismounting. ‘They’re
on their tails proper now. Wanter git the corn shelled
for Tuberville. No more schoolin’ fer the kids. They’re
a-goin’ to put the set on ye to-night, hut an’ all. Pap,
and Brombee, an’ the Simmses, an’ Pringles, an’ the
whole push is out. They got four teams o’ bullocks an’
all the ropes an’ chains in the country, an’ they’re a-goin’
to hyste school an’ you over the sidin’. It’ll be just
one! two! three! an’ wallop ye all goes! Roll up yer
swag slippy an’ come along.’</p>
<p>Cruppy, seeing at once that a crisis, not altogether
unexpected, had arrived, did as he was told.</p>
<p>‘Now,’ said Mandy, leading the way into a dense
clump of peppermint suckers, ‘le’s wait an’ see the fun.
They reckoned as how, sleepin’ so sound, you wouldn’t
know nothin’ till you struck bottom in the crik. But
they’re euchred agin.’</p>
<p>As the night wore on noises broke its stillness, and
dark forms moved athwart the little open space, whilst
from far below in the gully came the faint clank of
chains and the muffled tramp of cattle.</p>
<p>‘Look,’ whispered Mandy admiringly, ‘ain’t they
<a name="png.086" id="png.086" href="#png.086"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>70<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>cunnin’? There’s Pap, an’ ole Brombee, an’ young
Tom, a-sneakin’ the big rope roun’ the hut. You’d
niver ha’ woke, sleepin’ sound as ye does.’</p>
<p>Even as she spoke a shrill whistle was heard. Then
from below came a tremendous volleying of whips,
accompanied by hoarse yells of ‘Gee, Brusher!
Darling up! Wah Rowdy! Spanker! Redman!’ As
the noose tightened, the school first cracked, then
toppled. The din below redoubled, and with a crash
the building disappeared bodily over the brow of the
hill.</p>
<p>‘That’s domino!’ remarked Mandy calmly. ‘There
won’t be no more schoolin’ at Dead Finish. Come
along; I’ll set ye on the track. Ye kin leave the horse
an’ saddle at Duffy’s when you gits to the township.
I shook ’em from ole Brombee. Won’t he bite when
he finds it out. But you,’ she went on, ‘needn’t be
scared. You seen him to-night doin’ his best to break
your neck. Well, so long! Give us a cheeker afore
ye goes; an’ don’t forget Mandy Brown o’ Dead
Finish.’</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="‘Number One North Rainbow’"><a name="png.087" id="png.087" href="#png.087"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>71<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘NUMBER ONE NORTH RAINBOW.’</h2>
<p class="noindent">‘<span class="smc">Another</span> duffer!’</p>
<p>‘Rank as ever was bottomed!’</p>
<p>‘Seventy-five feet hard delving, and not a colour!’</p>
<p>The speakers were myself, the teller of this story, and
my mate, Harry Treloar.</p>
<p>We were sitting on a heap of earth and stones representing
a month’s fruitless, dreary labour. The last
remark was Harry’s.</p>
<p>‘That makes, I think,’ continued he, ‘as nearly as I
can guess, about a dozen of the same species. And
people have the cheek to call this a poor man’s diggings!’</p>
<p>‘The prospectors are on good gold,’ I hazard.</p>
<p>‘So are the publicans,’ retorts he, ‘and the speculators,
and the storekeepers, and, apparently, everybody but the
poor men—ourselves, to wit. This place is evidently for
capitalists. We’re nearly “dead-brokers,” as they say
out here. Let’s harness up Eclipse and go over to old
Yamnibar. We may make a rise there. It’s undignified, I
allow, scratching amongst the leavings of other men and
other years; dangerous, also, but that’s nothing. And
many a good man has had to do the same before us.’</p>
<p>No life can equal that of a digger’s if he be ‘on gold,’
<a name="png.088" id="png.088" href="#png.088"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>72<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>even moderately so; if not, none so weary and heart-breaking<!-- TN: hyphen retained -->.</p>
<p>It’s all very well to talk, as some street-bred novelists
do, of ‘hope following every stroke of the pick, making
the heaviest toil as nought,’ and all that kind of thing;
but when one has been pick-stroking for months without
seeing a colour; when one’s boots are sticking together
by suasion of string or greenhide; when every meal is
eaten on grudged credit; when one works late and early,
wet and dry, and all in vain, then hope becomes of that
description which maketh the heart sick, very sick,
indeed. Treloar was, in general, a regular Mark Tapley
and Micawber rolled into one. But for once, fate, so
adverse, had proved too much for even his serenely
hopeful temper.</p>
<p>He was an Anglo-Indian. Now he is Assistant Commissioner
at Bhurtpore, also a C.S.I.; and, when he
reads this, will recollect and perhaps sigh for the days
when he possessed a liver and an appetite, and was
penniless.</p>
<p>Our turnout was rather a curious one. The season
was dry, and, feed being scarce, Treloar had concluded
that, at such a time, a bullock would be better able to
eke out a living than a horse. Therefore, a working
bullock drew our tilted cart about the country.</p>
<p>‘You see, my boy,’ said Treloar, when deciding on the
purchase, ‘an ox is a beggar that always seems to have
something to chew. Turn a horse out where there’s no
grass, and he’ll probably go to the deuce before morning.
But your ox, now, after a good look around, seeing he’s
<a name="png.089" id="png.089" href="#png.089"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>73<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>struck a barren patch, ’ll draw on his reserves, bring up
something from somewhere, and start chewing away like
one o’clock. That comforts his owner. I vote for the
ox. He may be slow, but he generally appears to have
enough in his stomach to keep his jaws going; and, in a
dry time, that is a distinct advantage.’</p>
<p>So Eclipse was bought, I merely stipulating that
Treloar should always drive.</p>
<p>I have an idea, that, after a while, as the old ‘worker’
sauntered along, regarding the perspiring Harry, and his
exhortations and exclamations, often in Hindustani, with
a mild stare of surprise, as he slowly stooped for a dry
tussock, or reached aloft for an overhanging branch, the
latter somewhat repented him of his experiment. But
he never said so. And, to do him justice, Eclipse was
not a bad ‘ox’; and, when he could get nothing better,
justified Harry’s expectations by seeming able to chew
stones. But his motto was decidedly <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">festina lente</i>.</p>
<p>Yamnibar, ‘Old Yamnibar,’ at last. Behind us, on
the far inland river, we had left a busy scene of activity.
Hurrying crowds of men, the whirr of a thousand windlasses,
the swish of countless cradles, and the ceaseless
pounding by night and by day of the battery stamps.
And now what a contrast!</p>
<p>A wide, trackless valley, covered with grave-like
mounds, on which grass grew rankly; with ruined buildings
and rotting machinery, and, here and there, pools of
stagnant water, whilst the only thing save the sweep
of the wind that reached our ears was a distant rhythmical
moaning, coming very sadly in that desolate place—the
<a name="png.090" id="png.090" href="#png.090"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>74<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>sounding of the sea on the rock-bound coast not far
away.</p>
<p>The only signs of life, as Eclipse, pausing now and
again, and taking a ruminative survey of the valley, drew
us by degrees down the sloping hills, were the buglings
of a squad of native companions flying heavily towards
the setting sun.</p>
<p>‘What a dismal hole!’ I muttered, as the ‘ox,’ spying
some green rushes, bolted at top speed—about a mile an
hour—towards them.</p>
<p>‘Let’s try and find a golden one,’ laughed my mercurial
friend. ‘Here we have a whole gold-field to ourselves.
Just think of it! “Lords of the fowl and the brute”—Eclipse
and <i>Kálee</i> and the bralgas. Take the old chap
out of the <i>gharri</i>, and we’ll pitch our camp.’</p>
<p>I ought to have spoken of <i>Kálee</i> long ago. Indeed,
when one comes to think of it, I ought to have called
this story after her. But man is an ungrateful animal—worse
than most dogs. Not that the great deerhound
with the faithful eyes, who might have stepped out
of one of Landseer’s pictures, was forgotten—far from it.
But for her we should possibly now, both of us, be
bundles of dry bones, with all sorts of underground
small deer making merry amongst them.</p>
<p>She ought, according to her merits, to hold pride of
place here. But she was quiet and unobtrusive as she
was faithful and affectionate, whereas Eclipse was nothing
of the kind, only a noisy blusterer, thinking of no
one but himself. Therefore, as happens so often with
us, has he stolen a march on a failing memory for prior
<a name="png.091" id="png.091" href="#png.091"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>75<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>recognition. But the ‘ox’ is grass, and <i>Kálee</i> still lives
in the great Eastern Empire, and has two servants to
wait upon her. <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">O Dea certe!</i></p>
<p>‘Behold!’ said Treloar, as we lay and smoked in the
moonlight, after supper, in front of our tent, which
we had pitched between the door-posts of what had
evidently been a building of some size, but of which
they were the sole remains. ‘Behold, my friend, the
end of it all! But a few years are passed, and where,
now, are the busy thousands that toiled and strove and
jostled each other, below there, in earth’s bowels, in the
fierce race for gold? Look at it now! Think of the
great waves of human hopes and disappointments and
joys that have rolled to and fro across this miserable
patch of earth! Think of the brave hearts that came
hot with the excitement of the quest, and departed
broken with the emptiness of it. Also, of those others,
who never departed, but lie at rest beneath that yellow
clay. Just a little while, in the new-born one, is centred
alike the glow of success and the cold chill of failure;
all the might of swift fierce endeavour, every passion,
good and bad, that convulses our wretched souls. And
then, after a brief season, its pristine form defaced and
scarred, comes the rotting solitude of the tomb! Why
’tis, in some sort, the story of our corporal life and
death!</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>‘“Over the Mountains of the Moon,</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Down the Vale of Shadow,</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns"> </span>Ride, boldly ride,” the shade replied,</div>
<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>“For there lies El Dorado.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent"><a name="png.092" id="png.092" href="#png.092"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>76<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Behold, my friend, the Valley of the Shadow that has
passed, wherein many a bold soul has gone down to
Hades, “unhouselled, disappointed, unaneled.” Do
their ghosts wander yet, I ask?’</p>
<p>‘O, bother!’ I mutter sleepily. ‘I’m tired. Let’s
turn in.’</p>
<p>Fortunately such outbursts were rare. But when the
fit came on, I knew too well the uselessness of attempting
to stop it.</p>
<p>Awakened towards the small hours by the roarings of
Eclipse, triumphantly apprising the world at large that
his belly was full, I found the lantern still burning, and
could see Treloar’s eye ‘in a fine phrenzy rolling,’ as he
scribbled rapidly. Years afterwards I read in the
<cite>Bombay Pioneer</cite> ‘How the Night Falls on Yamnibar,’
and thought it passable.</p>
<p>It was anything but pleasant work, this groping about
old workings. It was also very dangerous. Many were
the close shaves we had of being buried, sometimes
alive, at others flattened out.</p>
<p>The soil, for the first twenty or thirty feet, was of a
loose, friable description. Thence to the bottom, averaging
eighty feet, was ‘standing ground,’ <i>i.e.</i>, needed no
timbering. But, in many cases, the slabbing from the
upper parts had rotted away and fallen down, followed
by big masses of earth, which blocked up the entrance
to the drives where our work lay.</p>
<p>Then after, with great trouble, clearing the bottom,
generally yellow pipeclay, and exploring the dark,
cramped passages for pillars, we had, before beginning
<a name="png.093" id="png.093" href="#png.093"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>77<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>to displace these, to support the roof by artificial ones.
Timber had at the time of the rush been plentiful; as a
consequence pillars were scarce. Also, the field, having
in its prime been a wonderfully rich one, it had been
repeatedly fossicked over. This made them scarcer
still.</p>
<p>Often after a heavy job of clearing out and heaving-up
mullock, water, and slabs, all the time in imminent peril
of a ‘fall’ from some part of the shaft, would we discover,
on exploring the drives, that they were simply
groves of props—not a natural support left standing.</p>
<p>Such a network of holes and burrows as the place
was! I can compare it to nothing but a Brobdingnagian<!-- TN: original reads "Brobnignagian" -->
rabbit-warren.</p>
<p>The flat had been undermined, claim breaking into
claim, until the wonder was that the whole top crust
didn’t cave in. In some places this had happened, and
one looked down into a dismal chaos of soil, rotten
timber, and surface water.</p>
<p>As I have remarked, it was risky work this hunting
for the few solitary grains amongst the rotten treasure-husks
left by others, especially without a local knowledge
of the past, which would have been so invaluable to us.
But there came to be, nevertheless, a sort of dreary
fascination in it.</p>
<p>We had heard that, on this same field, years after its
total abandonment, a two hundred ounce nugget had
been found by a solitary fossicker in a pillar left in an
old claim.</p>
<p>Very often, I believe, did the picture of that big lump
<a name="png.094" id="png.094" href="#png.094"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>78<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>rise before us as we crawled and twisted and wriggled
about like a pair of great subterranean yellow eels, not
knowing the moment a few odd tons of earth might fall
and bury us.</p>
<p>One day an incident rather out of the common befell.
Lowering Treloar cautiously down an old shaft to, as
usual, make a preliminary survey, I presently heard a
splash and a cry of ‘Heave-up!’ Up he came, a regular
Laocoon, in the close embraces of a thumping, lively
carpet snake, whose frogging ground he had intruded upon.</p>
<p>He had, by luck, got a firm grip of the reptile round
the neck, and was not bitten. He was, however, badly
scared.</p>
<p>Doubtfully he listened as, while releasing him from the
coils, I assured him that the thing was perfectly harmless.</p>
<p>Was I quite certain on this point? he wished to know.
Of course I was; and I quoted all the authorities I could
think of.</p>
<p>Then, before despatching it, would I let it bite me?
As an ardent ophiologist, he took the utmost interest in
such a fact, and would like to become as confident as
myself of it.</p>
<p>But I pointed out earnestly that this was simply trifling,
and that we had no time to spare. Practical demonstration
is a very capital thing in many cases. But <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">ver
non semper viret</i>, and our friend of the curiously-patterned
skin might not be <em>always</em> innocuous.</p>
<p>We took three ounces out of a pillar in Snake Shaft.<!-- TN: punctuation invisible -->
That night, on returning to our camp, we found an old
man there. He was the first person we had seen for a
<a name="png.095" id="png.095" href="#png.095"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>79<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>month; and so were inclined to be cordial. There was
nothing particularly remarkable about the new-comer,
except that he had a habit of tightly shutting one eye as
he looked at you.</p>
<p>I have called him old because his hair was grey; but
he was still a very powerful man, and likely to prove a
tough one at close quarters.</p>
<p>‘Come and have some supper, mate,’ said Treloar.</p>
<p>‘Call me Brummy, an’ keep yer dorg orf,’ replied the
other, as he poured out a pannikin of tea. ‘I don’t fancy
a big beast like yon a-breathin’ inter the back o’ a feller’s
neck.’</p>
<p>And, indeed, <i>Kálee’s</i> attentions were marked. She
sniffed around and around the new-comer, bristled all her
hair up, and carried on a monologue which sounded
unpleasant.</p>
<p>‘No,’ he resumed in answer to a question, as Treloar
sent <i>Kálee</i> to her kennel. ‘I was never on this here field
before. Down about the Lachlan’s my <i>towri<!-- TN: aboriginal word, no lang code available --></i>. Everybody
theer knows Brummy. I’m goin’ to do a bit of
fossickin’ now I got this far. Ain’t a-thinkin’ o’ interferin’
wi’ you. Surfiss is my dart—roun’ about the old tailin’s
and puddlers. Down below’s too risky in a rotten shop
like this. I leaves that game to the young ’uns. An’’
(with a sly grin) ‘old Brum does as well as the best on
’em in the long run.’</p>
<p>Soon after this he went away and pitched a ragged fly
further along the flat.</p>
<p>Next day, as we were having a smoke and a spell after
rigging two new windlass standards, he came up to us,
<a name="png.096" id="png.096" href="#png.096"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>80<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>and in a furtive sort of manner, began to try and discover
the position of those claims which we had already
prospected. Having no motive for concealment, we told
him as well as we could, also pointing out most of them
from where we sat.</p>
<p>He appeared quite pleased as we finished, and marched
off with his old tin dish banging and rattling against the
pick on his shoulder.</p>
<p>‘That old man,’ remarked Harry presently, ‘is a
dangerous old man. Moreover, he is a liar.’</p>
<p>‘How do you know that?’ I asked.</p>
<p>‘The first,’ he replied, ‘I feel—as <i>Kálee</i> did. Now for
the second count in the indictment. Did you not hear
him tell us that this was his first visit to Yamnibar?
Well, when he asked so carelessly if we had tried the big
shaft over yonder—the one where you can see the remains
of a horse-whim—and you said that we had not, a
momentary gleam of satisfaction passed across his face.
We’ll try that hole to-morrow morning. Luckily, our
new standards are finished.’</p>
<p>‘Pooh!’ I said. ‘My dear fellow, your legal training
has made you too suspicious. The poor old beggar may
have an idea of prospecting that very shaft himself.’</p>
<p>‘He probably has,’ replied Treloar quietly. ‘Only
don’t forget that he doesn’t like underground work.’</p>
<p>However, my companion had his own way, which,
except in such matters as that of the snake-test, he
generally did; and next morning saw us fixing our
windlass at the summit of the big heap of mullock which
towered above its fellows.</p>
<p><a name="png.097" id="png.097" href="#png.097"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>81<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>We seldom got anything in such claims. They had
mostly been worked by rich companies, and every ounce
of wash-dirt removed.</p>
<p>It was pretty late by the time we had removed sufficient
of the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">débris</i> from the bottom of the shaft—too late to do
more that night.</p>
<p>As we walked over to our camp, we caught a glimpse
of ‘Brummy’ following us.</p>
<p>‘He’s been watching,’ said Treloar.</p>
<p>‘Nonsense!’ I replied impatiently. ‘You’re becoming
a monomaniac.’</p>
<p>That evening our neighbour came over to our fire; and
in consequence <i>Kálee</i>, in low threatening communion
with herself, had to be put upon the chain.</p>
<p>‘Goin’ to try the big un?’ he asked presently.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said Harry; ‘there may be something there.
One can never tell.’</p>
<p>‘Not much danger!’ he blurted out. ‘The coves as
worked Number One North Rainbow weren’t the chaps
to leave much behind ’em. Leastways’—he quickly
added, seeing his mistake, ‘so I’ve heerd say.’</p>
<p>Treloar gave me a look which meant ‘How now?’ but
neither of us took further notice.</p>
<p>‘I’ve heard tell, too,’ he continued, ‘as that claim’s
häänted.’</p>
<p>‘Oh!’ said Treloar airily, and as if in constant
association with them, ‘we don’t mind ghosts. It’s the
living, not the dead, that force us betimes to keep a
sharp look-out.’</p>
<p>‘Well, mates,’ retorted Brummy, rather sulkily, ‘I
<a name="png.098" id="png.098" href="#png.098"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>82<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>ain’t quite cunnin’ enuff yet to chew tacks, but I ain’t
not altogether a born hidjiot; an’ if anybody was to offer
me a thousand poun’ to go down that ’ere shaft, where
you got your win’less rigged, an’ up them drives, I
wouldn’t do it.’</p>
<p>‘I was down it to-day,’ I remarked, ‘and didn’t notice
anything out of the common.’</p>
<p>‘Mebbe not, mebbe not—yet,’ said he. ‘But the
yarns I’ve listened to—on the Lachlan, over yander—consarning
that ’ere Rainbow claim ’d make your ’air
stick up stiff.’</p>
<p>During the night, feeling restless and unable to sleep,
I got up and went outside. The weather was very hot,
and, for some time, I sat and listened to the faint wash
of the sea, longing for a plunge in its cool depths.
Suddenly, in the great expanse of gloom, my eyes
caught the glimmer of a light. As nearly as I could
guess, it was moving slowly towards the shaft we were to
descend in the morning.</p>
<p>‘There goes your aged friend,’ said a voice at my
shoulder, which made me start with the unexpectedness
of it.</p>
<p>‘Too hot and close to sleep,’ explained Treloar.
‘Come out for a breath of air.’</p>
<p>‘Let’s shepherd the old chap, and see what his little
game is. Bring the lantern. Needn’t show a light.
We know the way well enough. I expect he’s after
ghosts.’</p>
<p>As, breathless, we arrived at our windlass, Treloar
gave a grunt of disappointment on seeing that
<a name="png.099" id="png.099" href="#png.099"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>83<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>everything was exactly as we had left it—rope coiled neatly
round the barrel, green-hide bucket hanging over the
mouth.</p>
<p>‘It must have been a Jack-o’-lantern,’ said he; ‘or
perhaps the old sinner’s gone down some other shaft.
Yes, by Jingo! look there!’ he exclaimed, pointing to
where, a couple of hundred of yards distant, a flash of
light was visible for a moment. ‘He’s gone down the
Snake Shaft! Those ladders are as rotten as pears;
and he’ll break his wicked old neck if he isn’t careful.
I wish him joy of all he’ll find there, even if he gets to
the bottom safely. What came we out for to see? Let’s
make back.’</p>
<p>It was my turn down next morning, and when I got
to the end of the hundred and odd feet of the häänted
shaft, I lit my candle, and, at random, entered one of
the four roomy drives that had been put in so many
long years ago.</p>
<p>So extensively had it been quarried, that I was only
obliged to stoop slightly. Not a trace of earthen pillar
here. A valuable property this, and a clean-swept one.
Travelling warily along, I suddenly stumbled over a
ridge of mullock, into what was evidently another drive
altogether.</p>
<p>My course, so far, had been downwards. The new
tunnel sloped slightly upwards.</p>
<p>Evidently both claims had been driving for a ‘gutter.’
One of them had got to the end of its tether before
reaching it. The surface limits of ‘golden holes’ are
pretty strictly defined; but roguery, as well as miscalculation,
<a name="png.100" id="png.100" href="#png.100"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>84<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>has been known to produce curious effects in adjoining
claims. Not that, just then, I bothered myself
with any such speculations. I was on the look-out for a
lump of that rich water-worn conglomerate which had
made Yamnibar, in the days of its youth, the talk of the
world. Sitting down to rest a minute, the candlelight
fell brightly on the shining steel of a pick.</p>
<p>I had noticed how freshly the earth smelled, and
wondered thereat. The pick was fresh too. One could
swear that it had not left its owner’s grip five minutes.
Without a doubt it had been used to remove the thin
curtain of earth between the rival drives.</p>
<p>Looking more closely, fresh knee and footprints were
plentiful.</p>
<p>What the deuce did it mean?</p>
<p>Crawling along the new drive, which was much
smaller than the Rainbow’s, I at length emerged into
a shaft that struck me as familiar.</p>
<p>The ‘Snake,’ or I was a Dutchman!</p>
<p>I knew it by the ladders, for one thing; for another,
by a piece of timber at the entrance to the opposite
drive—the one in which we had made our three-ounce
rise.</p>
<p>I tried the rungs of the rude ladders. Not half so
rotten as we had taken them to be. Also covered with
fresh earth left by recent boots.</p>
<p>Only fifty feet to the top, and up I went safely enough.
Treloar was sitting smoking, with his back towards me
as I approached.</p>
<p>I startled him finely when I spoke.</p>
<p><a name="png.101" id="png.101" href="#png.101"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>85<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘This is the hole the old man wants,’ he remarked,
after hearing my story. ‘He knew he couldn’t very well
get down our rope and climb up it again. But he knew
that one of the ‘Snake’ drives ran nearly into one of
these. I suspect he must once have been employed in
one or other of the claims. Either that, or he’s been
fossicking here before. You know we’ve come across
plenty of traces of such. Cunning old dodger! But
what <em>can</em> he be after? I tell you what. We’ll both go
down and try another of the drives. We’ll leave <i>Kálee</i>
on top to watch. I’ll bet you she’ll sing out pretty
soon.’</p>
<p>I said nothing, for I was beginning to have doubts
respecting ‘Brummy’s’ veracity.</p>
<p>This time I lowered Treloar first. Then, whilst
he held the rope taut, I slipped comfortably down.</p>
<p>We chose the opposite drive to the one I had explored,
and moved in, Treloar leading.</p>
<p>‘Hello!’ said he presently, ‘someone’s been here
before us. See, there’s been a good-sized pillar taken
out. Why, here’s some of the dirt left yet! And—good
God!’ he suddenly exclaimed, ‘what’s this?’</p>
<p>Pushing up alongside him, and holding my candle
forward, I saw, lying at full length, a human skeleton.
And yet it was not a complete skeleton. Here and
there, rags and tatters of flesh, dry and hard as leather,
stuck to the frame. A pair of heavy boots, with the ankle
bones protruding, lay detached, and remnants of clothing
were still visible. But the head was what fixed our
gaze, the first horror of the thing over. The fore part
<a name="png.102" id="png.102" href="#png.102"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>86<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>of the skull had been smashed completely in. Near by
lay a small driving-pick, thickly encrusted as with
rust.</p>
<p>‘Neither rats, nor mice, nor snakes did that,’ whispered
Treloar, pointing to the awful fracture.</p>
<p>‘Surely,’ I replied, with a shiver, ‘this can’t be the
thing old Brummy’s searching for. No wonder he
insisted on the place being haunted.’</p>
<p>‘Not that poor valueless shell,’ answered my friend,
who was now kneeling, ‘but this! and this! and this!’
holding up, as he spoke, three fine nuggets, whose dull
gleam had caught his eye in the heap of loose drift on
which the skeleton partially lay.</p>
<p>‘Never!’ I exclaimed. ‘He never would have had
the pluck to face back again if <em>that</em> is some of his
work.’</p>
<p>‘If it is,’ said Treloar, quickly springing to his
feet, thereby bumping the roof with his head, ‘we
shall soon hear of it. Back, man! Back for your life!
Hark! By G—d! there’s <i>Kálee</i> now. Good dog, hold
him!’ as if it were possible for her to hear at that
depth.</p>
<p>Pushing and scrambling along, we got to the entrance
of the drive, where the muffled sounds resolved themselves
in a furious hullaballoo of barks and curses.
Then, as we paused for a moment, swish, swish, down
came the windlass rope, falling all of a heap. Just as
we were on the point of pushing out, what feeble light
there was at the bottom changed into total darkness,
and, with a terrific smash, a heavy mass fell at our feet.
<a name="png.103" id="png.103" href="#png.103"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>87<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>Then silence, broken only by low groans and hoarse
fierce growls.</p>
<p>With trembling hands we relit our candles, and saw
more distinctly.</p>
<p><a name="illo_p87" id="illo_p87">Upon the rope coils lay ‘Brummy,’ quite still</a>.
Squatted on his breast, the great hound watched him
narrowly—so narrowly that her lolling red tongue nearly
touched the face of the prostrate man. Blood oozed
slowly from his mouth and ears.</p>
<p>With reluctance the dog obeyed her master’s call, and,
apparently uninjured, crouched in a corner, panting
loudly, while we examined Brummy.</p>
<p>‘<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Habet!</i>’ said Treloar, as we turned him over. ‘Back’s
broken! See here’ (producing a loaded revolver from a
hip-pocket), ‘the old man meant business. It’s only
guessing, mind. But he probably thought we should
attempt to escape up the Snake Shaft, and would have
shot us off the ladders like magpies. Well done,
Goddess <i>Kálee</i>. You’ve proved yourself worthy of your
name for once, anyhow.’</p>
<p>With a good deal of trouble we got the rope through
the drive into the Snake Shaft and on to our windlass
again. It had been cut clean off with a tomahawk.
We hove the man and the dog up. We let the other
thing alone for a while. But the one we had thought
dead was still alive, with a little life. As the cool air
blew on his face he opened his eyes. It was all he
could do. Black, beady eyes, once sharp and piercing,
now fast dulling with the death-film. And he lay there
and watched me, staring fixedly. It was a bright
<a name="png.104" id="png.104" href="#png.104"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>88<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>sunshiny day, the birds were singing cheerily about us, and
the wash of the sea was very faint. From the expression
on his face I thought he was listening to it. Presently
Treloar returned from the camp with some brandy, and
poured a spoonful between the clenched teeth.</p>
<p>The spirit revived him a little, and he spoke. He
<span class="nw">said,—</span></p>
<p>‘Curse you!’</p>
<p>More brandy, and he spoke again.</p>
<p>‘Is he there yet?’</p>
<p>‘He’s there yet,’ answered Treloar. ‘How long ago
was it?’</p>
<p>‘Ten year.’</p>
<p>‘What did you kill him for?’</p>
<p>More brandy; and then, as his eyes brightened, he
laughed, actually laughed up at us, saying, in a strong
<span class="nw">voice,—</span></p>
<p>‘Why, you fool, for the big lump, o’ coorse! A
’underd an’ eighty ounces! Too big to share, I reckon.
I’d a-smashed a dozen men for it in them days, let alone
a poor softy like Jim.’</p>
<p>‘There must be thirty or forty ounces down there,’ I
remarked. ‘Why didn’t you take that too?’</p>
<p>‘Never you mind,’ he said. ‘I come back for it now.
And if it hadn’t been for that theer infernal dorg I’d ha’
had it.’</p>
<p>‘And how about us?’ asked Treloar, as, obeying the
look in his eyes, he gave him another drink.</p>
<div class="illo">
<a name="png.105" id="png.105" href="#png.105"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>88a<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a><img id="i088fp" src="images/i_088fp.jpg" alt="[Illustration]"
/><p><span class="ns"> [Illustration: </span>Upon the rope coils lay “Brummy,” quite still. (<a href="#illo_p87">Page 87</a>)<span class="ns">]</span></p>
</div>
<p>The dying man smiled significantly, but said nothing.
There was a long pause, during which Brummy shut his
<a name="png.107" id="png.107" href="#png.107"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>89<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>eyes, and breathed stertorously, whilst <i>Kálee</i>, drawing
herself noiselessly along on her belly, came closer, and
looked into his face, but with no anger in her gaze
now.</p>
<p>‘There’s one thing I can’t understand,’ said Treloar,
in a low voice, ‘and that is how he contrived to get up
this shaft again with the gold.’</p>
<p>Quietly as he spoke, Brummy heard him, and <span class="nw">muttered—</span></p>
<p>‘Would ye like to know?’</p>
<p>‘No, no!’ exclaimed Treloar earnestly. ‘We have
wasted far too much precious time already in vain talk.
Can we do anything to make your mind easier? You
know you can’t last much longer. In God’s name try
and prepare yourself to meet Him.’</p>
<p>Very slowly came the reply, in short <span class="nw">gasps,—</span></p>
<p>‘I’m easy enough. If I could choke the pair o’ ye by
winkin’ I’d do it. I’m gittin’ cold a’ready. But I’m
cursin’ ye to mysen all the time. If I kin git back I’ll
häänt ye.’</p>
<p>Another long silence, and then he <span class="nw">murmured,—</span></p>
<p>‘Take that dorg away, Jim, or I’ll put the pick into
yer! There, you got it now, ole man! Ah, would yer?’</p>
<p>Then the flickering light in the eyes failed altogether,
and, I take it, a very defiant, murderous old soul went
forth to meet its Maker.</p>
<p><i>Kálee</i>, smelling at the body, sat upon her haunches
and wailed loudly and dismally after the manner of her
kind, answered from the flat by Eclipse, marvelling at
the disturbance of his friend, with sonorous bellowings.</p>
<p><a name="png.108" id="png.108" href="#png.108"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>90<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>This was the requiem of him as he passed to join the
other shades of Yamnibar. Slain by a dog and the cunning
of his own hand.</p>
<p>As for the gold that ‘Jim’ had lain by so quietly, and
watched so patiently through the years, we never got any
of it.</p>
<p>The three nuggets figured in the police-court inquiry,
with other things, under the title of ‘Exhibit A.’</p>
<p>That was the last glimpse we had of them.</p>
<p>Departmental red tape enwrapped them so closely that
no amount of solicitation could render them visible again—to
us.</p>
<p>Easier would it be to draw leviathan from the waters
with a bit of twine and a crooked pin than to draw
‘treasure trove’ from the coffers of a treasury—colonial
or otherwise.</p>
<p>To this day they are possibly accumulating dust,
pigeon-holed with the depositions in the case. But
I doubt it, I doubt it.</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="The Protection of the ‘Sparrowhawk’"><a name="png.109" id="png.109" href="#png.109"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>91<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>THE PROTECTION OF THE
‘SPARROWHAWK.’</h2>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smc">Many</span> people have their special antipathies. There
are instances on record of one fainting at the scent of
heliotrope; of another becoming hysterical at the mewing
of a cat; and so on, and so on, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">ad infinitum</i>. The
Scotch, as a rule, are anything but a nervously susceptible
nation, taken either collectively or individually. Nor
have I heard that those members of it who follow the
sea as a calling are more so than their shorekeeping
compatriots.</p>
<p>Still, to the present day, and probably to the day of his
departure, John M‘Cracken, retired master mariner, of
Aberdeen, becomes signally and powerfully moved by
the cry of the domestic duck, rendered universally and
approximately as ‘Quack!’ His red face grows redder,
his light blue eyes glower menacingly, and his hands
open and close nervously, as if longing for some missile
wherewith to annihilate the unconscious fowl—or its
human imitator.</p>
<p>The <cite>Sparrowhawk</cite>, barque, M‘Cracken master, was
chartered to convey returning Chinese passengers from
Singapore to Amoy.</p>
<p><a name="png.110" id="png.110" href="#png.110"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>92<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>I think the regulations as to space, numbers, etc., etc.,
could not, in those days, have been very strict. Be this
as it may, Skipper M‘Cracken filled up until he could fill
no more. The ’tween deck was like a freshly-opened
sardine tin; on the main deck they lay in double tiers.
Many roosted in the tops. The boats on the davits and
the long-boat on the skids swarmed with the home-going
children of the Flowery Land. The better class,
merchants, tradesmen, etc., had secured everything aft,
from the captain’s cabin to the steward’s pantry, for
which accommodation fabulous sums found their way
into the pockets of M‘Cracken and his mates. For’ard,
the crew had vacated the forecastle in consideration of
sundry handfuls per man of dollars, which they had
subsequently discovered to be ‘chop.’</p>
<p>The mild-eyed heathen in his leisure moments had
amused himself by punching pellets of good silver out of
them, and filling the holes up with lead. From taffrail
to bowsprit-heel, from waterways to keelson, the <cite>Sparrowhawk</cite>
seethed and stank with a sweltering mass of yellow
humanity. Every soul had a square of matting and a
water-jar, also an umbrella. They also all had money—more
or less. The fellows aft, with the flowing silk gowns
and long finger-nails, owned chests of it, all in silver
specie, stowed snugly away in the lazarette. The herd
carried their little fortunes, hardly earned by years of
incessant toil as <i>sampan</i> men, porters, or what not, in the
great border city on the sea, hidden upon their persons.</p>
<p>The vessel looked grotesque to a degree. She was
flying light, and towered loftily out of the water. Upon
<a name="png.111" id="png.111" href="#png.111"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>93<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>her deck, amidships, rose two big arrangements after the
nature of boilers. These were for cooking rice, and were
occasionally the scenes of fierce fighting, during which
the Europeans would clamber into the rigging, leaving
a clear field, and applaud vociferously. They were a
harmless people, and fought like sheep-dogs, rarely
doing one another much harm.</p>
<p>From the barque’s side protruded curious cage-like
structures connected with the sanitary affairs of the
multitude. This last lay everywhere, pervaded everything.
If you wanted a rope you had to dislodge
half-a-dozen grunting, naked bodies. Trimming the yards
o’ nights the watches tripped and fell amongst the
prostrate ranks.</p>
<p>The passengers, however, bore it all placidly. They
had paid M‘Cracken so many dollars per head for a piece
of his deck, and the situation of it was quite immaterial.
Moreover, were they not homeward bound after years of
separation from wives and little ones with fortunes made
beyond the sea? Men in such circumstances are apt to
be good-tempered. A heavy squall would probably have
caused the loss of the <cite>Sparrowhawk</cite> and all on board.
But Captain M‘Cracken took the risk—and the dollars.
He slept on an old sail folded across the cuddy skylight.
His mattress he had leased along with his state-room to
one of the merchants who, he understood, was a convert
to Christianity. The wind kept light, with showers at
intervals. At the first drop, up would go every umbrella;
and, looking from aloft, the sight was a queer one.</p>
<p>On leaving Singapore the skipper had been warned
<a name="png.112" id="png.112" href="#png.112"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>94<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>that pirates were still to be met with in Chinese waters,
and, short though the passage was, advised to arm, at all
events in some sort, his ship and crew. This he did.
At a marine store he bought, second-hand, a couple of
cannon—three pounders—also several dozen of grape
shot. In exchange for a worn mizzen-topsail and the fat
saved by the cook (of usage the latter’s perquisite) on the
passage out, he procured some old Tower muskets, a few
boarding-pikes, and three horse-pistols for his own and
his officers’ especial use. These last had flintlocks and
mouths like a bell. Thus equipped, he declared himself
ready for any piratical attack.</p>
<p>The ship’s agents smiled meaningly, and winked at
each other; but, knowing their man, forbore further
advice, well recognising the inutility of it. A Scotchman
who owns a full half interest in his ship, who hails
from Aberdeen, and habitually comes ashore in latitude 0 with a Glengarry cap on, no umbrella, and
naked feet, is not a being to stand argument.</p>
<p>One night the moon rose full, and right aft. She
rose, too, with a big black spot in her disc that had no
right to be there.</p>
<p>There was too much <i>samshoo</i> aboard for a very sharp
look-out to be kept for’ard. That native spirit gets into
men’s eyes and weakens them. But aft the skipper
caught sight of the object.</p>
<p>‘It’ll be a junk, I’m thinkin’!’ he said presently, after
working away for a while with his glass; ‘an a muckle
ane at that. She’s fetchin’ a breezie wi’ her, whilk’s
a comfort.’</p>
<p><a name="png.113" id="png.113" href="#png.113"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>95<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Some of the long-nailed aristocrats were lounging
about the poop. They needed no glass to make out the
approaching vessel. Gathering in a group, they cackled
noisily, pointing and gesticulating among themselves.</p>
<p>Then, coming up to the captain, one—it was his
Christian friend—plucked him by the arm and uttered
laconically, with extended digit, ‘Prat!’</p>
<p>‘Weel, Johnnie,’ replied old M‘Cracken coolly, as he
gathered the other’s meaning, ‘pireet, or no pireet, gin
he come a wee closer, we’ll just pepper the hide o’ him
wi’ cauld airn.’</p>
<p>Without more ado, the Chinaman dived into his
cabin and in a minute or two reappeared with a most
hideous idol and a bundle of perfumed paper. Placing
the thing right under the skipper’s nose, he lit a yard of
paper and began to screech an invocation. As of good
Presbyterian stock, M‘Cracken was irritated and shocked.</p>
<p>‘Mon, mon,’ he exclaimed, ‘what wad ye be at!
Hae ye niver been tauld that a’ graven eemages is an
abomination in the sicht o’ the Lord? An’ I thocht
ye was a Christian.’ So saying, he seized the joss and
flung it far overboard into the silvery water, just rippling
under the coming breeze. The worshipper uttered a
yell of dismay. But there was no time to lose, and,
rushing below, he brought up another god, ten times as
hideous as the first one, and, descending to the main
deck, aroused the ship with his devotions.</p>
<p>Then arose the sound of a multitude waking in fear—an
impressive sound and a catching. Up the open
hatchways from the steaming, fœtid ’tween decks they
<a name="png.114" id="png.114" href="#png.114"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>96<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>streamed in hundreds, like disturbed ants, with cries of
alarm and grief, and strong callings upon their gods.
In a minute the ship was alive with lights burning
before idols of every description. A thousand half-naked
figures crouched cowering from the break of
the poop right for’ard. Aft, a handful of rugged Scotch
seamen gazed quietly at the black spot over the water.
Presently the two little guns were crammed half up to
the muzzle with powder and grape, and placed each in a
socket cut out for it after leaving Singapore. The
remainder of the weapons were, with a stock of ammunition,
divided amongst the crew. Hot irons were put in
the galley fire; and the skipper, having thus placed his
ship in a thorough state of defence, felt complacent, and
half-inclined to shorten sail, wait for the pirates to come
up, and then give them a lesson. Old seaman though
he was, he was a new hand in these Eastern waters.</p>
<p>Confiding his notion to the second mate, who was also
carpenter, also sailmaker, a grizzled ancient shellback of
much experience and endless voyaging, the other laughed
aloud, but not mirthfully.</p>
<p>‘If,’ said he, ‘yon’s a “prat,” as Johnnie there ca’s it,
we’ll a’ be meat for the fishes afore the sun’s risen!’</p>
<p>‘Hoots!’ exclaimed the skipper angrily, ‘whaur’s<!-- TN: apostrophe invisible --> yer
pluck, Davie, mon! I didna think ye’d be for showin’
the white feather a’ready, an’ ye a Newburgh lad as
weel’s mysel’! What’s a handfu’ o’ naked salvages like
yon, in compare wi’ us an’ oor arteelery?’</p>
<p>‘An’ hoo mony men micht she carry yonder, div ye
think?’ queried the other, taking a squint at the junk,
<a name="png.115" id="png.115" href="#png.115"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>97<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>whose huge oblong sails shone whitely under the moonbeams.</p>
<p>‘Mebbe a score or sae,’ replied M‘Cracken, ‘airmed
maistley wi’ spears, an’ skeens, sic, as I’ve been tauld,
bein’ their usual weepons.’</p>
<p>The other chuckled hoarsely as he said, ‘If she’s
a pireet, she’ll hae at the vera leest a guid twa ’unnered
aboord, a’ airmed wi’ muskets an’ swords, forbye things
they ca’ gingals, takin’ a sax-ounce ball, to say nothin’ o’
stinkpots an’ ither deviltries. Mon, I’ve seen ’em wi’
guns they cannonies there wadna mak’ rammars for.
But if that chap has ony, I doubt we sud ha’ heard frae
him ere the noo.</p>
<p>‘I was ance,’ continued he, ‘lyin’ in Hongkong
Harbour, when they cut oot the <cite>Cashmere</cite>, a bouncin’
ocean steamer, in the braid daylicht, an’ murthered
ivery soul on boord o’ her. Na, na, skipper; let her
but get a haud on us, and ye’ll see the deil gang o’er
Jock Wabster sure aneuch.’</p>
<p>The skipper listened silently. Then, wetting his
finger and holding it up, he <span class="nw">said,—</span></p>
<p>‘Perhaps, after a’, Davie, mon, ye might ’s weel set
they t’g’nt stun’s’ls, gin ye can get them up, wi’ sic
an awfu’ rabble as is aboot the deck.’</p>
<p>The breeze had died away again. There was only
just enough of it to keep the sails full. The fresh
canvas, however, sent the <cite>Sparrowhawk</cite> through the
water half a knot faster, and she was beginning to perceptibly
leave the junk astern, when suddenly out
from her sides flashed a long row of sweeps, under
<a name="png.116" id="png.116" href="#png.116"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>98<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>whose impulse she recovered her lost ground very
quickly. If there had been any doubt about the
character of the stranger, there remained none now;
and the uproar, which had partially ceased, arose with
tenfold vigour.</p>
<p>Some of the passengers went down into the lazarette
and commenced to stow as many dollars as they could
about their clothing. Others divided their attention
between their idols and the skipper, running frantically
from one to the other. Curiously enough the junk
appeared satisfied to maintain her distance, although,
had she so desired, she could with her sweeps have
easily overhauled the barque.</p>
<p>Now, from away on the port hand, where lay the
outline of the Chinese coast, black beneath the moon,
came a gentle mist hanging low and thick upon the
water. As it gradually enveloped the ship, hiding all
but close objects from view, she was kept away three
or four points. But, presently, with the haze, what wind
there was left her, the sails gave a few ominous flaps,
and then hung limply down. At this moment a Chinaman,
uttering a loud yell of fright, pointed over the
starboard quarter. There, close aboard, loomed up
a dark mass almost, high as she was, on a level with
the <cite>Sparrowhawk’s</cite> poop-railing. It was the junk.</p>
<p>‘The het poker, quick!’ shouted the captain. Some
one brought it and, unheeding the skipper, dabbed it
straightway on the touch-hole of the little cannon pointing
directly, as it happened, at the pirate.</p>
<p>The powder being damp, fizzed for a minute, and,
<a name="png.117" id="png.117" href="#png.117"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>99<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>just as M‘Cracken sung out, ‘More pouther; she’s
fluffed ’i the pan!’ with a roar the thing went off. Off
and up as well, for it sprung six feet in the air, and
descended with a crash into the binnacle.</p>
<p>‘Fetch the ither ane,’ shouted M‘Cracken, ‘<!-- TN: opening quote invisible -->an’ gie
’em anither dose i’ the wame. Hear till ’em,’ he continued,
as a most extraordinary noise arose from the
junk now just abreast of the mizzen-rigging. ‘Hear till
’em scraighin’, the thievin’ heathen pireets. They havena
muckle likin’ for sic a med’cin’. It gives them the
mirligoes. Pit yer fut on her, Tam Wulson, whiles I
send her aff,’ he went on, addressing a sailor, as the other
gun was brought over and shipped.</p>
<p>‘Pit yer ain fut on her, captain,’ answered the man.
‘I dinna a’thegither like the notion. She’ll lat oot
like ony cuddy, judgin’ frae her mate.’ But the skipper
was too excited to argue, and, applying the hot iron,
spit—fizzle—bang, and the piece went up, and, this time,
clean overboard.</p>
<p>A thousand capering madmen were yelling at the
top of their voices on board the <cite>Sparrowhawk</cite>; but
high and shrill above even that clamour could be heard
the screech from the junk at that last discharge. The
fog was still thick around the latter, and the ship’s sails
being aback, she was making a stern board towards the
enemy, to whom M‘Cracken, exulting, determined to
administer a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">coup de grâce<!-- TN: original lacks circumflex --></i>.</p>
<p>‘Noo then, a’thegither,’ he cried, and the old muskets
and the bell-muzzled pistols roared and kicked and
sent a leaden shower somewhere, while, amidst an
<a name="png.118" id="png.118" href="#png.118"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>100<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>indescribable medley of yells and cheers, the defeated
pirate vanished into the mist.</p>
<p>Someone cried out that she had sunk. But presently
the sound of her sweeps could be heard in the distance.</p>
<p>Then the skipper, flushed and elated with victory,
snapped his fingers in the second mate’s face, as he
<span class="nw">exclaimed,—</span></p>
<p>‘That for yer Chinese pireets, Davie M‘Phairson!
Whaurs a’ their muskets an’ gingals an’ sic-like the noo?
Gin they had ony, they were ower frichted to make use
o’ them I expeck! But,’ growing serious, ‘my name’s
nae Sandy M‘Cracken gin I dinna chairge Tam Wulson
two pun ten shillin’—whilk is the price o’ her at cost—for
lettin’ the wee bit cannonie gang overboord. I tellt
him to keep her down wi’ his feet, and he wadna.’</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>Swatow at last; and the <cite>Sparrowhawk</cite> surrounded
with a thousand <i>sampans</i> whose occupants welcomed
their returned friends and relatives by trying to emulate
Babel.</p>
<p>M‘Cracken was deified. His cabin could not hold
the presents—mostly in kind—that he received. Also,
his grateful passengers, having set apart a day for special
rejoicing and thanksgiving, returned, and, willy nilly, decorated
the <cite>Sparrowhawk</cite> after the manner of their
land with banners and lanterns, and had a high old
time on board under the leadership of the convert, who
bewailed his backsliding, and privately asked M‘Cracken
to baptise him anew.</p>
<p>The story of the fight ran all up and down the
<a name="png.119" id="png.119" href="#png.119"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>101<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>seaboard. Hongkong heard of it, or a version of it, and
the <cite>Gazette</cite> published a long story headed in big caps:
‘Another Piratical Outrage.—The <cite>Sparrowhawk</cite> turns
on her Pursuer—Conspicuous Bravery of the Captain
and Crew—The Pirate Beaten off with Great Loss.’
Singapore heard it, and the <cite>Straits Times</cite> followed
suit with ‘Four Junks and Terrible Slaughter.’ This
latter item, as we shall presently see, being pretty near
the mark.</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>But what cripple is this that, in a couple of days,
comes staggering up to the Swatow anchorage with
her mat sails full of holes and her decks covered with
scarcely dry blood, and whose crew dance and screech
a wild defiance at the <cite>Sparrowhawk</cite> as she passes on
to the inner harbour?</p>
<p>Presently off comes a mandarin and a guard of soldiers
and hales M‘Cracken ashore, protesting and threatening.</p>
<p>The British Consul is just dead of enteric fever. There
is, however, a French one, and in his room the complaint
of Sum Kum On, master of the <cite>Delight of the Foaming
Seas</cite>, is heard. The tribunal is a mixed one, consisting
of two mandarins and the Consul. The first witness
called is Sum Kum On. He states that his vessel is a
coaster, engaged mostly in the poultry trade. That, on
the present trip, he left Kin Fo, a small port four days’
sail from Swatow, laden with a deck cargo of ducks for
the Swatow and Chee Foo markets. Had on board one
passenger, a wealthy tea-grower of Honan, who, carrying
with him many dollars, was naturally nervous, and afraid
<a name="png.120" id="png.120" href="#png.120"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>102<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>of pirates. Sighting the big vessel, the tea-grower, now
in court, and prepared to give evidence, prayed him
(Sum Kum On) to keep close to it for protection from
said pirates.</p>
<p>He did so. But in the calm and mist he unwittingly,
and without evil intent (being, as their Highnesses could
see, only a poor trader) came too near, when to his
amazement showers of bullets and great cannon balls
tore his sails to pieces; and, but for the coops being
piled high on deck, assuredly every soul must have
perished.</p>
<p>In spite of explanations and shouts for mercy he was
repeatedly fired into, all his cargo killed, sixty new coops
of the best bamboo knocked to atoms; one of his crew
desperately wounded, his vessel irretrievably damaged.
His claim was for five hundred dollars; and he retired,
secure in the knowledge that the Heaven-Born Son of
the great foreign nation who, that day, with the Twin
Lights of Justice, occupied the judgment-seat, would
mete out compensation with an unsparing hand.</p>
<p>The dealer gave evidence much to the same effect.
Then the wounded sailor, whose scalp had been furrowed
by a ball, ghastly with bandages and the gore which he
had liberally smeared over his features, told his tale. To
wind up with, the unlucky jumping cannon, which had
pitched on to the deck of the junk, was produced as
evidence of identity. Outside, in piles, lay other witnesses—hundreds
of fine fat ducks, stiff and ‘high.’</p>
<p>Around the building the fickle crowd could be heard
raging for the blood of the unfortunate M‘Cracken, so
<a name="png.121" id="png.121" href="#png.121"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>103<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>lately their hero. The Consul, who spoke English well,
was obviously ill at ease. The two mandarins glared
sourly at the poor skipper.</p>
<p>‘I think, captain, you’d better pay at once,’ said the
Consul. ‘Evidently a most unfortunate mistake has
been made; and that is the only way out of it that I
can see.<!-- TN: original has comma -->’</p>
<p>‘I’ll see him dom’d afore I do!’ exclaimed the skipper.
‘Five hundred dollars! Why, it’s a hundred pun sterlin’
o’ oor money! An’ a’ for a wheen dukes an’ a crackit
heid! Na, na! Tell the skirlin’ fule I’ll gie him fifty
dollars, and that’s mair than a’ his gear’s worth. I’ll
gang to preesin suner than pay as muckle siller as he’s
askin’!’</p>
<p>Outside the ‘Children of far Cathay’ could be heard
yelling louder than ever for the heart, liver, and entrails
of the white devil. The Consul’s face grew graver as he
listened to the wounded sailor, just below the open
window haranguing the crowd.</p>
<p>‘What’s a’ that claver aboot?’ asked the skipper.</p>
<p>‘They are demanding,’ replied the Consul, ‘that these
gentlemen’—indicating the mandarins—‘should have
you crucified at once. And, upon my word, captain, if
you don’t soon make up your mind, they’ll do it. I am
powerless to assist you in any way beyond finding you
the money.’</p>
<p>M‘Cracken turned blue. It was like parting with his
life, the parting with that hundred pounds. But he
could see no escape. As the Consul quickly told him,
this was no question of imprisonment, but one of cash
<a name="png.122" id="png.122" href="#png.122"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>104<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>down. So he paid; and, presently, followed by a coolie
carrying the little cannon, made his way to the boat
between lines of grinning soldiery, over whose shoulders
the rabble, derisive now, quacked itself hoarse. And
amongst the noisiest<!-- TN: original reads "noisest" --> of them he caught sight of his
Christian passenger.</p>
<p>The <cite>Sparrowhawk</cite> took no freight from Swatow. She
sailed for Rangoon speedily; but there it was just as bad.
The joke was too good not to circulate. In every
eastern port she and her people were greeted with volleys
of ‘quacks’ by the native population both on land and
water. Legions of imps, black and copper-coloured, and
all quacking with might and main, formed the skipper’s
retinue if he went ashore anywhere between Yokohama
and Bombay.</p>
<p>Native masters of country <i>wallahs</i>, lying within hail,
would grin, and ask him for the protection of the
<cite>Sparrowhawk</cite> to their next port of call. It became
unbearable. India, China and Japan seemed to turn
into duck-pens at his approach.</p>
<p>So he took the <cite>Sparrowhawk</cite> out of those waters altogether,
and shortly afterwards gave up the sea. But,
although there are no ducks within a mile of his house
on the Aythen, there are urchins—Scotch urchins—and
he has not perfect peace. The story is too well
known.</p>
<p>As for his crew, even yet, if one should, with intent,
imitate the cry of that fowl disastrous where two or three
of them happen to be foregathered, they will come at you
with the weapons nearest.</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="The Duke of Silversheen"><a name="png.123" id="png.123" href="#png.123"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>105<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>THE DUKE OF SILVERSHEEN.</h2>
<p class="subtitle"><i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Quæ amissa, salva.</i></p>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smc">The</span> parlour of the ‘Woolpack’ was full of men in from
their stations for ‘Land Court Day.’ A babel of talk
was toward—mostly ‘shop.’ ‘Footrot!’ shouted a
small energetic looking man, ‘I’ll tell you how I cure
my sheep! You boil vinegar, and arsenic, and blue-stone
up—No, Polly, I ordered lager. And then—’
‘Worms,’ my dear fellow, another was saying, ‘You can’t
cure ’em! Don’t tell me! You go and make an infernal
chemist’s shop of your sheep’s stomach, ruin the wool
and constitution; and, after all your trouble, up bobs
the little worm serenely as ever.’ ‘Strike,’ came from
another corner of the big room. ‘No fear! No strike
this year if we hang together like we mean to do. I
think we’re pretty right in this district, anyhow. Everybody’s
joined, bar M‘Pherson, and he’ll come-to presently.
By jingo, here he is! Touch the bell, Bob, and
let’s have ’em again.’ As the speaker finished, a burly,
grey-whiskered man entered with, in his wake, another
person who had evidently been closely pressing his
<a name="png.124" id="png.124" href="#png.124"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>106<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>companion with argument and persuasion, for the latter was
saying <span class="nw">irritably,—</span></p>
<p>‘Once for a’, I tell ye, no. I’ll nae join. I’ll just
stan’ on my ain bottom, an’ employ wha I like. When I
want my wool aff, aff it comes; an’ wha takes it aff I
dinna care a damn, so it’s taken off to my satisfaction!
Will that do ye?’</p>
<p>‘The gospel of selfishness according to M‘Pherson,’
said a voice from out the smoke-clouds. ‘The assessment
’d drive him mad.’ ‘Bang went saxpence!’
sang out someone else, as the Scotch squatter turned
angrily round with a dim idea that he was being
baited.</p>
<p>But the older men quietened the youngsters who
threatened to break bounds.</p>
<p>They still hoped—stubborn and untouchable, except
by way of his pocket, though he was—to gain M‘Pherson
to the cause.</p>
<p>He was the largest sheepowner in the district, and
that was saying a good deal when the smallest shore
40,000. Palkara shed was one of the shearing prizes
of the colony, and the A.S.<a name="fn7" id="fn7"></a><a title="Go to footnote 7"
href="#Footnote7" class="fnanchor"><span
class="ns">[Footnote </span>7<span class="ns">]
</span></a> Union officials viewed the
defection of its owner with joy.</p>
<p>‘So I hear you bought the “Duke” down at the sales,
Mac?’ said one presently, as the old man, his wrath
subsiding, sipped his whisky and water.</p>
<p>‘Ay,’ responded he, ‘it was a stiff price to gie, but
I’m no regrettin’ it. He’s a wonnerfu’ fine beast.’</p>
<p>They were sitting with their backs to the open
<a name="png.125" id="png.125" href="#png.125"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>107<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>windows, which gave on to a many-seated crowded
verandah, and from this <span class="nw">came,—</span></p>
<p>‘That you may lose him before you’ve had him a week,
unless you join the Association!’</p>
<p>‘If I do, I’ll join, and ask it to help me find him,’
retorted M‘Pherson angrily into the hot outside night,
and would fain have risen and gone in search of the
speaker, but that his friend, whose name was Park, a
neighbouring squatter, pulled him back, <span class="nw">saying,—</span></p>
<p>‘Never mind these youngsters, Mac. They’re getting
a bit sprung, I fancy. It’s no use making a row.
When’ll the “Duke” be up?’</p>
<p>‘He’s due here on Tuesday,’ replied the other, ‘an’, if
ye’ll be in, ye can see him. He’s weel worth the lookin’
at. He’ll come by rail to Burrtown, an’ then by coach on.</p>
<p>Two bachelor brothers, the Blakes, who owned a run
not far from Palkara, were close to the window at which
the pair sat.</p>
<p>The younger brother it was who had fired the remark
inside about losing the great ram for which M‘Pherson
had just paid 700 guineas.</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>‘Well, Jack, what passengers to-night?’ asked the
overseer of Blake’s Tara Station, as Cobb & Co.’s coach
drew slowly up in the pouring rain close to the homestead
door.</p>
<p>‘Nary one, bar a cussed ole brute of a ram,’ replied
the driver, as he stiffly dismounted, and handed
out the mail. ‘I got him at the railway, and I’ve bin
more cautious with him than if he’d bin a Lord Bishop
<a name="png.126" id="png.126" href="#png.126"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>108<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>He’s for M‘Pherson up at Palkara. Hold the light
please, Mr Brown, till I see if the beggar’s all serene.’</p>
<p>‘He’s right enough,’ said the overseer, after a glance
at the aristocrat, resting luxuriously on pillows, half
buried in hay, and with his legs tied by silk handkerchiefs.
‘Now,’ he continued, ‘slip inside and have a
snack and a drop of hot grog. I’ll stand by the
horses.’</p>
<p>‘You’re a Christian, Mr Brown,’ remarked the driver
gratefully, as he pulled off his gloves and blew on his
numbed fingers. ‘It’s the coldest rain for this time o’
the year as ever I felt.’</p>
<p>Scarcely had his dripping figure entered the open
kitchen door, when, from behind a clump of bushes,
came two figures bearing something between them.
Lifting the ‘Duke’ with scant ceremony out of his
couch, they deposited their burden in his place, and
after a few whispered words to Brown, still at the horses’
heads, disappeared. Presently the driver returned, and,
with a cheery ‘Good-night,’ started the coach rolling
once more through the forty miles of mud and water
between Tara and Combington.</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>‘Coach in, Edwards?’ asked M‘Pherson the next
afternoon as he drove up to the ‘Woolpack,’ accompanied
by his friend Park.</p>
<p>‘Yes, sir. It’s a bit late, though,’ replied the landlord.
‘Roads terrible heavy after the rain. I had the ram
untied an’ put in the stable, an’ gave him some green
stuff.’</p>
<p><a name="png.127" id="png.127" href="#png.127"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>109<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘That’s right, Edwards,’ said the squatter. ‘How does
he look after the trip—pretty well?’</p>
<p>The other hesitated before <span class="nw">answering,—</span></p>
<p>‘Why, yes, sir; he seems hearty enough. But I’m
no judge of sheep.’</p>
<p>‘S’pose ye wouldna care about givin’ 700 guineas for
him, eh, Edwards?’ chuckled M‘Pherson.</p>
<p>‘No, sir,’ replied the landlord with emphasis, ‘I’m
damned if I would.’</p>
<p>‘Ha, ha!’ laughed the other, as he drove into the
yard, ‘and yet, mon, I wouldna swap him for the auld
“Woolpack.” Come,’ he added impatiently, ‘unlock
the door an’ let us hae a look at His Grace.’</p>
<p>By this time there was quite a crowd on the scene.
A couple of stock and station agents, a bank manager,
the P.M., some drovers, everybody, in fact, who thought
they knew a sheep from a goat, had assembled to have
a look at ‘the big ram.’</p>
<p>‘Keep awa’ frae the door,’ quoth M‘Pherson. ‘Ye’ll
all be able to hae a good sight o’ him presently. Let
him come right out into the yaird, Edwards.’</p>
<p>As he finished, up the lane of spectators stalked a
nondescript kind of animal, at which M‘Pherson just
glanced, and then sang out to Edwards, appearing in the
<span class="nw">doorway,—</span></p>
<p>‘Ye never tauld me there was twa. Whaur’s the
ither?’</p>
<p>‘There’s only the one, sir,’ answered the landlord.
‘That’s he.’</p>
<p>‘What!’ and M‘Pherson fairly gasped as he stared at
<a name="png.128" id="png.128" href="#png.128"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>110<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>the brute, which—from the muleish head, down the
sparsely ‘broken woolled’ back, and slab-sided flanks, to
the bare, kangaroo-like legs—bore the impress all over
of ‘rank cull.’</p>
<p>Then turning to the grinning landlord, and with
accent intensified by excitement, he shouted, ‘What’s
yon thing? Whaur’s my ram? D’ye think I ped my
money for sic a brute as that? What ha’ ye done wi’
the “Duke”? If this is a wee bit joke o’ yer ain, Mister
Edwards, time’s up, I do assure ye, sir.’ And he
advanced threateningly towards the publican, who
nimbly retreated into the crowd, whilst <span class="nw">protesting,—</span></p>
<p>‘I can swear to you, sir, that’s the very same sheep
Jack Burns brought in the coach this mornin’. I helped
to take him out, an’ I sez to Jack, “Well, he ain’t much
to look at, Jack;” and Jack, he sez, “No, that he ain’t.
I think the trip must have haffected him; he seems to
have felled away sence we put him in at the railway.”’</p>
<p>‘Tak’ me to the villain,’ groaned M‘Pherson, ‘till I
get to the bottom of this de’il’s cantrip!’</p>
<p>Followed by quite a procession, they passed to a little
room, where the driver lay sleeping off the fatigues of
the previous night.</p>
<p>‘Hi!’ yelled the squatter, shaking him. ‘What ha’
ye done wi’ my ram, ye rascal?’</p>
<p>Jack, sitting up, half awake, replied <span class="nw">sulkily,—</span></p>
<p>‘Damn your ram! He’s in the stable. What d’ye
want, rousin’ people like this for?’</p>
<p>‘I’ll rouse ye, ye scamp!’ roared the other. ‘Whaur’s
<a name="png.129" id="png.129" href="#png.129"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>111<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>my ram—my “Duke,” I say? D’ye think that I dinna
ken a coo frae a cuddy; an’ that I’m to be imposed on
wi’ a blasted auld cull in place o’ the “Duke o’ Silversheen”
that I ped 700 guineas guid cash for? D’ye
imagine I’m daft, ye coach-drivin’ fule, ye? If ye dinna
confess wha’s led ye astray, I’ll give ye in chairge this
vera meenit. I’ll let ye ken that I’m Jock M‘Pherson o’
Palkara; an’ I’m goin’ to mak’ it het for ye for this wee
jobbie!’</p>
<p>This tirade effectually awakened the driver, and said
he, with an earnestness there was no <span class="nw">mistaking,—</span></p>
<p>‘By G—d, Mr M‘Pherson, I’m on the square. I
never took much notice o’ the ram at the railway. It
was dusk, too, when the agent put him in. I seen him
two or three times along the road, an’ thought he looked
fust class. Nobody could ha’ touched him without me
knowin’ of it. But, at the best o’ times, I can’t tell one
sheep from t’other, never havin’ had any truck with ’em.<!-- TN: punctuation invisible -->
Anyhow, if there’s cross work ’bout this un, all I can
say is, as I ain’t in it: An’ now you can send for the
traps if you likes.’</p>
<p>The man’s manner carried conviction with it, and for
a few minutes M‘Pherson was silent.</p>
<p>At last he <span class="nw">said,—</span></p>
<p>‘Come awa’, some o’ ye, an’ catch the creature till I
have a look at him.’</p>
<p>But when caught, nothing was ascertainable beyond
the one patent fact that he was a broken-mouthed, miserable
old cull, who ought to have gone to market as a
wether years ago. Earmarks, out of their own district,
<a name="png.130" id="png.130" href="#png.130"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>112<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>are of precious little use as a means of identification now-a-days.</p>
<p>It will be noticed that Jack forgot all about his twenty
minutes’ stay and chat with the cook in Tara kitchen.
The coach had been very much overdue.</p>
<p>‘Surely you’re not going to take the thing home, Mac?’
said his friend, as the former lugged the ‘Duke’s’ <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">locum
tenens</i> towards the buggy. ‘He’s only fit to have his
throat cut.’</p>
<p>‘Never mind,’ replied M‘Pherson moodily, ‘he’ll
mebbe turn out o’ some use yet.’</p>
<p>Not that the old Scotchman was at all inclined to sit
down quietly and suffer his loss. Very far from it. But
he was no favourite, and public sympathy was absent.
Unfeeling people averred that, at the time of the sale, he
had been under the influence of hypnotism, etc., etc.; in
fact, laughed at, and enjoyed the thing as a good joke.
Therefore he was disinclined to blazon his misadventure
throughout the Colonies. Also, he thought it would be
bad policy to make too much noise.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, he quietly strained every nerve, and
spent money freely in endeavours to discover the missing
animal. Private detectives and the local police took the
matter in hand, and with exactly the same amount of
success.</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>Meanwhile the ‘Duke’ was thriving. At Tara a big
underground cellar, lit by skylights, had recently been
excavated. This was his home. There, waited upon by
the only three in the secret, the great merino lived on
<a name="png.131" id="png.131" href="#png.131"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>113<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>the fat of the land. Some nights the Blakes would let
him out into the garden for a pick, themselves or Brown
securing him in his quarters again before they turned
in.</p>
<p>It was a lot of bother, doubtless. But what of that, if
they could only ‘bring old Mac to his bearings,’ and
secure Palkara for their Association!</p>
<p>As for the risk of discovery, they laughed at it. From
the minute the agent (who was ready to swear to the
‘Duke’s’ identity) put him in the coach at the Burrtown
terminus, everything seemed vague and exceedingly
doubtful respecting the spot at which the transfer could
possibly have been effected.</p>
<p>The coach stopped at some half-dozen stations along
the road, besides mail stages, and at none of these places
could the slightest clue be obtained. In common with
the rest, Tara was subjected to official visits.</p>
<p>‘Certainly, Sergeant, happy to show you through all
the paddocks. Like to see the rams? Yes, of course.
We’ve got some very fine Havilahs you’ll be pleased
with, I’m sure. Yes; terrible affair about poor M‘Pherson’s
“Duke”! Have another nip before we start?’</p>
<p>So, sheep galore did the unhappy police inspect, and
carefully did they compare, stags, wethers, and ancient
‘horny’ ewes with photos of the ‘Duke’ until, at length,
quite dazed with the apparently endless quest, to say
nothing of the whisky, they audibly cursed the whole
ovine race back to the days of the first breeders.</p>
<p>Only once did the brothers feel a doubt. Driving into
town, they met M‘Pherson and a black-fellow following
<a name="png.132" id="png.132" href="#png.132"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>114<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>the old cull, who was steadily tramping along the road
Tara-ward.</p>
<p>‘What’s all this about, M‘Pherson?’ asked one,
as they pulled up. ‘Have you taken a droving contract?’</p>
<p>‘Ay,’ replied the old fellow, glaring suspiciously at the
pair. ‘Just thet. I’m wantin’ to see whaur Beelzebub,
here, gangs. If he’s gotten a hame, which I muckle
doot, mebbe he’ll mek back.’</p>
<p>But a couple of miles on, Beelzebub struck a patch of
clover, and stuck to it.</p>
<p>The darkey watched him for three days, and, after he
had finished every vestige, the old ram paused irresolutely,
scratched his ear with his hind foot, and meandered
calmly back to the township.</p>
<p>So M‘Pherson returned with him to Palkara. A bit of
the garden was fenced off, and here he used to sit and
smoke and stare for hours at Beelzebub, until his friends
began to think his loss had affected his brain.</p>
<p>Like many of his countrymen, M‘Pherson was superstitious,
and, deep down in his heart, was a lurking
suspicion of <i>diablerie</i> that would not be exorcised.</p>
<p>‘It’s no earthly use watching that beast, Mac,’ said
Park, riding up one day, and finding his neighbour at his
usual occupation. ‘Look as hard as you like, and that
won’t turn him into the Duke. Now, take my advice,
and I think you stand a show of getting him back again.
You remember you said that night at the Woolpack,
that, if you lost him, you’d join the Association and trust
it to recover him for you, or something to that effect.
<a name="png.133" id="png.133" href="#png.133"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>115<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>Well, my notion is that some of the boys have had a
finger in the pie. And I solemnly believe that, if you
don’t soon make your mind up, you’ll never see the
Duke any more. Come, now’s the time! Shearing will
start presently. Besides, I know you want him badly for
those Coonong stud ewes.’</p>
<p>Park, himself a prominent member, used all his powers
of persuasion, and to such good purpose, that in the
next issue of the local paper appeared the <span class="nw">announcement,—</span></p>
<p class="tbspace">‘Palkara will start shearing on —— under Conference
rules.’</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>A morning or so afterwards, M‘Pherson going out for
his before-breakfast smoke and usual look at Beelzebub,
to his astonishment saw him not. He had gone. But
in his stead stood a stately, almost perfect animal, the
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">beau ideal</i> of what a ‘Champion’ should be. Around
his neck he bore a card, on which the old squatter presently
<span class="nw">read,—</span></p>
<p class="tbspace">‘I am a fully paid-up member of the Pastoralists’
Association of Australasia.</p>
<p class="rtindent">‘(Signed) <span class="smc">Silversheen</span>.’</p>
<div class="footnotes">
<p><small><span class="unjust"><a name="Footnote7" id="Footnote7"><span class="ns">[Footnote </span
>7<span class="ns">: </span></a> </span>Australian Shearers’.<span class="ns">]</span>
<a title="Return to text" href="#fn7" class="fnreturn"
><i>Return to text</i></a></small></p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="the Officer in Charge"><a name="png.134" id="png.134" href="#png.134"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>116<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>THE OFFICER IN CHARGE.</h2>
<p class="subtitle"><span class="smc">A Far Inland Sketch.</span></p>
<p class="noindent">‘<span class="smc">A rising</span> township of some four hundred inhabitants,
situated on the Trickle Trickle River. Distance from
Sydney, north-west, six hundred and fifty miles.’</p>
<p>Thus the <cite>Australian Gazetteer</cite>, speaking of the far-inland
village of Jillibeejee. For days you shall have
ridden over bush roads, fetlock deep in dust, through
monotonous open forest, or over still more monotonous
plain, ere, far away on a dry brown ridge, you catch the
glitter of something in the bright, hot sunshine. This
proceeds from the first roof in Jillibeejee. Then,
making your horse stride carefully over the Trickle
Trickle, whose banks are apt to crumble, you breast the
ridge and take a bird’s-eye view of the township as it lies
frying in the sun.</p>
<p>This ridge must be fully fifty feet above the level of the
surrounding country, and is probably the ‘rising’ referred
to by the jocular <cite>Gazetteer</cite>.</p>
<p>The first building is deserted; so is the second. As
you ride along you come to others, dilapidated but, from
<a name="png.135" id="png.135" href="#png.135"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>117<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>sounds within, peopled. There are altogether forty
houses in Jillibeejee, which, by the <cite>Gazetteer’s</cite> reckoning,
gives us an average of ten inmates to each one.</p>
<p>I am afraid the <cite>Gazetteer</cite> has never been to Jillibeejee.</p>
<p>In fact, very few people ever do seem to go there.
Those that do, either depart again very shortly, or stay
until theirs makes one amongst a collection of rudely-fenced
enclosures on the banks of the Trickle Trickle,
inside which sleep the pioneers of the place.</p>
<p>Perhaps the first emotion that arises in the visitor’s
mind is of wonder that any pioneer, no matter how hard
up he may have been, should have thought it worth
while to commence pioneering at Jillibeejee. The
second, that any others should ever join him in such a
speculation. Neither tree nor any other green thing meets
the sight. All is brown, barren, desolate—apparently a
‘waste land where no one comes, or hath come since the
making of the world,’ except that intrepid band in possession.</p>
<p>Why do people live here? How do they live? I
must discover this, if possible, before leaving. Having
no time to spare, I begin at once.</p>
<p>He is six feet in his stockings, broad, massive, hirsute,
and tanned. The insignia of office in such a place
would be an absurdity. Therefore his raiment is nondescript,
and mostly slouch hat. This is the man who
rules the official destinies of the settlement—the ‘Officer
in Charge.’ To him I propound my conundrum.</p>
<p>‘Ah,’ replies he; ‘ye shud jist come aroun’ whin ut’s
a wet saison, an’ thin ye’d see the differ av ut.’</p>
<p><a name="png.136" id="png.136" href="#png.136"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>118<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘<!-- TN: punctuation invisible -->Yes,’ I remark. ‘And when may that time be
due?’</p>
<p>‘God knows,’ says he piously, and with a sigh. ‘I’ve
bin here four year, an’ I’ve seen ut wanst. Ye cudn’t
see the counthry for a week bekase av the wather.
Thin, afther, comes the grass an’ the clover six feet
high. Ut’s a great counthry, them times, so it is,
sorr.’</p>
<p>It is high noon as I and my friend stroll along the
fiery, dusty track amongst the iron-roofed ovens large
and small.</p>
<p>Everybody seems asleep, save that now and again we
catch a glimpse of women, wan and prematurely old-looking.</p>
<p>In the sun’s eye a man lies in the brown dust. He is
on his back, his hat off, and snoring stertorously up at
a cloud of mosquitoes, sandflies, and other abominations
hovering and buzzing about his face.</p>
<p>With a look of solicitude my guide <span class="nw">exclaims,—</span></p>
<p>‘Sure, now, that’s Tim Healy, come in from Out
Back, an’ his cheque gone already! Lend a hand, will
ye, sorr, wid the other ind av him. The poor devil ’ll be
sthruck intirely here, so he will.’</p>
<p>So, one at each ‘ind,’ we bear the man from Out Back
into the comparative shade of a verandah, where the
constable takes off his boots, loosens his shirt collar, and
props his head up, <span class="nw">saying,—</span></p>
<p>‘There, the cratur, mebbe he’ll waken wid nothin’
worse nor a sore head, an’ a limekiln in the throttle av
him.’</p>
<p><a name="png.137" id="png.137" href="#png.137"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>119<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>A fit man and a proper, this one, I reflect, to be
Officer in Charge of this half-forgotten fragment of a
people.</p>
<p>So, presently, I am not surprised at hearing that, in
addition to that title, he bears the important ones of
Clerk of Petty Sessions, Registrar of Small Debts Court
and Births, Land Bailiff, Inspector of Slaughterhouses,
Curator’s Agent, and others equally pertinent to his surroundings,
but which I have forgotten.</p>
<p>Entering the parlour of the one public-house, silent
and deserted but for clouds of humming flies, a drowsy
landlord, booted and spurred for riding, answers our
knock.</p>
<p>‘I was goin’ over the river an hour ago,’ he explains,
rubbing his bleary eyes, ‘to run a beast in; but two or
three of the boys wos here larst night, an’ they kep’ it up;
so I lays down on the sofy an’ drops right off. What’ll
ye have, gents?’</p>
<p>I ask for beer. My companion smiles and ‘takes’
rum.</p>
<p>‘Lor bless yer!’ exclaims the landlord, ‘there ain’t bin
no beer here this twelvemonth or more! I got some,
somewheres, on the teams. But, the way things is, it’ll
be another twelvemonth afore they show up. Dry time,
ye see, sir.’</p>
<p>‘Well, then,’ I say, ‘have you any whisky?’</p>
<p>‘There was a bottle or two, but the boys—’ he
commenced, <span class="nw">when,—</span></p>
<p>‘What’s the use av batin’ about the bush that way?’
puts in my companion. ‘Why don’t ye tell the gint at
<a name="png.138" id="png.138" href="#png.138"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>120<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>wanst that sorra a dhrop’ll he get in Jillibeejee, bar the
rum utself. I’ve dhrunk worse in Port Mackay. Ut’s a
wholesome dhrink, in moderation, an’ wid jist a suspicion
o’ Trickle Trickle at the bottom av the tumbler.’</p>
<p>So rum it is. The Officer in Charge takes his, I notice,
very nearly pure, and without winking. We help ourselves,
and the price is one shilling each.</p>
<p>It is still terribly hot.</p>
<p>‘It must be a long way over one hundred degrees in
the shade,’ I remark.</p>
<p>‘Come acrost to the station,’ says the Officer in Charge,
‘an’ we’ll see. There’s no shade whatever in Jillibeejee.
But there’s the best that is. Sure, ut’s weatherboard an’
lined—the only wan in the town. There’s a thermomether
there as tells how big a hate’s on.’</p>
<p>So we go over. The place is like a furnace, and the
glass registers one hundred and twenty-seven degrees.</p>
<p>‘And you’ve been here some years!’ I gasp, sliding
off my chair, a wet, limp heap, on to the floor, and
staying there.</p>
<p>‘I have, indade, sorr,’ replies he. ‘The first summer I
was minded to blow me head off wid me pistol. The
second was near as bad; but I don’t fale ’em so much
now. Whin the wet do come, ut’s almost as thryin’; for
the san’-flies an’ miskitties bangs Banagher. Ay, ut’s dull
an’ lonesome like, sure enough, till the b’ys comes in for
a change; an’ thin, if ye’ll belave ut, Jillibeejee is as
ructious a towneen as is on God’s earth.’</p>
<p>‘Come in from where? Where the deuce can anybody
come in from? And who in the world would come
<a name="png.139" id="png.139" href="#png.139"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>121<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>to such a hole as this ‘for a change?’ I ask irritably,
whilst wringing my pocket handkerchief, as the heat
proves too trying.</p>
<p>‘Whisht!’ replies my host placidly. ‘Ye’ll mebbe
have noticed that there’s not many min in Jillibeejee,
knockin’ aroun’ like?’</p>
<p>‘Only the fellow,’ I answer, ‘that we put in the
verandah.’</p>
<p>‘Ay, he’s iver wan o’ the fust, is Tim Healy,’ says the
Officer in Charge. ‘Whin the others are comin’ in, he’ll
be afther going back, stone bruk, so he will, poor
divil!’</p>
<p>‘In from <em>where</em>? Back to <em>where</em>?’ I cry impatiently.</p>
<p>‘To an’ fro the big stations on the border, over
yander,’ replies he, with a wave of his hand westward.
‘To the back av beyant, where they digs dams, an’ sinks
wells, an’ fences an’ fights wid the naygurs, an’ herds cattle,
an’ gathers up a cheque, and thin comes back like pilicans
to their women and children on the edge o’ the
wiltherness here. Good b’ys, in the main,’ he continues;
‘just a little rough, perhaps, when the rum’s in. Ye
see, sorr, ye can’t expeck much else from the craturs, for,
iv this is bad, ut’s Hell utself out yander in the new
counthry, where there’s no law, no polis, no nothin’.
D’ye wander at the b’ys, now, wantin’ a change out av
ut wanst an’ agin?’</p>
<p>‘Well, perhaps not. But what must that other life be
like?’</p>
<p>So, in the gloaming, hot and close, with a hot-looking
moon hanging in a hazy sky, I depart from Jillibeejee,
<a name="png.140" id="png.140" href="#png.140"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>122<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>leaving its Officer in Charge—strong man, and a very
fit—stroking a great black beard meditatively, and
possessing his soul in patience for the stirring times
which herald the advent of his charges from the ‘Back
av Beyant.’</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="‘Sojur Jim’"><a name="png.141" id="png.141" href="#png.141"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>123<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘SOJUR JIM.’</h2>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smc">Brightly</span> blazed the watch-fires into the still night air,
brightly from within the circle formed by them gleamed
thousands of sparkling eyes, and fell on the ear a low,
continuous sound, like the soft distant murmur of some
summer sea on a shingly beach, as twelve thousand
sheep peacefully chewed their cuds after the long day’s
travel.</p>
<p>The weather was close and sultry. So, feeling indisposed
to sleep, I had left my hot tent and was walking
round the whitish, indistinct mass of recumbent figures,
when I nearly stumbled against the watchman, who, as
one of the fires flared up, I saw was the eccentric
individual known in the camp by the nickname of ‘Sojur
Jim’; and, in pursuance of an idea I had long borne
in mind, first assuring myself that all was right with my
fleecy charges, I lit my pipe, stretched myself out on
the short, thick grass and sand, and said, whilst looking
at my <span class="nw">watch,—</span></p>
<p>‘Now, Jim, spin us a yarn that will help to pass
away the time.’</p>
<p>But my companion is well-deserving of a more particular
description. ‘Sojur Jim’ was the only name by
which he was called, and this he had gained by an
<a name="png.142" id="png.142" href="#png.142"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>124<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>extraordinary mania he possessed for destroying those
small terrors of the Australian bush, familiar to all
dwellers therein as ‘Soldier’ or ‘Bull-dog’ ants; insects
fierce, intractable and venomous. These, then, seemed
objects of especial aversion to Jim; and many a time,
whilst travelling along, would one of the men sing out,
‘Jim, Jim, sojurs!’ The effect was electrical; Jim,
leaving his flock, would bound away towards the nest,
and, dexterously using the long stick, flattened at both
ends in rude shovel shape, which was his constant
companion, he would furiously, regardless of innumerable
stings, uproot and turn over the ‘sojurs’’ stronghold,
and, having exposed its inmost recesses, complete
the work of destruction by lighting a great fire upon it,
and all this he would do with a set stern expression on
his grim face, as of one who avenges never-to-be-forgiven
or forgotten injuries.</p>
<p>He was indeed a remarkable looking man, strong
and athletic, and, in spite of his snow-white hair, probably
not more than fifty years of age. Part of his
nose, the lobes and cartilages of his ears, and one eye
were wanting, whilst the rest of his face was scarred
and seamed as if at one time a cross-cut saw had been
roughly drawn to and fro over it. And as I watched
him sitting there on a fallen log, the flickering blaze
playing fitfully on the white hair and corrugated, mutilated
features, I felt more than ever sure that the man
had a story well worth the hearing could he but be
induced to tell it.</p>
<p>Amongst his fellows in the camp he was taciturn and
<a name="png.143" id="png.143" href="#png.143"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>125<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>morose, never smiling, speaking rarely, apparently always
lost in his own gloomy reflections. My request, therefore,
was made with but faint hopes of success; but, to
my surprise, after a few minutes silence, he <span class="nw">replied,—</span></p>
<p>‘Very well, I’ll tell you a story. I don’t often tell it;
but I will to-night. If at times you feel disinclined to
believe it you have only to look at my face. I’m going
now to tell you how I got all these pretty lumps and
scars and ridges, and how I partly paid the men who
made me what I am. “Sojur Jim” they call me, and
think I am mad. God knows, I fancy so myself sometimes.
Well,’ he went on, in language at times rude
and unpolished, at others showing signs of more than
average education, ‘Did you ever hear of Captain
Jakes?’</p>
<p>‘Of course,’ I answered, for the notoriously cruel
bushranger had, after his own fashion, helped to make
minor Australian history.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ muttered Jim abstractedly, ‘he’s accounted
for. So is his mate—the one who laughed the loudest
of any. But there were three of them, and there’s still
another left somewhere. Not dead yet!’ he suddenly
exclaimed in a loud voice. ‘Surely not! My God, no!
After all these years of ceaseless search! That would
be too hard!’ And here he stood up and gazed
excitedly into the outer darkness.</p>
<p>‘But the story, Jim,’ I ventured to remark, after a long
pause.</p>
<p>‘Right you are,’ he replied, as he again sat down, and
calmly resumed. ‘Well, it was the year of the big rush,
<a name="png.144" id="png.144" href="#png.144"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>126<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>the first one, to the Ovens. I was a strapping young
fellow then, with all my life hopeful and bright before
me, as I left the old mother and the girl I loved to try
my luck on the diggings. Three years went by before I
thought of returning to the little Victorian township on
the Avoca, where we had long been settled; but then
I struck it pretty rich, and made up my mind to go back
and marry, and settle down alongside the old farm; for
a pair of loving hearts were, I knew, growing weary of
waiting for the return of the wanderer.</p>
<p>‘Like a fool, however, instead of sending down my
last lot of gold by the escort, I all of a sudden got
impatient, and, packing it in my saddle-bags, along with
a tidy parcel of notes and sovereigns, I set off alone.
The third night out I camped on a good-sized creek,
hobbled my horses, and after planting my saddle-bags in<!-- TN: original lacks "in" -->
a hollow log, I started to boil the billy for supper.
Presently, up rides three chaps, and, before I could
get to my swag, I was covered by as many revolvers;
while one of the men says, “Come along, now, hand
over the metal. We know you’ve got it, and if you
don’t give it quiet, why, we’ll take it rough.”</p>
<p>‘“You’ve got hold of the wrong party, this time,
mates,” says I, as cool as I could. “I’m on the
wallaby, looking for shearing, and, worse luck, hav’n’t
got no gold.”</p>
<p>‘“Gammon,” says the first speaker. “Turn his swag
over, mates.”</p>
<p>‘Well, they found nothing, of course. Then they
searched all over the bush round about, and one fellow
<a name="png.145" id="png.145" href="#png.145"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>127<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>actually puts his hand up the hollow of the log in which
lay hid my treasure; and I thought it was all up with
it, when he lets a yell out of him and starts cutting
all sorts of capers, with half-a-dozen big sojurs hanging
to his fingers.</p>
<p>‘Jakes (for he was the leader of the gang) now got
real savage, and putting a pistol to my head, swore
that he would blow my brains out unless I told where
the gold was. Well, I wouldn’t let on, for I thought
they were trying to bounce me, and that if I held out
I might get clear off, so I still stuck to it that they’d
mistaken their man.</p>
<p>‘Seeing I was pretty firm, they drew off for a while,
and, after a short talk, they began to laugh like madmen;
and one, taking a tomahawk, cut down a couple of
saplings, whilst another gets ready some stout cord;
and Jakes himself goes poking about in the saltbush
as if looking for something he’d lost. Before this they
had tied my arms and legs together with saddle-straps
and greenhide thongs; and there I lay, quite helpless,
wondering greatly what they were up to.</p>
<p>‘Presently the three came up, and tying me tightly
to the saplings—one along my back, and one cross-ways—they
carried me away a short distance to where
I had noticed Jakes searching around, and then laid
me down face uppermost, partly stripping me at the
same time. I lay there quietly enough, puzzling my
brains to try and guess what it was all about, and
those three devils standing laughing fit to split their
sides.</p>
<p><a name="png.146" id="png.146" href="#png.146"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>128<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘“Tell us now, will you,” said they, “where that gold’s
planted? How does your bed feel? Are you warm
enough?” and such like chaff, till I began to think they
must have gone suddenly cranky, for I felt nothing at
all. Perceiving that was the case, one of them took a
stick and thrust it under me into the ground; and then—oh,
God! it was awful!’</p>
<p>Here Sojur Jim paused suddenly, and a baleful light
gleamed from that solitary bright eye of his, whilst a
spasm shook his whole frame, and his scarred features
were contorted as if once more undergoing the agonies
of that terrible torture.</p>
<p>The wind sighed with an eerie sound through the
tall forest trees around us; the cry of some night-bird
came mournfully through the darkness, whilst black
clouds flitted across the young moon, filling the sombre
Australian glade with weird shadows—making the scene,
all at once, dismally in unison with the story, as with
a shiver I stirred the fire, and patiently waited for its
narrator to go on.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ he continued at length, ‘I dropped down to it
quickly enough then. I was tied on to a sojur-ants’
nest, and they swarmed about me in thousands—into
my nose, ears, eyes, mouth, everywhere—sting, sting,
sting, and tear, tear, tear, till I shrieked and yelled for
mercy.<!-- TN: original has superfluous closing quote --></p>
<p>‘“Tell us where the gold is planted,” said one of the
laughing fiends—I heard him laugh again years afterward
over the same story—“and we’ll let you
go.”</p>
<p><a name="png.147" id="png.147" href="#png.147"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>129<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘“Yes!” I screamed, “I’ll tell you. But for God
Almighty’s sake take me out of this!” “Not much,”
replied he. “Tell us first, and then you can jump into
the creek and give your little friends a drink.” “Look
in the big log,” I groaned at last. Then, one of them,
remembering the sojurs, gets a stick and fossicks about
till he felt the bags, when he shoves his arm up and
drags them out.</p>
<p>‘“A square thing, by G—d!” says Jakes, and turning
to me, he said, “Mate, you’ve given us a lot of trouble,
and as you look as if you were comfortably turned in for
the night, it would be a pity to disturb you. So long,
and pleasant dreams!” And, with that, away the three
of them rode, laughing loudly at my screams for mercy.
As you may think,’ went on Jim, ‘I was by this time
nearly raving mad with pain. Thousands of those
devil-ants were eating into my flesh, and me lying
there like a log. Hell! hell will never be as bad as
that was!</p>
<p>‘Six months afterward I came to my senses again.
It was a sunshiny spring morning, and I heard the
magpies whistling outside the old humpy on the Ovens,
as I tried to get up and go down to the claim, thinking
that I’d had the nightmare terrible bad. But when I
got off my bunk I fainted clean away on the floor, and
there my mates found me when they came home to
dinner. Good lads they were true men, who had
nursed me and tended me through all the long months
of fever and madness that had passed since the Escort,
for which I should have waited, had by the merest
<a name="png.148" id="png.148" href="#png.148"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>130<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>chance come across me and sent me back again to die,
as everyone thought.</p>
<p>‘But,’ and here, for the first time, Jim’s voice faltered
and shook, ‘there was another and a gentler nurse who—God
bless her—helped me back to life; the little
girl who loved me came up—my mother was dead—and
would have kept her word to me, too, and taken my
half-eaten carcase into her keeping wholly, had I been
mean enough to let her do it. But that was more than I
could stand the thought of. So one morning I slipped
quietly away to begin my man-hunting; for I had vowed
a merciless retribution upon my undoers if I had to
track them the wide world over. That’s close on
fifteen years ago. I can account for two, and live on in
hopes of yet meeting with the third.</p>
<p>‘You’ve heard how Jakes pegged out?’ asked Jim
abruptly.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘Sergeant O’Brien shot him in the
Long Swamp.’</p>
<p>‘So most people think,’ was his reply. ‘But I know
who was first in at the end; and when, crouching up to
his neck in the mud and long reeds, with my fingers
grasping his throat, I think, as he turned his bloodshot
and protruding eyes on mine, I think, I say, that he
knew me again, all changed as I was. He never spoke,
though, and I let him die slowly, for I was sure that
the sergeant was a long way behind. I held him there,
I tell you, and watched him as he tried to blow the
bubbles of blood and froth from out his pale lips, and at
last I told him who I was, and how I had tracked him
<a name="png.149" id="png.149" href="#png.149"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>131<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>down, and was now about to send his vile soul to perdition.
Then, as I heard the galloping tramp of the
trooper’s horse, I smothered him in the stagnant ooze
of that foul swamp. Truly a dog’s death, but one too
good for him! O’Brien, coming up soon afterward,
found the body, put a couple of pistol bullets into it,
and received the Government reward and promotion,
whilst I set off in search of the others.</p>
<p>‘One I came across four years afterwards on the
Adelaide side. I had taken a job of shepherding up
Port Augusta way, when, one night, who should come to
the hut but Number Two, the one who laughed the longest
and loudest of the three, as I lay in agony on the sojurs’
nest. I knew him in a minute and heartily welcomed
him to stop that night. “Just put those sheep in the
yard, matey,” I says, “while I make some bread for our
supper.”</p>
<p>‘Well, I makes two smallish johnnycakes, and we had
our tea. Then we starts smoking and yarning, and at
length I turned the talk on to ants, saying I couldn’t
keep nothing there because of them. With that he falls
to laughing, and, says he, “My word, mate, I could tell
you a yarn if I liked ’bout ants—sojurs—that’d make
you laugh for a week, only you see it ain’t always safe,
even in the bush, to talk among strangers.”</p>
<p>‘All of a sudden he turned as white as a sheet, and
drops off the stool, and twists and groans. Then he
sings out, “I’m going to die.”</p>
<p>‘You see,’ remarked Jim, with the cold impassiveness
which had, almost throughout, characterised his manner,
<a name="png.150" id="png.150" href="#png.150"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>132<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>‘the strychnine in the johnnycake that had fallen to his
share was beginning to work him, and as I laughingly
reminded him of old times, and asked him to go on with
his story about the sojur ants, he also knew me, and
shrieked and prayed for the mercy that I had once so
unavailingly implored at his hands. He was very soon,
however, too far gone to say much. A few more
struggles and it was all over, and then I dragged the
dead carrion out of my hut and buried it eight feet deep
under the sheep-dung in the yard, where, likely enough, it
is yet. So much for Number Two!’ exclaimed Jim, as I
sat looking rather doubtfully at him. Not that I questioned
the truthfulness of his story—that was stamped
on every word he uttered—but that I began to think
him rather a dangerous kind of monomaniac to have in
a drover’s camp. ‘And now, sir,’ he went on presently,
‘you’ve had the story you asked me for, and if ever we
meet again after this trip, maybe I’ll have something to
tell you about Number Three; that business it is that
brought me down about these parts, for I heard he was
working at some of the stations on the river. And as
God made me!’ he exclaimed, with a subdued sort of
gloomy ferocity in his voice, ‘when we do meet,
he shall feel the vengeance of the man whose life
and love and fortune he helped to ruin so utterly.
I could pick him out of a thousand, with his great
nose all of a skew, and his one leg shorter than the
other.’</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>The watch-fires were glimmering dimly. The cool air
<a name="png.151" id="png.151" href="#png.151"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>133<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>which heralds the Australian dawn was blowing, and the
sheep were moving silently out of their camp in long
strings as I rose to my feet. In the white tents all was
silence. Thanks to Sojur Jim, their occupants had
passed an undisturbed night. Absorbed in his gruesome
story—that dark tale of torture and retribution,
with just that one little trait of woman’s constancy and
devotion shining out like some bright star from a murky
sky—the time had slipped away unheeded. Sending
him to call the cook, I put the sheep together, wondering
mightily to myself, as the man, with his bent-down
head and slouching gait, moved away, whether he really
could be the same creature who through the silent
watches of the night had unfolded to my view such a
concentrated, tireless, and as yet unsatiated thirst for
revenge, such a fixed and relentless purpose of retaliation,
unweakened through the years, but burning freshly
and fiercely to-day, as, when with the scarcely healed
scars still smarting, disfigured, ruined, hopeless, forsaking
all, he went forth alone into the world to hunt down
his persecutors.</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>A few days after Sojur Jim had related to me the
story told above, one evening, at dusk, a swagman
entered the camp and asked the cook for a piece of
meat and some bread. Instead of eating it at once with
the accompanying offered drink of tea, he turned away,
and, a few minutes later, we saw his fire burning brightly
a little further along the lagoon, the banks of which
formed our resting-place for the night. Evidently, as
<a name="png.152" id="png.152" href="#png.152"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>134<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>the men remarked amongst themselves, our visitor was a
‘hatter.’</p>
<p>Next morning, when Sojur Jim was called out to take
his flock, he was missing. His blankets and few belongings
still lay as he had arranged them in the tent
the night before, ready for turning in; and I at once
ordered a search to be made.</p>
<p>It was of very short duration. Just in front of the
swagman’s fire, in the shallow water of the lagoon,
we found the two bodies. The stranger’s throat was
grasped by Jim’s fingers in a vice-like clutch, that, even
in death, we long strove in vain to sunder. When
parted at last, and we had washed the slimy mud from the
features of the dead traveller, a truly villainous countenance
was disclosed to view; the huge mouth, low,
retreating forehead, and heavy, thick-set jaws, all betokened
their owner to have belonged to the very lowest
order of humanity.<!-- TN: punctuation invisible --> But what struck me at once was
that the nose, which was of great size, had, at one time,
been knocked completely over to the left side of the
face, and as we straightened the body out, it could
plainly be seen that one leg was much shorter than its
fellow.</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>Was this, then, indeed ‘Number Three,’ and had
Sojur Jim’s vengeful quest, his vow of bitter retaliation,
ended at last? I believed so. But, as I gazed down
upon the poor, scarred dead clay of a wasted and ruined
life lying there, now so calm and still, all its fierce
desires and useless repinings, all its feverish passions
<a name="png.153" id="png.153" href="#png.153"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>135<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>and longings for dread retribution at rest, forcibly came
to my mind the words of the sacred and solemn injunction—‘Vengeance
is Mine, saith the Lord; I will
repay.’</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Far Inland Football"><a name="png.154" id="png.154" href="#png.154"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>136<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>FAR INLAND FOOTBALL.</h2>
<p class="noindent">‘<span class="smc">Frightfully</span> dull, isn’t it?’ said the Doctor.</p>
<p>‘Dull’s no name for it,’ said the Clerk of Petty
Sessions; ‘this is the awfullest hole I ever was in.’<!-- TN: closing quote invisible --></p>
<p>‘Never knew it so bad,’ chimed in the Chemist
and the Saddler, who were on this frosty night drinking
whisky hot in the snug parlour of the Shamrock
Inn in the little township of Crupperton.</p>
<p>‘I tell you what,’ said the C.P.S. presently; ‘I see
by the paper they’ve started a football club at Cantleville.
Why shouldn’t we do the same? It’ll help to
pass away the time, anyhow.’<!-- TN: closing quote invisible --></p>
<p>The Doctor pricked up his ears with interest. The
Chemist seconded the motion enthusiastically.</p>
<p>‘A capital idea,’ said he, ‘and, although I never
have played, I’ll go in for it. It’s simple enough, I
should imagine.’</p>
<p>‘Simple!’ said the C.P.S., who had once seen a
match in Sydney. ‘It’s as easy as tea-drinking. There’s
no expense, except the first one of the ball. It’s not
like cricket, you know, where you’re<!-- TN: original reads "your" --> always putting your
hands in your pockets for something or other.’</p>
<p><a name="png.155" id="png.155" href="#png.155"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>137<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘I’ll give ten shillings, Mr Brown,’ said the Doctor
softly.</p>
<p>‘Same here,’ said the Chemist.</p>
<p>‘How do you play it?’ asked the Saddler, and the
Blacksmith, and the Constable, who had just dropped
in for a warm and a yarn that chilly evening.</p>
<p>‘Well,’ explained the C.P.S., who had ideas, ‘first
you get your ball. Then you put up a couple of
sticks with a cross one on the top of ’em. Then you
measure a distance, say one hundred yards by, say, fifty,
on a level bit of ground, and put up another set of
sticks. Then you get your men, and pick sides, and
pop the ball down in the middle, and wade in. For
instance,’ he continued, ‘s’pose we’re playing Saddlestrap.
Well, then, d’ye see, we’ve got one goal—that’s
what they call the sticks—and they’ve got the other.
We’ve to try and block ’em from kicking the ball
over our cross-bar, and do our best, meantime, to send
it over theirs. It’s just a splendid game for this
weather, and nothing could well be simpler.’</p>
<p>More men came in, the idea caught; a club was
formed, and that very night the C.P.S. wrote to the
capital for a ball ‘of the best make and the latest
fashion.’</p>
<p>But it was a very long way to the capital. So, in
the interval, the C.P.S., who was an enterprising young
Native, procured and erected goal-posts and cross-bars
of barked pine; and very business-like they looked
with a little pink flag fluttering from the summit of
each.</p>
<p><a name="png.156" id="png.156" href="#png.156"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>138<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>At last the new ball arrived. But, to the secret
astonishment of the C.P.S., in place of being round it
was oval. However, he was not going to expose his
ignorance and imperil the reputation already earned as
an exponent of the game, so he only <span class="nw">said,—</span></p>
<p>‘I sent for the very best they had, and I can see
we’ve got our money’s worth. I’ll take her home and
blow her up ready for to-morrow.’</p>
<p>For a long time the ball seemed to go in any
direction but the right one, kick they never so hardly;
whilst, as a rule, the strongest and most terrific
kickers produced the least effect.</p>
<p>They tried the aggravating thing in every position
they could think of, and, for a considerable period,
without much success.</p>
<p>It was a sight worth seeing to watch the Blacksmith,
after scooping a little hollow in the ground and
placing the ball perpendicularly therein, retire and
prepare for action. Opening his shoulders and spitting
on his hands, he would come heavily charging
down, and putting the whole force of fifteen stone
into his right foot, deliver a tremendous kick; then
stand amazed to see the ball, after twirling meekly
up for a few yards, drop on his head instead of
soaring between the posts as it should have done.</p>
<p>‘I’m out of practice myself—haven’t played for
years, in fact,’ said the C.P.S. when explanation as
to this erratic behaviour was demanded. ‘It’s simply
a matter of practice, you know, like everything else.’</p>
<p>But all the same for a long time, deep down in
<a name="png.157" id="png.157" href="#png.157"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>139<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>his heart, there was a horrible misgiving that the thing
was not a football at all—that it should have been
round. At last, by dint of constant perseverance,
some of the men began to kick fairly well—kick
goals even from a good distance.</p>
<p>The first difficulty arose from a lack of side-boundaries.
Hence, at times, a kicking, struggling,
shouting mob might be seen half-a-mile away, at
the far end of the main street, whereas it should
have been in front of the post-office.</p>
<p>To remedy this state of affairs, the C.P.S. drove in
pegs at what was voted ‘a fair thing’ to serve as guides.
When the ball was sent beyond the pegs no one pursued,
and little boys stationed there kicked it back
again.<!-- TN: original has comma --> Also, the cows, pigs and goats of Crupperton,
who must have imagined that a lunatic asylum had taken
possession of their feeding grounds, returned, and henceforth
fed peacefully about the grass-grown streets and
allotments at the lower end of the township. Presently,
to vary the monotony, the Cruppertonians got up a
match amongst themselves for drinks—East <i>versus</i> West
was the title of it. But it never went beyond the first
scrimmage, if that can be called a first where all was one
big scrimmage, caused by two compact bodies of men
fighting for the possession of a ball. Out of this quickly
emerged the Chemist with, as he averred, a fractured
wrist. Anyhow, he wore a bandage, and played no
more.</p>
<p>Then the Blacksmith accused the Saddler of kicking
him on the shins, wilfully and of malice prepense. For
<a name="png.158" id="png.158" href="#png.158"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>140<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>some time past there had been bad blood between
these two, and the fight that ensued was so gorgeous
that the game was quite forgotten in the excitement
of it.</p>
<p>Presently, the village of Saddlestrap, a little lower
down the river, in emulation of its larger neighbour,
started football also.</p>
<p>The Saddlestraps mostly got their living by tankmaking,
were locally known as ‘Thicklegs,’ and were a
pretty rough lot. So that, when a match was arranged
between the two places, fun was foretold.</p>
<p>The rules of the Saddlestrap club were, like those of
the Crupperton one, simplicity itself, consisting, as they
did, of the solitary axiom—‘Kick whatever or wherever
you can, only kick.’</p>
<p>Therefore, as remarked, fun was expected. The
C.P.S. chose his team carefully, and with an eye to
weight and size. Superior fleetness, he rightly imagined,
would have but little to do with the result of the
day’s sport.</p>
<p>With the exception of half-a-dozen of the townspeople,
the Crupperton players consisted of young fellows from a
couple of stations adjoining. Therefore, the Saddlestraps
somewhat contemptuously dubbed their opponents
‘Pastorialites.’</p>
<p>The Doctor pleaded exemption on account of his age,
and was, therefore, appointed ‘Referee.’</p>
<p>For a while the play was somewhat weak and desultory,
and lacking in effect. The ball was continually
being sent outside the pegs, and the urchins stationed
<a name="png.159" id="png.159" href="#png.159"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>141<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>there were kept busy. But, at length, to the delight of
the spectators, consisting of the entire population of the
two townships, there was a hot scrimmage. ‘For all the
world like a lot o’ dorgs a-worryin’ a ’possum!’ as one
excited bystander yelled, whilst the crowd surged around
the mixed-up heap of humanity, the outside ring of which
was frantically kicking and shoving at the prostrate inner
one, serving friend and foe alike.</p>
<p>‘A very manly and interesting game,’ remarked the
Doctor, placidly ringing his bell for ‘Spell, oh!’ whilst
the Chemist ran to his shop for plaster and bandage.</p>
<p>Presently, the undermost man of all was dragged
out, torn and gory, and spitting teeth from a broken
jaw.</p>
<p>Him the Doctor caused to be carried to the nearest
house, and, after attending to his wounds, returned
hurriedly to the field, where his coadjutor was looking to
the minor casualties, and both teams were refreshing
themselves with rum, and boasting of their prowess.</p>
<p>The Doctor rang his bell, and play was resumed. It
was, he explained, unhealthy to dawdle about in such
weather and after severe exertion.</p>
<p>As the C.P.S. pointed out very eloquently that night
at the banquet, football was a game in which people
must learn to give and take, and that, until this had
been fully understood and practised, the game would
never get beyond an initial stage.</p>
<p>This was probably the reason that on a Saddlestrap in
full pursuit of the ball being deliberately tripped up by a
‘Pastorialite,’ and sent headlong to mother earth, which
<a name="png.160" id="png.160" href="#png.160"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>142<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>was hard and knobby, in place of rising and going on
with the game, he began to punch the tripper.</p>
<p>Five minutes afterwards might be seen the curious
spectacle of a ball lying neglected in the centre of the
ground, whilst outside raged a big fight of thirty.</p>
<p>For a time the trouble was strictly confined to the
two teams. But when it was observed that Crupperton
was getting the worst of it, partisans quickly peeled off
and took sides; so that, directly, both townships were up
to their eyes in fight, and the Doctor seriously contemplated
sending for professional assistance to Cantleville.</p>
<p>For some time victory hovered in the balance. But
men fight well on their own ground, and at last the
Saddlestraps broke and fled for their horses and buggies.
Those who stayed behind did so simply because there
was no doctor in their native village.</p>
<p>A banquet for both teams had been prepared at the
leading (and only) hotel. But there was only a
remnant of one side that felt like banqueting, so the
gaps were filled by residents who had been prominent
in the fray.</p>
<p>The C.P.S., with a couple of beautifully blackened
eyes, took the chair. At the other end of the table
presided the Constable, whose features presented a
curiously intricate study in diachylon, many of the
Saddlestraps having seized a mean opportunity of wiping
off old scores.</p>
<p>Speeches and toasts were made and drunk, and
football enthusiastically voted the king of all games.
<a name="png.161" id="png.161" href="#png.161"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>143<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>As the Blacksmith—whose arm was in a sling—observed,
‘It was a fair an’ square game. A man know’d what
he’d got to do at it. There wasn’t no tiddleywinkin’
in the thing.’</p>
<p>The Doctor had been too busy to come early; but
he dropped in for a minute or so during the evening,
and with great fire, and amidst much applause, made
a splendid speech. In its course he quoted Gordon’s
well-known lines—‘A game’s not worth a rap for a
rational man to play,’ etc.; and also adapted that
saying of the ‘Iron Duke’s’ about the battle of
Waterloo being won upon the British football
grounds.</p>
<p>It was decidedly the ‘speech of the evening,’ and
was greeted with hearty cheers as, concluding, he retired
to look after his patients.</p>
<p>But Crupperton was very sore next morning; and
for a whole week there was no more football. Then
they looked about them for more victims to their
prowess. But they found none at all near home.</p>
<p>At last, in despair, and in defiance of the advice of
the C.P.S., the executive challenged Cantleville itself—agreeing
to journey thither. In due course, and after
the C.F.C. had recovered from its surprise, and consulted
a ‘Gazetteer,’ it accepted.</p>
<p>Cantleville was a very long distance away. Moreover,
it was the ‘City’ of those inland parts, and the headquarters
of the Civil Service therein. Therefore the
C.P.S. and the Constable discreetly refused to accompany
their fellows. One of the pair, at least, had
<a name="png.162" id="png.162" href="#png.162"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>144<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>doubts as to whether Cantleville played the Crupperton
game.</p>
<p>So the Blacksmith was elected Captain. ‘You’d
better stay at home,’ said the C.P.S., ‘the chaps over
there are regular swells, up to all the latest dodges, and
they wear uniforms. Besides they may not quite understand
our rules.’</p>
<p>‘Then we’ll teach ’em,’ said the Blacksmith. But the
question of a uniform troubled him. So he took counsel
with his now fast friend the Saddler, and the result
was that everyone packed a stiffly-starched white shirt
and a pair of black trousers into his valise.</p>
<p>‘How about your uniforms now?’ said the Blacksmith,
‘nothin’ can’t be neater’n that.’</p>
<p>So they went forth to battle, accompanied by the
good wishes of the populace; but neither by Doctor
nor Chemist. There were plenty of both at Cantleville.
Also they were wise in their generation, and had
doubts.</p>
<p>Communication in these days was limited. Cantleville
news arrived <i>via</i> Sydney, and the newspapers were
a week old when delivered. So that the team brought
its own tidings home. They had not had a good time.
They had also been heavily fined, and they proposed to
go afield no more. The Blacksmith and the Saddler,
who had ‘taken it out,’ were the last to appear.</p>
<p>‘I suppose you play Rugby rules?’ had asked blandly
the Secretary of the C.F.C., as he curiously surveyed
the ‘Bushies’ on their arrival.</p>
<p>‘No, we don’t,’ said the Blacksmith. ‘We plays
<a name="png.163" id="png.163" href="#png.163"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>145<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>Crupperton,’ and no more questions were asked. But
when it was seen what Crupperton rules meant, backs,
half-backs, forwards, and all the rest of it, struck and
refused to continue. Instead, they took to chaffing the
‘black and white magpies.’</p>
<p>Whereupon, Crupperton, putting the question of football
on one side, went at its opponents <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">à la</i> Saddlestrap.
Their places, however, they presently found taken by
policemen. These latter every man handled to
the best of his ability, and had to pay for accordingly.</p>
<p>‘Shoo!’ said the Blacksmith, as he finished. ‘They’re
nothin’ but a lot o’ tiddleywinkers up there. Let’s
have another match with Saddlestrap.’</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="On the Grand Stand"><a name="png.164" id="png.164" href="#png.164"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>146<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>ON THE GRAND STAND.</h2>
<p class="subtitle"><span class="smc">A Pioneer Sketch.</span></p>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smc">There</span> was a lot of men from up-country staying at the
Kamilaroi. One could easily tell them by their bronzed
hands and faces, and creased or brand-new clothes, from
the city members of the well-known Pastoralists’ Club.</p>
<p>‘Hello,’ suddenly exclaimed a fine-looking man, whose
thick moustache lay snow-white against the deep tan of
his cheek, ‘here’s Boorookoorora in the market! H’m,
one hundred and sixty thousand sheep (so they’ve got
the jumbucks on it at last).... Capital homestead ...
stone-built house ... splendid garden and orchard.
How things must have changed out there since Wal
Neville and Jimmy Carstairs and myself took that country
up, and lived for months at a time on damper, bullock
and pigweed in a bark humpy. Stone house and orchard!
Well, well,’ he concluded, laying down the newspaper
with a sigh, ‘I hope they haven’t disturbed the boys.
I left them there sleeping quietly enough side by side
over five-and-twenty years ago.’</p>
<p>‘Shouldn’t have gone home and stayed away so long,
<a name="png.165" id="png.165" href="#png.165"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>147<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>Standish,’ here remarked a friend. ’You’re out of touch
altogether with our side now. That’s the worst of being
rich. D’rectly a fellow gets a pot of money left him, off
he must go “home.” But here’s Hatton.—Hatton, let
me introduce Mr Hugh Standish to you. He’s interested
in your place. First man to take it up; early pioneer,
and all that sort of thing.’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said Mr Hatton presently, ‘I was the first to
put sheep on Boorookoorora, and they do well. Yes,
the two graves are untouched at the old homestead still.
Carstairs and Neville! I’ve heard the story, or a version
of it. Poor fellows! I had their graves freshly fenced
in a couple of years ago. And so you were the third
partner. Will you tell us the story of your escape? I
should much like to hear it at first hand.’</p>
<p>‘Do you know the Grand Stand?’ asked Standish,
without replying directly.</p>
<p>The other shook his head.</p>
<p>‘What is it?’ he asked.</p>
<p>‘Why, the big rock, close to the Black Waterhole, on
your own run,’ replied Standish.</p>
<p>‘Oh,’ said his new acquaintance, ‘you mean Mount
Lookout. That’s just at the bottom of the orchard now.
You see, we’ve shifted the head station from where you
and Warner and Adams and the rest had it.’</p>
<p>‘Well, well,’ replied the other, ‘Grand Stand, or
Mount Lookout, or whatever you like to call it, I had a
very rough time on its top.’</p>
<p>‘Ah,’ remarked the owner of Boorookoorora, ‘I’ve
had the top levelled and an anemometer erected on it;
<a name="png.166" id="png.166" href="#png.166"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>148<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>also a flight of steps cut. In fact, it is a sort of observatory
on a small scale.’</p>
<p>‘The devil it is!’ exclaimed Standish. ‘Well, if
you’ll listen, I’ll tell you what I observed once from its
top.’</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>‘There were three of us. We were all young and
healthy, and each had a little money. Foregathering
(the first time was in this very room), we determined to
become partners, and take up country. We would go
out in person—far out, beyond even, as poor Neville
put it, the “furthest paling of civilisation.”</p>
<p>‘There we would acquire a territory, expressible not
in poor, miserable acres, but in square miles—thousands
of ’em.</p>
<p>‘There we would breed sheep and cattle, increasing
yearly in multitude, so that the sands upon the sea-shore<!-- TN: OED hyphenates -->
shouldn’t be a circumstance to them. We would
plant in that far country our own vines and our own fig-trees,
and sit under their shade in the good days to
come—we and our children, and our children’s children
after us—in that wide and pleasant heritage of our founding.
Alas, the glamour of youth and confidence, and
health and strength over a bottle or two of good wine!
Five-and-twenty years ago, gentlemen, in this same old
room!</p>
<p>‘So we went. And the days grew into weeks, and
the weeks into months, as we rode, searching hither and
thither, to the right hand or to the left, but always with
our faces to the falling sun. Over stony ridges and over
<a name="png.167" id="png.167" href="#png.167"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>149<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>rolling downs; over deserts of cruel spinifex and barren
sand; through great scrubs, thick and gloomy; along
rivers, tortuous and muddy. At times drenched with
rain, at others suffering from heat and hunger and thirst,
but ever westward. At length, after many disappointments,
emerging from a broad stretch of sterile country
and ascending a range of low hills, our eyes beheld
something resembling the Canaan of our dreams. Track
of horse or beast we had not seen for weeks; therefore
we knew that the land was, if we so willed it, ours.</p>
<p>‘For a long time we gazed over the timber-clumped,
wide expanse, emerald-swarded after some recent fire,
and through which ran a creek whose waterholes shone
like polished steel under the mid-day sun.</p>
<p>‘“Here we rest?” said one; and another,—“The
Plains of Hope lie before us!”</p>
<p>‘So we rested from our wanderings; and one, journeying
backwards, secured the country, defining its boundaries,
not by marked trees, but by parallels of latitude.</p>
<p>‘Shortly a homestead arose, rude but sufficient. Mob
after mob of cattle came up from stations to the south
and east, and Boorookoorora became itself a station.</p>
<p>‘We got the name from a black fellow. We understood
him to signify that the word meant “<i>No place
beyond</i>.” This pleased us, for we were, so far, proud of
being the “farthest out”—the <i>Ultima Thule</i> of settlement.
We may have been altogether mistaken, for the
fellow was wild as a hawk, and, at the first chance, gave
us the slip. But I’m glad, all the same, that the old
name still holds.</p>
<p><a name="png.168" id="png.168" href="#png.168"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>150<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Of the blacks we had seen very little. They appeared
to decline all communication with us. Now and again
the stockmen would bring one in; but he came evidently
under strong protest, and refused both food and gifts of
any description. However, we cared nothing for that, so
long as our cattle remained unmolested. They were
doing splendidly; and we soon began to talk about
sending a mob to the southern markets, with which, in
those days, there was little or no communication. We
intended to pioneer that trade. There was plenty of
room as yet. Our nearest neighbour was a hundred
miles away; the nearest township, five hundred. One
Sunday morning I went for a ride, leaving Walter and
Jimmy alone. The two white stockmen and a couple of
black boys, who made up the head station staff, were
away on a round of the out-stations.</p>
<p>‘I had intended to be back for the dinner, which I
had left the pair busily preparing. Unfortunately, when
about five miles from the homestead on my return, my
horse put his foot in a hole, stumbled badly, and directly
afterwards went dead lame.</p>
<p>‘The day was a roaster for a tramp; but there seemed
no help for it. So, planting the saddle and bridle, also,
in a most unlucky moment, my heavy Enfield rifle, I set
out through the long, dry grass, which reached at times
over my head, and made walking hard and disagreeable
work.</p>
<p>‘As often as I paused to rest and wipe my dripping
face did I curse our remissness in not having “burnt
off” before this, and vow to soon have a right royal
<a name="png.169" id="png.169" href="#png.169"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>151<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>blaze amongst the thick reed-like grass-stalks that hampered
my progress towards shade and dinner.</p>
<p>‘I had got about two miles along, and was just
thinking of having a good drink at the Black
Waterhole, which I knew to be close to me, when I
suddenly came upon the dead body of a fine young
heifer.</p>
<p>‘A couple of broken spears stuck out of the carcase—so
freshly killed that even the crows had not yet found it.
It was, indeed, still warm. By the tracks I could see
that the niggers were in force. They had evidently run
the beast up from the water, and slain it merely for sport,
as it was untouched. My first impulse was to return for
the rifle. Second thoughts determined me to make for
home as quickly as possible.</p>
<p>‘I had kept my shoulder-belt, to which was attached a
heavy metal powder-flask. Thinking that I should travel
lighter without these things, I started to unbuckle, when
a tomahawk hurtled past one side of my head, whilst a
spear went sailing by the other. The grass was full
of blacks coming at me sideways—that is, between me
and the station.</p>
<p>‘Turning, I ran for the water, the whole pack, now in
full cry, after me.</p>
<p>‘Close to the banks of the Black Waterhole stood a
tall rock we had named (I don’t know why, for it was as
much like one as this tumbler is) the Grand Stand. I
daresay it must have been quite one hundred and fifty
feet high, if not <span class="nw">more—’</span></p>
<p>‘One hundred and seventy-five six,’ put in Mr Hatton,
<a name="png.170" id="png.170" href="#png.170"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>152<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>who, in common with, by this time, a small crowd, was
listening interestedly.</p>
<p>‘Thanks. You’ve evidently had more leisure than we
could manage. Anyhow, it was sheer on three sides,
only accessible, in one part, on the fourth.’ (‘Just where
I had the stairway cut,’ murmured Mr Hatton. But no
one took any notice).</p>
<p>‘Many a time I had climbed it to look for cattle
across the plains on which it formed such a landmark.
If I could do so now, very quickly, there might still be a
chance.</p>
<p>‘I could tell by the sound of the spears that I was
gaining. They didn’t come slipping quietly past, but
whizzed and sung angrily, a sure sign that the throwing
sticks were being used; at least I found it so. It was
wonderful how they missed me. If the grass had been
burnt I was a dead man fifty times over. Presently, I
struck a cattle pad, and, at the same moment, caught
sight of the Grand Stand. Now they saw what I was after,
and put on a spurt, yelling harder than ever. As they
arrived at the foot of the rock I was half-way up the narrow,
almost perpendicular, track, going like a goat, whilst
spears, tomahawks and nullahs hit all around me. One
spear grazed my leg, sticking in the breeches, and a stone
tomahawk knocked my hat off. I afterwards made use
of that spear. It was hot work while it lasted, which,
luckily, wasn’t long. The top of the Grand Stand
measured about twenty feet each way, and sloped gently
inwards, saucer-shape, to a depth of four. There had
been rain lately, and a good pool of water was collected
<a name="png.171" id="png.171" href="#png.171"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>153<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>in the basin, which was strewn with stones and big
boulders, remains of a former top, which had broken off
and lay around the base. Being in a hurry, I hadn’t
time to pull myself up, so tumbled headlong into the
water. However, the bath refreshed me much, and,
everything below having all at once become silent as the
grave, I peeped over.</p>
<p>‘Well it was I did so!</p>
<p>‘Four big fellows were climbing up, one behind the
other.</p>
<p>‘Lifting a stone, just as much as I could manage, I
rolled it to the edge, and, forgetting to sing out “Stand
from under,” let go.</p>
<p>‘It caught the first fellow fair on the chest, and the lot
went down like skittles.</p>
<p>‘Three picked themselves up and limped off howling.
The fourth man—he who led—lay quite still, and had
to be dragged away. I did not care about expending
my ammunition or I could have scattered them also.</p>
<p>‘It was terribly hot up there under the sun, but,
ripping out the lining of my coat, I covered my head
with it. If there had been no water, though, I should
have been done—roasted alive.</p>
<p>‘Now I had a spell, and took a good look at the
niggers.</p>
<p>‘They were a wild lot—five-and-twenty of ’em—naked
as the day they were born, tall and wiry, with
woolly hair and long, black beards. One side of their
faces was painted white, t’other red, ribs and legs to
match. Half-a-dozen of ’em had some shining stone
<a name="png.172" id="png.172" href="#png.172"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>154<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>like a lump of crystal either around their necks or
tied upon their foreheads. These I took to be
chiefs.</p>
<p>‘I had never seen any niggers quite like these, and,
consequently, was rather impressed, not to say scared.
They squatted under a shady tree, the only one for
miles around, evidently holding a council of war, whilst
I crouched and watched them, and slowly baked on top
of my rock.</p>
<p>‘Suddenly, all springing to their feet, they ran backwards,
then, wheeling together, threw their spears.
But the height beat ’em. There was a strong breeze
blowing, too, hot as from a furnace, right against them.
Quite plainly that game wouldn’t answer, so they squatted
again and started another consultation.</p>
<p>‘Meanwhile the day grew hotter. The rock was
actually blistering my skin through the light clothes I
wore.</p>
<p>‘Bathing my head and face brought relief.</p>
<p>‘Being quite a new chum with respect to blacks and
their ways, I half expected that, now, seeing they
couldn’t get me down, they would raise the siege and be
off.</p>
<p>‘Nothing, it appeared, could be further from their intentions.
The confab over, some lit a fire on a small, clear
space close to the water, whilst others went off towards the
dead heifer, shortly returning with great lumps of meat,
which they roasted and devoured.</p>
<p>‘After this, they all got up, and coming quite close,
one went a little apart from the rest and pointed at my
<a name="png.173" id="png.173" href="#png.173"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>155<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>head, which was all he could see, with outstretched
arm.</p>
<p>‘Then his fellows formed a circle and danced and
yelled, patting their bellies, and going through the
motions of eating and drinking. Presently the gaunt,
black semaphore was altered, pointing towards the sun.
The dancing and shouting ceased, and, sitting down, the
party began to display symptoms of the utmost distress.</p>
<p>‘Once more the arm shifted, this time towards the
water, whereupon the whole crowd stiffened themselves
out as if dead.</p>
<p>‘Another dance round and a song, and the semaphore
put himself in position again and pointed in the direction
of the homestead.</p>
<p>‘Instantly all but two sneaked off into the tall grass.
The pair left behind lay down beside each other, feigning
sleep. Suddenly, with terrific yells, the rest sprung
upon them and went very realistically through the motions
of beating the sleepers’ brains out and thrusting spears
into their bodies.</p>
<p>‘The first portion of the pantomime I took to mean
that they were determined to stay and see how long I
could withstand the combined effects of heat, hunger,
and want of water.</p>
<p>‘The second was only too intelligible, and for the
first time made me feel a sharp pang of anxiety for
those at home, totally unwarned, and off their
guard.</p>
<p>‘How, as I watched the brutes, did I wish and long
<a name="png.174" id="png.174" href="#png.174"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>156<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>for that rifle, hidden away back there, or—best of all—that
newly-imported breech-loader hanging over my
stretcher at the station.</p>
<p>‘It was getting late in the afternoon. The rock was
casting a long shadow, and my dripping body beginning
to feel a little cooler as the sun lowered. Slight
though the scratch upon my leg was, it smarted terribly.
I was also very hungry, and altogether in anything but
a happy frame of mind.</p>
<p>‘Foreseeing a night of it, I carried and rolled big
stones to the edge, placing them so that at a touch they
would go crashing down.</p>
<p>‘Darkness fell at last, and with it came the moon,
nearly at her full.</p>
<p>‘Lying along the incline, I watched the niggers, and
tried to work out some plan of giving them the
slip.</p>
<p>‘Gorged to repletion, they were stretched about their
fire: but two upright black forms, motionless as if cut
from marble, watched steadfastly the pathway, on which
the moonbeams fell full of light.</p>
<p>‘Although I had promised to return for dinner, I had
no expectation, on account of my failure, that the others
would come and look for me. We were all nothing
if not irregular in our habits. Of the blacks we had
almost ceased to think, so little had we seen of them.
Indeed, though generally going armed, we carried rifles
more for the purpose of shooting an odd bull or so
than from any other motive. The place, you should
remember, had been formed now over a couple of
<a name="png.175" id="png.175" href="#png.175"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>157<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>years, during all which time nothing suspicious had
occurred.</p>
<p>‘The two at home would merely think that I had
extended my ride as far as one of the out-stations,
and feel no surprise if I did not turn up till the next
day.</p>
<p>‘As for them, I knew not what to think. That the
blacks were nearly all inveterate liars I was aware; but
this sudden, strange raid, together with their expressive
pantomimes and determined attitude towards myself,
made me fear the worst.</p>
<p>‘If there had been no moon I should certainly have
made an effort to get away. But it was as bright as
day—so bright that I fancied I could at times see the
glitter in the eyes of the sentinels.</p>
<p>‘I must have been cat-napping, for I awoke with a
start to the sound of an awful chorus of yells.</p>
<p>‘The moon was low, but still gave enough light to
enable me to make out that more niggers had
arrived.</p>
<p>‘After what appeared to be an enthusiastic greeting
of the new-comers, the whole mob—about fifty—came up
and began to dance at the foot of the rock. Presently,
to my horror, I caught sight of objects that I recognised
only too well.</p>
<p>‘One fellow had on a broad-brimmed straw hat belonging
to Carstairs; another flourished a hunting-knife
of my own; yet another waved a gaily-striped rug that
I had last seen covering poor Neville’s stretcher.</p>
<p>‘Evidently the station had been sacked.</p>
<p><a name="png.176" id="png.176" href="#png.176"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>158<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Neither hearing nor seeing anything, they perhaps
imagined me asleep, and, just as the dawn was breaking
redly, some of them began to ascend.</p>
<p>‘A leaping, rattling, boulder, however, soon undeceived
and sent them to the right-about.</p>
<p>‘Knowing that another day would probably see the
end, they were in no particular hurry now.</p>
<p>‘The sun rose hot and angry-looking. By its better
light I made out a whole heap of our traps under the
tree, jumbled up anyhow.</p>
<p>‘But, lest I should, by any means, fail to comprehend
what had happened, they had recourse once more to
dumb show.</p>
<p>‘A nigger came forward and arranged three spears,
tripod fashion. To their apex he hung a nullah-nullah.
All the weapons were red with blood. Then, pointing
alternately to the homestead, myself, and the heap of
plunder, he made a long speech, beginning quietly
enough, but working himself into such a rage at the
finish that his big black beard was speckled with
foam.</p>
<p>‘Of course, I didn’t understand a word. There was
little need that I should—everything was plain
enough.</p>
<p>‘But worse was to come!</p>
<p>‘Seeing that I made no sign, and thinking, perhaps,
that I was difficult to convince, the orator went off to the
pile of stuff, and, in a minute, returned with some object
in a net, which, amidst triumphant yells, he fastened to
the trophy already erected.</p>
<p><a name="png.177" id="png.177" href="#png.177"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>159<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘For a moment I couldn’t make it out at all. Then,
as the sun shone fuller on the thing, I saw that it was
Neville’s head.</p>
<p>‘All gashed and disfigured though it was, I recognised
it by the long golden beard which the poor old chap had
been so proud of.</p>
<p>‘The sight turned me quite faint and sick. Then I got
vicious. Slipping to the water, of which there was now
very little left, to get one good, long, last drink, my eyes
fell upon the powder-flask lying where I had thrown it off.</p>
<p>‘<!-- TN: opening quote invisible -->It was one of the old-fashioned kind, of solid copper,
very large, and holding nearly a couple of pounds. It
was quite full.</p>
<p>‘“Well,” I said to myself, taking the flask up as the
idea struck me, “you’ve cornered me and killed my
mates, but I’ll be hanged if I don’t try and scorch some
of you before giving in.”</p>
<p>‘Now, sitting down, I tore a strip off my handkerchief,
and, with moistened gunpowder, made a rough sort of
fuse. Then unscrewing the measuring cylinder, and
taking out the spring-valve, I inserted the fuse deeply
into the powder, brought the twisted end well up,
and replaced the long cylinder. Then, binding the
flask firmly about five feet from the head of the spear
that had come up with me, I shouted to the niggers,
who were busily overhauling their booty.</p>
<p>‘They stared with surprise, and I waved my coat and
beckoned to them to come nearer.</p>
<p>‘Chattering like anything, a couple of ’em advanced
a few steps very doubtfully.</p>
<p><a name="png.178" id="png.178" href="#png.178"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>160<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Stooping down and striking a match I fired the fuse,
which caught at once and began to burn quietly away
inside the cylinder.</p>
<p>‘At this moment I hove the spear well out towards
them. To my delight it stuck fairly upright in the
ground almost at their feet, the shock, so far as I could
see, shifting nothing.</p>
<p>‘Starting back, they gazed inquisitively at the shining
polished object it had brought with it.</p>
<p>‘For a minute or two they hesitated, and I despaired.
But, seeing the rest moving up, curiosity or cupidity
prevailed, and one running to it, seized the spear and
made off back to the mob.</p>
<p>‘At once he was surrounded with an eager, excited,
jabbering crowd, each man with his chin over his
neighbour’s shoulder.</p>
<p>‘The seconds went by like ages. I had reckoned the
fuse would last, perhaps, seven or eight minutes. They
had untied the flask, and it was being passed from hand
to hand.</p>
<p>‘Still no sound!</p>
<p>‘With a deep sigh of regret I gave the affair up as a
failure—had even turned away—when an explosion like
that of an eighteen pounder made me jump.</p>
<p>‘From out of a cloud of dense white smoke came
shrieks and screams of agony. I could dimly see
bodies—some quite still, and others rolling over and
over.</p>
<p>‘By God! gentlemen,’ exclaimed the speaker, interrupting
himself emphatically, and with a cruel gleam
<a name="png.179" id="png.179" href="#png.179"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>161<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>in his eyes, ‘although afterwards I shot the wretches
down in dozens, and always with joy in my heart, yet
never with such a complete sense of satisfaction and
pleasure as I felt at that moment.</p>
<p>‘As I looked a sharp blaze curled up, spreading
broadly, and almost instantly, into a curtain of flame
and smoke.</p>
<p>‘The grass was on fire!</p>
<p>‘Never a thought had I given to that. For miles and
miles the country was covered with herbage, tall, and
dry as tinder.</p>
<p>‘The top of the Grand Stand was about the only safe
place now, bar the water, in all that neighbourhood.
For a long time I couldn’t see a foot for smoke; but,
as with the fire, it rolled away before the wind. I
looked towards the Black Waterhole, thinking, of course,
that the niggers would have taken to it. To my surprise
not one was to be seen. There was the blackened
ground, smoking yet, bare, and affording not the slightest
cover.</p>
<p>‘The erstwhile shady and graceful tree was a gnarled
and withered skeleton.</p>
<p>‘Underneath it, as the haze cleared, I made out four
motionless bodies, blacker than the burnt black ashes
on which they lay.</p>
<p>‘I waited a bit longer before coming down. But at
last, pretty certain that the niggers had cleared out, or
better still, been caught in the fire, I crept down the
pathway, stiff, sore, and hungry, but with that feeling of
vengeful joy in my heart trebly intensified as I passed
<a name="png.180" id="png.180" href="#png.180"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>162<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>by the poor, scorched, singed head lying on the
ground.</p>
<p>‘Poking about the heap of blankets, clothing, etc., still
smouldering, I dropped across a tin of preserved meat—a
four pounder.</p>
<p>‘This was luck, if you like. Taking it to the water I
finished it to the last scrap, and made the most appreciated
meal of a life.</p>
<p>‘I hadn’t gone near the bodies. They were charred,
and I was certain they were dead.</p>
<p>‘But, as I finished eating, to my astonishment one
fellow got up and staggered straight for me. Snatching
up a heavy stick, which happened to be handy, I stood
ready to receive him.</p>
<p>‘As he came nearer his face frightened me.</p>
<p>‘It wasn’t a face at all, properly speaking; nor, for
the matter of that, a head even. It was simply a mass
of grass-ashes and blood—every scrap of hair had been
burnt off. From his open mouth protruded a blackened
tongue. I dropped my stick, for I saw he was stone-blind—in
fact, he was eyeless altogether.</p>
<p>‘Groping along, in a minute or two he felt the water
at his feet, when, instead of splashing into it, as you’d
naturally think a fellow in such an awful predicament
would do, he gave a sort of screech, very bad to hear,
and made out again at a great pace, tripped over a
stone, and fell headlong.</p>
<p>‘When I got up to him he was as dead as Julius
Cæsar, and a great lump of jagged copper was sticking
out of the back of his skull.</p>
<p><a name="png.181" id="png.181" href="#png.181"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>163<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Presently I started off towards the homestead, but
hadn’t got more than half-way before I met our two
white stockmen—the black boys had cleared on the
back track.</p>
<p>‘The buildings, such as they were, and all our things
were gone. But we didn’t trouble much about that
just then.</p>
<p>‘Taking Neville’s head to him, we buried him and
Carstairs, who had been literally chopped to pieces, and
then, getting the outside men together, we followed the
niggers.</p>
<p>‘They had made for a patch of red ground six miles
away. There we found ’em—fifty of ’em; and there we
left ’em. How they must have travelled to have beaten
the fire! Must have been touch and go, for some of
’em were pretty badly scorched.</p>
<p>‘Well, gentlemen, that’s the story of the Grand Stand,
and the first settling of Boorookoorora. “Stone house
and garden, and splendid orchard,” eh? Well, well, I
suppose it’s only natural. Yet it sounds curiously to
me. No; I won’t invest. Shouldn’t care about going
back to live there now. That’s the dinner gong, isn’t<!-- TN: apostrophe invisible -->
it? Good old Kamilaroi! Come along.’</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Too Far South"><a name="png.182" id="png.182" href="#png.182"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>164<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>TOO FAR SOUTH.</h2>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smc">The</span> captain of the <cite>Boadicea</cite>—regular London and
Australian trader—had long been the owner of a
crotchet, or perhaps it would be nearer the mark to
call it a theory. He was a comparatively young man,
and after a few trips of eighty-nine, ninety, and ninety-six
days respectively, he grew impatient; and at last,
seeing an opportunity of putting his idea to the test, he
determined to make the attempt.</p>
<p>It was by no means a new theory; simply an expansion
of an old one. Years ago the masters of the <cite>Lightning</cite>,
<cite>Red Jacket</cite>, and other clipper ships of renown, had
successfully demonstrated that, instead of turning round
the Cape of Good Hope as if it were a corner, in the old
style, vessels bound to the Australian colonies would, if
they kept on southward, be very likely to pick up a current
of strong westerly winds which, although twice the
distance might have to be sailed over, yet would take
them to their destination far more quickly than by the
usual route.</p>
<p>But the master of the <cite>Boadicea</cite> contended that none
of these early exponents of ‘Great Circular sailing’ had
<a name="png.183" id="png.183" href="#png.183"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>165<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>as yet gone far enough south, and that, at a still more
distant point, a regular westerly wind-current, strong as
a good-sized gale and as steady as a trade, without its
fickleness, was to be met with which would shorten
the average passage by at least ten days.</p>
<p>Older shipmasters laughed, and, saying that they
found the Roaring Forties quite strong enough for
them, stuck to the regular merchantman track, not so
old yet, they thought, nor so worn by the marks of their
keels, as to require a fresh one. However, Captain
Stewart had, by dint of long persuasion and perseverance,
obtained permission from his owners to test
practically his pet idea; and this was the reason that,
on the thirty-fifth day out, the <cite>Boadicea</cite>, in place of
running her easting down amongst the Forties like a
Christian ship, with half a gale singing in the bellies of
her topsails, and mountains of dark-blue water roaring
rhythmically astern, found herself poking about close
hauled, with, on every hand as far as vision extended,
icebergs, varying in size and shape, from a respectable
many-peaked island to a spireless dissenting chapel.</p>
<p>We were very far indeed to the southward.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>And now there came both mist and snow,</div>
<div>And it grew wondrous cold;</div>
<div>And ice, mast high, came floating by,</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns"> </span>As green as emerald.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">Still our commander’s faith in his strong wind-streak was
unshaken; albeit, for a week or more, light baffling airs,
scarce sufficing to fill the stiffened canvas, had been our
portion. It was, too, indeed, ‘wondrous cold,’ and the
<a name="png.184" id="png.184" href="#png.184"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>166<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>necessity for keeping a close and unwearied look-out
became every hour more apparent. Already we had had
narrow escapes of coming into collision with bergs
wandering aimlessly about, which, although wonderfully
beautiful objects in the daytime, and at a distance, with
the bright sunlight reflecting a thousand prismatic hues
from their glistening surfaces, yet of a dark night were
liable, with a touch almost, to send us in a twinkling to
Davy Jones.</p>
<p>The crew growled and shivered, and shivered and
growled, making the while sarcastic inquiries as to the
near vicinity of the South Pole, wishing in undertones
that their skipper had been perched on the top of it
before leading them into such cold quarters. As for
myself, although rated as third mate, I was little more
than a lad at the time, and thought the whole thing
simply magnificent, hoping that we might penetrate still
further into the unknown ‘regions of thick-ribbed ice’
ahead of us, whilst visions of a Southern Continent,
bears, seals and walruses, floated through my imagination.
To be sure I was well clothed and comfortably
housed, which, perhaps, made all the difference. We are
very apt to look at things one-sidedly, and with regard
only to the character of our own particular surroundings.
Man born of a woman is a more or less selfish animal.
Every day the ‘wandering pearls of the sea,’ as someone
has called them, seemed to become more plentiful,
whilst, to add to our dilemma, a thick Antarctic fog,
through which the <cite>Boadicea</cite>, with look-outs alow and
aloft, crept like some great blind monster feeling its
<a name="png.185" id="png.185" href="#png.185"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>167<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>way across the ocean, arose and hid everything from
view.</p>
<p>The only one on board with any experience of such
latitudes was our chief officer, a rough New Englander,
who had taken a couple of voyages to the Northern
fisheries in a Nantucket whaler. Far, however, from
giving himself airs on that account, he was probably the
most anxious man in the ship’s company. He had not
a particle of faith in the great theory; moreover, he had
seen a vessel ‘ripped’ in Davis Sound, which none of his
companions had.</p>
<p>One evening, as if drawn up by some mighty hand,
the fog lifted, disclosing the sun, cold, red, and angry-looking,
glaring at us out of a sombre sky, and flushing
the water and the bergs round about with a flood
of purple light, on which our masts and rigging cast
tremulous, long, black shadows, crossing and recrossing
in a quivering maze, with big, shapeless blotches
here and there for the sails. Suddenly a deeper,
darker shadow fell athwart us; and there, not two
oars’ lengths away, between ship and sun, rose an
island.</p>
<p>Men rubbed their eyes, and rubbed and looked again,
but there it was, every stern outline standing in bold
relief, a rough, ragged mass of barren, desolate rock, its
summit covered with snow—still, indisputably land.
Even as we gazed eagerly, wonderingly, the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mirage</i>
faded away in a moment, as it had appeared, and the
mist descended like a grey, heavy curtain, enveloping all
things in its damp folds.</p>
<p><a name="png.186" id="png.186" href="#png.186"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>168<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Presently it came on to snow. The standing rigging
and running gear alike were coated with ice, whilst the
canvas took the consistency of sheet-iron, and rang
like glass when touched.</p>
<p>Roaring fires were lit in oil drums, fore and aft, in
forecastle and cuddy. Soon the smoke in both places
was as thick as the fog on deck; a kind of damp,
unwholesome warmth was engendered as the impromptu
stoves grew red-hot; great half-frozen cockroaches, thinking
that the tropics were at hand, crawled out of nooks
and crannies; and it seemed at times a toss up whether
our end should come by ice or fire.</p>
<p>Most of our crew were Danes or Swedes, hardy and
obedient men. If they had been British they would probably
have attempted to compel the captain to alter his
course. As it was, they simply put on all their available
clothing and growled quietly. No matter what their
nationality, all seamen growl; only some growl and work
also.</p>
<p>Now, all the watches and clocks on board stopped, and,
refusing to start again, they were placed in the cook’s
oven with a view to warming the works. But, in the
excitement consequent upon fending off a huge berg,
which threatened to crush us, they were done brown, and
completely ruined. About this time the captain, thinking,
perhaps, that his experiment had gone far enough, gave
the order to square the yards. On going to the braces
we found that the sheaves of the blocks were frozen to
their pins and would not travel. Taking them to the
winch, with much heaving, the yards at last swung,
<a name="png.187" id="png.187" href="#png.187"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>169<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>creaking and groaning, round, whilst showers of icy
fragments fell rattling on deck.</p>
<p>It was almost a calm, the ship having barely steerage
way upon her; but the barometer was falling, and it was
judged prudent to shorten sail by putting the <cite>Boadicea</cite>
under a couple of lower top-sails and fore and mizzen
stay-sails.</p>
<p>To stow each of the upper top-sails it took twenty-four
men and two boys—nearly, in fact, the ship’s company;
and, if the courses had not already been furled, I do not
think we could ever have managed them. The foot-ropes
were like glass, the reef-points as rigid as bar iron, and
one’s hands, after a minute aloft, had no more feeling in
them than the icy canvas they tried to grasp. Through
the fog, as we slowly descended the slippery ratlines, we
imagined we could see great bergs looming indistinctly;
and in our strained ears echoed the ever-impending
crash as the wind gradually freshened.</p>
<p>It was a trying experience, even for the best prepared
amongst us, this comparatively sudden transit from the
tropics to twenty degrees below freezing point; and I
firmly believe that, but for the unlimited supply of hot
cocoa available day and night, at all hours, some of us
would have given in. Spirits could be had for the
asking, but no one seemed to care about them, even
those known to be inveterate topers declining rum with
something akin to disgust; perhaps the reason was that
it became quite thick, and, when taken into the mouth,
burned and excoriated both tongue and palate.</p>
<p>The night of the day on which we had snugged the
<a name="png.188" id="png.188" href="#png.188"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>170<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a><cite>Boadicea</cite> down was dark as pitch, and you could feel the
fog as it hung low and clingingly to everything. Some
time in the middle watch the breeze died away, giving
place to light, unsteady airs—catspaws almost—and
occasional falls of snow.</p>
<p>Imagine, if you can, the big ship creeping timorously
and uncertainly through the thick Polar darkness and
mist, a shapeless mass of yet thicker darkness, emitting
here and there ruddy flashes of light, reflected momentarily
back from snow-covered deck or coil of frozen rope.
No sound breaks the silence except a gentle lap-lapping of
water under her fore-foot as the canvas just fills enough
to draw. Now snow falls, not deliberately, but with a
soft, fleecy, rushing motion, which speedily fills up any
inequalities about the decks, and would fill them from
rail to rail if it lasted long. Presently a dozen bulky
spectres move noiselessly around the galley door, which,
being withdrawn, a warm glow streams out upon the
watch come for hot cocoa.</p>
<p>Imagine, too, just as the tired men are about to drag
their half-frozen limbs below, a sudden deeper silence,
and a strange feeling of warmth and calm pervading the
ship; the sails giving one mighty creaking flap up there
in the gloom; the crash and rattle of ice falling from
their frozen folds, and a cluster of awe-struck, up-turned
faces, shining pallidly in the glow of the galley fire, as
the <cite>Boadicea</cite>, but for a slight roll, lies idle and at
rest.</p>
<p>Everyone knows and feels that something unusual has
taken place, but no man there can say what it is. A
<a name="png.189" id="png.189" href="#png.189"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>171<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>muttered order is heard, and in a minute a flood of vivid
blue fire pours out into the darkness from the ship’s
quarter, and a great subdued ‘Ah!’ runs fore and aft
her, as, by its glare, we see tall, jagged cliffs, weird and
ghastly in the strange light, towering far on high above
our mast-heads, which appear to touch them.</p>
<p>‘Get the deep-sea lead overboard!’ shouts the
captain.</p>
<p>‘Watch, there, watch!’ needlessly cry the men, as the
line slips from their hands; and no bottom at one
hundred fathoms.</p>
<p>‘’Taint land at all,’ says the mate quietly. ‘I kin
smell ice; an’ ef we don’t mind we may calculate to
winter ’mongst it ’stead o’ makin’ tracks for the Antipodes.
Lower the quarter-boat,’ he goes on, ‘an’ tie the
ship up for the night, as, ef I ain’t mistook, we’re pooty
nigh surrounded.’</p>
<p>More bluelights are burned, and by their help and
those of lanterns, the <cite>Boadicea</cite>, in a somewhat unnatural
plight, is warped alongside a kind of ice jetty which
stretches out from the main mass, and which, as if to
save us the trouble of carrying out anchors, also to
complete the resemblance to a pier, is furnished here and
there with great knobs, to which we make fast our
lines.</p>
<p>If you will try and picture to yourself the scene
I have described, you will, I think, be willing to admit
that ship seldom entered stranger harbour in a stranger
manner, or that the ‘sweet little cherub, sitting up
aloft,’ who is supposed to keep a special look-out for
<a name="png.190" id="png.190" href="#png.190"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>172<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>‘<!-- TN: opening quote invisible -->poor Jack,’ and who on the present occasion—all the
more honour to him—must have felt colder even than
the proverbial upper hank of a Greenlandman’s gib<!-- TN: OED gives this as an old spelling of "jib" -->,
seldom performed his duty better.</p>
<p>Perhaps the all-pervading stillness was the thing that
struck us most. The fenders, even, between the ship’s
side and her novel pier scarcely gave a creak. And
yet we were conscious that, somewhere, not very far
away, it was beginning to blow freshly, although the
sound fell on our ears but as a subdued, faint murmur,
serving only to intensify the surrounding silence and
hush.</p>
<p>‘There’s a fire up there!’ exclaimed one of the men,
presently. And, sure enough, a tiny, sickly flame appeared
far away above us. It grew gradually larger and
larger, till at length a long, broad streak of silver shot
down the ice-mountains and fell athwart our decks, as
a three-quarters-full moon, pale, washed-out and sickly-looking,
shone for a minute through the low, black
clouds hurrying swiftly across her face.</p>
<p>A dull, grey dawn, at last, giving us just enough light
to see what had happened. Ice everywhere!</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>The ice was here, the ice was there,</div>
<div>The ice was all around;</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">and on every side rose huge bergs from one hundred feet
to two hundred feet in height, and enclosing a space of
barely a mile in circumference; an ice-bound lake, in
fact; and, what struck a chill of terror to our hearts as we
gazed, a lake without any exit. Look as we might, there
<a name="png.191" id="png.191" href="#png.191"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>173<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>was not the least sign of an opening. Unwittingly we had
sailed or drifted into a girdle of conjoined bergs. During
the night the passage through which we entered had
closed, and a cruel and stupendous barrier, hard as
granite, slippery as glass, lay betwixt us and the outer
ocean.</p>
<p>Within, the water was as smooth as a mill-pond, the
air was quite warm, and after breakfast all hands went
‘ashore’ to stretch their legs, look wonderingly up at our
prison walls, and speculate on the chances of getting out.</p>
<p>As I gazed around me at the strange scene—the snow-clad,
towering peaks, glittering coldly in the yet feeble
sun rays, the deep, shadow-laden valleys at their bases,
and the perpendicular curtains of naked, steely-blue ice
connecting one berg with the other—there came to my
mind some long-forgotten lines of Montgomery’s, in
which he depicts the awful fate of an ice-bound
<span class="nw">vessel:—</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>There lies a vessel in that realm of frost,</div>
<div>Not wrecked, not stranded, but for ever lost;</div>
<div>Its keel embedded in the solid mass;</div>
<div>Its glistening sails appear expanded glass;</div>
<div>The transverse ropes with pearls enormous strung.</div>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . .</p>
<div>Morn shall return, and noon, and eve, and night</div>
<div>Meet here with interchanging shade and light;</div>
<div>But from that barque no timber shall decay;</div>
<div>Of these cold forms no feature pass away.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>I had rather enjoyed the first days of our Antarctic
experiences, but the pleasure began decidedly to pall
with such a horrible contingency in view, and I was now
<a name="png.192" id="png.192" href="#png.192"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>174<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>fully as anxious as anyone for clear water and a straight
course.</p>
<p>After a while, the gig was manned, and, with the
captain and chief mate, we pulled round our harbour to
a spot where, from the ship, a part of the ice-curtain
seemed low and pretty accessible. So it had appeared;
but when we reached it we found fifty feet of perpendicular
slippery wall between our boat’s gunwale and the
summit of the ridge we had hoped to mount.</p>
<p>‘We’re in a pooty nice kind o’ a fix,’ said our mate, as
we returned. ‘An’,’ glancing at the lowering sky, ‘I
reckon it’s going to blow some, presently. Mebbe it’ll
blow us out o’ these chunks of ice.’</p>
<p>The captain made no reply, but he was evidently not
in a very cheerful state of mind.</p>
<p>That evening it did begin to blow very hard. Not
that we felt it much, but we could hear the storm
howling and roaring outside, and the thunderous
breakers which dashed themselves against our sheltering
bergs, causing them to tremble and pitch now
and again as the mighty seas struck their bases.
We had shifted the <cite>Boadicea</cite> out to the extreme end
of the jetty, double-banked our fenders, and taken
every other precaution we could think of, in addition
to standing-by through the night to cast off and sheet
home at a minute’s notice.</p>
<p>There was no more silence now; for, although we
were all drifting away together about E. half S. before
the wind, the bergs forming our enclosure ground
against each other with an incessant rending, tearing
<a name="png.193" id="png.193" href="#png.193"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>175<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>sound, which now, although seeming to foretell an
early dissolution of partnership, filled us with terror
lest some of them should topple over on the ship.</p>
<p>The ship herself, no longer steady, was hove
violently up and down with every motion of the
bergs; whilst the great wooden fenders, cut from
spare spars, were torn to splinters, and the hawsers
surged round their icy mooring posts with a curious,
screaming, intermittent noise, making us think that
every moment they were about to part.</p>
<p>Four bells in the morning watch had just struck
when we heard a terrific crash rising high above the
surrounding din, and the next instant a great wave
came rushing over the <cite>Boadicea</cite>, filling her decks,
nearly lifting her on to the ice, and then slamming
her down with such force as to snap the hawsers
like threads and smash the bulwarks to matchwood
the whole length of the port side. Drifting away
from our friendly jetty, we at once felt that our
prison was broken up; for, now, the gale from which
we had been so long sheltered howled and tore
through the rigging, whilst cataracts of bitter cold
water rushed in quick succession over the decks,
and lumps of ice bumped up against the <cite>Boadicea’s</cite>
bows and sides.</p>
<p>‘Set the lower fore-top-sail and mizzen-stay-sail!’</p>
<p>And now the slatting and banging of canvas, the
rattle of iron sheets and hanks, the hoarse cries of
the men as they staggered about the wet, slippery
planking, together with the rending and smashing of
<a name="png.194" id="png.194" href="#png.194"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>176<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>ice all around, made up a scene that defies description;
whilst to lend it an additional weirdness, a ‘flare-up’
of oakum and tar, which had been run up to a
lower-stuns’l boom-end, blazed wildly overhead like
a great fierce eye looking down upon us out of the
thick darkness. So closely were we beset, however,
that, spite of the canvas, we soon found that we
were simply drifting aimlessly about amidst immense
fragments of capsized bergs, which threatened every
moment to crush us. Indeed, we did get one squeeze
that made the ship crack again, and whose after
effect was seen by the fact that the cabin doors
for the rest of the passage refused to close by a
good six inches. Presently, grinding and scraping
up alongside a small berg—or portion of a larger
one, we cannot tell which—we make fast to it as
well as we are able, and direct all our efforts to
fending off its companions. As daylight approaches,
we notice that the ice becomes rarer, and sails by
at longer intervals; and as it breaks more fully out
of a lowering yellowish sky a wild sight meets our
eyes.</p>
<p>The sea is dotted with bergs—small ones nodding
and bobbing along, big ones gliding majestically before
the wind, till, a pair of these latter colliding, down
crumble spires and minarets, towers and pinnacles,
suddenly as a child’s card-built house, sending up
tall columns of water as they fall.</p>
<p>It is not this spectacle, however, that brings forth
a simultaneous shout from everyone on board, but
<a name="png.195" id="png.195" href="#png.195"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>177<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>the appearance, as one berg gives a half-turn, of an
object, hardly two hundred yards from our jibboom end,
standing there, amidst all the wild commotion, steadfast,
rugged and grim, with tall breakers curling up
against its ice-surrounded, dark red cliffs, and falling
back in showers of foam, showing milky-white in the
morning gloom.</p>
<p>It is land, surely! And, surely, we have seen those
forbidding, snow-capped precipices before. It is the
island of the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mirage</i>, substantial enough this time,
and in another ten minutes we shall be dashed to
atoms against its surf-encircled base.</p>
<p>The sight had a wondrous effect, and men who
seemed incapable a minute before of stirring their
stiffened limbs now hopped up the rigging like goats,
and scampered along the deck with the top-sail halliards
as if racing for a wager, in obedience to the order
to cast off and make sail.</p>
<p>‘Hard a port!’ and the <cite>Boadicea’s</cite> poop is splashed
with spray from rocks and ice as she turns slowly
from a jagged, honeycombed promontory, whilst her
late consort goes headlong to destruction on its iron
teeth.</p>
<p>It is still blowing hard; but our captain is more
than satisfied; and, under everything she can carry,
the <cite>Boadicea</cite> rushes, like a frightened stag, fast away,
northwards and eastwards, out of those dismal seas of ice
and fog, snow, and unknown islands, a very nightmare
of navigation, into which one merchant skipper, at
least, will never willingly venture again.</p>
<p><a name="png.196" id="png.196" href="#png.196"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>178<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>However, we, after all, perhaps, set our course on
a higher parallel than anyone had done since Ross
in ’41, followed the outline of a southern continent,
whose volcanoes flamed to heaven from a lifeless,
desolate land of ice and snow. And, as some compensation
for our trouble and dangers, till we sighted
the south end of Tasmania, we never had occasion
to touch a rope, so steadily and strongly blew the
fair wind.</p>
<p>‘Seventy-five days—a rattlin’ good passage!’ exclaimed
our Port Jackson pilot; and when he asked what
had become of our bulwarks, and why the cuddy
doors wouldn’t shut, we simply told him we had
been ‘Too far south.’</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="The Mission to Dingo Creek"><a name="png.197" id="png.197" href="#png.197"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>179<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>THE MISSION TO DINGO CREEK.</h2>
<p class="subtitle"><span class="smc">An Apostolical Sketch.</span></p>
<p class="noindent">‘<span class="smc">Bad</span> work, this!’ exclaimed the Bishop of <span class="nw">B——</span> to one
of a recent consignment of curates. ‘Bad work this, in
the North!<!-- TN: original has superfluous closing quote --> That part of the diocese evidently wants
looking to again. Nice trip for you, Greenwell. Give
you some idea of the country, too,’ continued the
Bishop. ‘Yes, decidedly; the very man! Let me see;
steamer to <span class="nw">R——</span>, then overland. Of course, you may
have to rough it a little; but that will only add a zest to
the change.’</p>
<p>The ‘bad work’ that his lordship alluded to was the
substance of some reports that had just arrived from one
of the new gold rushes, situated in the extreme north of
his immense diocese, reports of a terrible state of immorality,
drunkenness, and general godlessness existing
there amongst far-off members of his flock—to wit, rough
diggers and bushmen, together with a sprinkling of
nondescripts, characterless vagrants, defaulters, horse-thieves,
and worse, who had flocked there from the
neighbouring colonies as to an Alsatia, where they
<a name="png.198" id="png.198" href="#png.198"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>180<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>could remain, at least, for the time being, secure from
even the far-reaching arm of the law.</p>
<p>On such material as this had the good Bishop, shortly
after his arrival in his new see, from his snug English
vicarage, essayed the power of his eloquence on his only
visit to that part of his charge: a visit, be it whispered,
he was not in the least anxious to repeat.</p>
<p>The Reverend Spicer Greenwell fairly shuddered at
the thought of trusting his precious person amongst such
a set of savages as his imagination at once conjured up.
But all his excuses and demurrings were without avail,
his superior having, by some curious mischance, got it
into his head that his senior curate was the very man
qualified for such a mission to the heathen.</p>
<p>Though getting well on towards middle age, Mr Greenwell was a failure. He had completely mistaken
his vocation; but he did not think so, and nobody had,
as yet, been rude enough to tell him so.</p>
<p>Mrs Jellyby’s mission was, if we remember aright, to
cultivate coffee and the natives of Borioboola-Gha. Mr Greenwell’s was to cultivate teas—afternoon ones—and
at the same time to, if possible, capture a fair ‘Native,’
rich in those goods of this world, in which he himself
was so unhappily deficient.</p>
<p>For the rest, he was a gaunt, waxen-visaged man, who
always wore the highest waistcoats, longest coats, and
whitest neckties obtainable; was never seen without a
large diamond ring on his little finger; and seldom
deigned to consort or even converse with the other
clergymen of the district, unless brought into direct
<a name="png.199" id="png.199" href="#png.199"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>181<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>communication with them by his position—into which
he had partly thrust himself, partly had conferred upon
him through home influence—of the Bishop’s <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chargé
d’affaires</i>. He had, he flattered himself, before this untoward
affair happened, been making rapid progress with
the damsels of the Banana city; and, indeed, amongst
some of the more elderly spinsters of the congregation of
St Jude’s, he was voted as ‘quite too nice.’</p>
<p>Imagine then, if you can, the horror and disgust of
such a man at being chosen for such an errand. But
the Bishop was adamant; and I have many a time
thought since that he purposely hardened his heart, and
that, whilst dilating on his curate’s especial fitness for the
work, his energy and push—as already illustrated in
parish matters—his suave and polished manners, alone
a vast handicap in his favour amongst the rude and
illiterate people he was about to visit, the good prelate
privately hoped within himself that if the shepherd he
was sending forth did little benefit to the flock, yet,
that the latter might possibly succeed in some unforeseen
way in toning down the self-sufficiency, egoism and
vanity of the pastor.</p>
<p>Seeing, at length, that there was no help for it, and
that go he must, the luckless curate, taking a mournful
and solemn farewell of his lady friends, went forth to
preach the Gospel to the heathen of the Dingo Creek
diggings.</p>
<p>Things went well enough with our traveller till he
reached <span class="nw">R——</span>, the nearest township of any size to
Dingo Creek, which last place lay still further ahead
<a name="png.200" id="png.200" href="#png.200"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>182<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>nearly ninety miles through rough and lonely country. At
intervals on his route he had held services and preached
sermons—little marrowless exhortations that he had long
known by heart, and that, if they did no harm, assuredly
did little good. From <span class="nw">R——</span>, whence he set out on
horseback, a road led sixty miles to a bush public-house,
where he was told he could be accommodated with a
buggy, and, perhaps, a guide to his destination.</p>
<p>Duly arriving, sore and jaded, at the sign of the ‘Jolly
Bushman,’ he found the host an obliging sort of a fellow
enough, who said he would himself have driven the
gentleman to Dingo Creek, but that his wife was ill.
However, his buggy should be at his disposal the next
morning; and also the publican promised Cooronga
Billy should go as guide, and, if necessary, bring
both buggy and parson back again. Early on the
following morning the buggy and a pair of good-looking
ponies put in an appearance at the door of the ‘Jolly
Bushman’; so did Cooronga Billy.</p>
<p>But now we must for a while drop the thread of
the story, and go back to the time when, as a baby,
Billy lay sound asleep in his black mother’s arms under
the shadow of the far-away Cooronga ranges—back to
that fearful morning whose earliest dawn heralded the
pitiless swoop of the native troopers on to the quiet
camp. His tribe ‘dispersed,’ baby Billy, the sole survivor,
was brought to <span class="nw">B——</span>, sent, in due course, to
the best schools, and received a special education, with
a view to fitting him for the ministry, and a sphere of
what, it was fervently hoped by many good men, would
<a name="png.201" id="png.201" href="#png.201"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>183<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>prove congenial and profitable labour amongst his own
benighted countrymen.</p>
<p>As he grew towards man’s estate, Billy became quite
one of the lions of <span class="nw">B——</span>, and was proudly exhibited
and put through his paces before distinguished strangers,
as a splendid specimen of ‘what can be done with our
aborigines.’</p>
<p>Suddenly, and just when all this gratulation was at
its height, William Cooronga Morris—he was indebted
to the white officer who had commanded the ‘dispersers’
of his tribe for the first and last of these names, duly
received at the font of St Jude’s—disappeared totally,
turning up months afterwards, clad in his native skins,
armed with his native weapons, at one of the far-out
townships; and had ever since loafed around the outskirts
of Northern Settlement, a degrading example of
what over-civilisation can do for a black-fellow.</p>
<p>Periodical visits would Billy make far out in the
Bush towards the wild Coorongas—for some strange
instinct had led him at his first departure towards the
land of his birth—and there, instead of, as had been
so fondly expected, bending his energies towards the
cure of souls amongst his dark brethren, it was freely
reported that Mr W. C. Morris constituted himself
their leader in many a fat-cattle spearing expedition,
if nothing worse.</p>
<p>Billy, at the moment we have chosen to introduce
him to the reader, had just returned from one of those
forays, and a terrible figure he appeared to the Reverend
Spicer.</p>
<p><a name="png.202" id="png.202" href="#png.202"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>184<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Nearly naked, with the exception of a short ’possum
cloak, his skin plentifully covered with red and white
ochre, and his hair decorated with cockatoo feathers;
whilst across one side of his face ran a long, gaping
scar, a relic of some recent corrobboree—what wonder
that the reverend gentleman gazed more than doubtfully<!-- TN: hyphen invisible --> at the person introduced to him by the publican
as his guide. The landlord observed his hesitation and
the cause of it.</p>
<p>‘Never mind, sir,’ said he, ‘he’s as quiet as a sheep.
Dessay his ’ed’s sore, though. Have a nobbler, Cooronga?
It’ll make him lively like, you see,’ he concluded,
addressing the curate, who evidently thought
that Billy looked quite lively enough.</p>
<p>At length they started, Billy driving, sulky and taciturn,
answering questions as shortly as possible, and in
the vilest of pigeon English.</p>
<p>Nearly three parts of the journey was accomplished—for
Billy drove like a very Jehu—when the curate
began to feel hungry. So, as they came to a deep
gully where the rain-water lay in pools amongst the
rocks, he made his guide pull up, and prepared to
comfort the inner man.</p>
<p>Taking no notice of his companion, he sat down
by the edge of the water, and began with immense
gusto to demolish a roast fowl and other materials for
a very fair repast.</p>
<div class="illo">
<a name="png.203" id="png.203" href="#png.203"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>184a<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a><img id="i184fp" src="images/i_184fp.jpg" alt="[Illustration]"
/><p><span class="ns"> [Illustration: </span>Who hath woe? Who hath sorrow? Who hath contentions?
(<a href="#illo_pg186">Page 186</a>.)<span class="ns">]</span></p>
</div>
<p>At <span class="nw">R——</span> the reverend gentleman had provided himself
with two bottles of port, a wine which he had been
told was a first-class specific in cases of bush-fever and
<a name="png.205" id="png.205" href="#png.205"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>185<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>dysentery. The bottles were by this gone; but out of
the last one he had filled a large travelling flask, which
now producing, along with a tumbler, he proceeded—first
qualifying his liquor with a modicum of water—to
wash down his lunch.</p>
<p>Billy’s eyes sparkled. He at once recognised the
smell and colour, but would have preferred rum.</p>
<p>However, little of anything, solid or fluid, seemed
likely to fall to his share, for the weather was hot, and
our curate thirsty.</p>
<p>Presently, addressing Cooronga, the Reverend Spicer,
who had no idea of entering the scene of his ministrations,
with such a figure as Billy for his charioteer,
<span class="nw">said,—</span></p>
<p>‘How many miles did you say it was from here to
Dingo Creek?’</p>
<p>‘Lebn,’ grunted Billy.</p>
<p>‘Is the road as plain all the way as it is here?’</p>
<p>‘Ess,’ again grunted the tantalised Cooronga.</p>
<p>‘Very well, then,’ replied the curate, ‘<!-- TN: opening quote invisible -->you can walk
on. I will follow with the buggy when it gets a little
cooler.’</p>
<p>But this was out of Billy’s programme altogether.
Pointing to the capacious flask, to which the thirsty
divine was paying repeated attention, he said <span class="nw">abruptly,—</span></p>
<p>‘You gib it Cooronga. Him dry too!’</p>
<p>‘That is medicine, my friend,’ was the reply, ‘and it
would do you no good. If, as you seem to imply, you
are thirsty, there lies water in abundance.’</p>
<p><a name="png.206" id="png.206" href="#png.206"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>186<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Billy’s first impulse was to drive his spear through the
curate. But, restraining himself with a sigh, another
idea entered into his mischievous head. A large stump
stood close by, overlooking the unsuspecting Spicer and
the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">débris</i> of his meal. Upon this stump, with a bound,
Billy sprung, and, letting fall his cloak, disclosing to
view his whole body, hideously chalked, skeleton-wise,
he began, in a tone and with an enunciation far superior
to that of the reverend gentleman himself, to declaim,
with pointed <span class="nw">spear,—</span></p>
<p>‘<i><a name="illo_pg186" id="illo_pg186">Who hath woe?</a> Who hath sorrow? Who hath
contentions? Who hath babbling? Who hath wounds
without cause? Who hath redness of eyes?</i></p>
<p>‘<i>They that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek
mixed wine.</i></p>
<p>‘<i>Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when
it giveth its colour in the cup, when it moveth itself
aright.</i></p>
<p class="nw">‘<i>At the last</i>—’</p>
<p>But here, poor Spicer, who had risen to his feet, and
stood horror-stricken at hearing himself, as he imagined,
reproved and threatened for his bibbing propensities
through the mouth of a fiend, or even, as his staring eyes
took in Billy’s <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tout ensemble</i>, it might be the Arch Enemy
of mankind himself, uttered a shriek and fled, terror
lending unwonted speed to his legs, down the gully;
whilst Billy, with a wild whoop, descending from
his perch, took the flask and what remained of the
provisions to the buggy, and drove off into the
Bush.</p>
<p><a name="png.207" id="png.207" href="#png.207"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>187<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Late that night, a weary, footsore traveller entered
the principal public-house in Dingo Creek, and
began to ask incoherent questions about a buggy
and a black-fellow, the latter, he averred, an emissary
of Satan, who had led him into the wilderness,
and there deserted him—a story that the rough host
and his equally rough customers could make neither
head nor tail of.</p>
<p>‘It’s a rum go altogether,’ said the former to one of
his digger friends, after poor Spicer had retired, nearly
dead beat, to his rough-slabbed room, whence he could
hear all that went on in the bar.</p>
<p>‘The rummest thing I’ve heard on for some
time,’ assented the other. ‘He looks somethin’
like as a parson should look, right enough. But
either he’s just off of a rather heavy spree, or else
he’s more’n a shingle short. Sez he seen Ole Nick
back there in the Bush, an’ the old ’un shook his
buggy.’</p>
<p>’Bin on the bust, down at the “Jolly Bushman’s,” I
’spects,’ put in another. ‘You fellers knows as some <em>do</em>
see the old chap arter a ’ard bust. As for me, I takes it
out in snakes mostly. But there’s my mate, Bill, he allus
has cats. I seen him one time a-huntin’ ’em round
the tent all night long, arter bein’ on the spree for a
week.’</p>
<p>Confidence in the Reverend Spicer was, however, a
little restored, when, next morning, the buggy was found
intact in the public-house yard; and his confused appearance
and rambling statements of the previous night were
<a name="png.208" id="png.208" href="#png.208"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>188<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>charitably ascribed by the majority to ‘a touch of the
sun.’</p>
<p>During the day it was announced throughout the place
that the Reverend gentleman would address the inhabitants
in the ‘dance-room’ of the public-house, as being
the only one available for such a purpose. Figure to
yourself a long, low room, on the earthen floor of which
tree stumps still stood. At the far end, behind a sort of
bar formed by sheets of galvanised iron, supported on
trestles, waits, manuscript in hand, still in a rather unsettled
state of mind, the Reverend Spicer. The place
is dimly lit by flaring candles and slush lamps, and is
crowded by an assembly of as mixed nationalities,
customs and creeds, as could be found out of, say,
Alexandria or Singapore. A strong smell of stale spirits
and tobacco smoke pervades everything. All the men,
as our curate sees, are armed with a sheath-knife and
revolver; and, as he looks, he trembles and handles the
address as gingerly as if it were a parcel of dynamite, and
liable to explode at any moment, for it is not one of his
own pithless compositions, but the work of the Bishop
himself, a powerful and emphatic remonstrance—penned
in his quiet study at Bishopstowe—against the sinful and
dissolute lives of the Dingo Creekers. But, had the
frightened curate only known it, the mob, mixed and uncontrolled
as it was, would have as soon thought of ill-treating
a grasshopper as himself. And, all roughened
and uncivilised as were the best of them, there were
still men amongst them in whom the mere sight of a
clergyman awoke memories long forgotten and buried
<a name="png.209" id="png.209" href="#png.209"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>189<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>under the combats and toils of life—men who had once
‘looked on better days,’ and whom Sabbath-bells had
once ‘knoll’d to church,’ and this portion it was who,
after awhile, obtained silence, and set the example of
doffing their hats and putting away their pipes.</p>
<p>Very picturesque was the scene, with the lights flickering—now
on the bronzed features of some stalwart
European, now on the dark face of a negro, or the yellow
expressionless countenance of a Chinaman—as the motley
audience stood or squatted silent and attentive, whilst
our curate quavered and stammered through the opening
sentences of the address. And favourable, beyond all
hope, would have seemed the opportunity to a true
soldier of the Cross for softening the hearts of the poor
heathen of Dingo Creek.</p>
<p>But never, perhaps, since the days when William C.
Morris, arrayed in black broadcloth, was qualifying as
an evangelist, has anyone felt himself more of a square
peg in a round hole than did poor Spicer Greenwell,
as he droned away, presently, amidst exclamations of
disgust and disapproval from his curious congregation.</p>
<p>‘Give it lip, man!’ shouted a gigantic digger, whose
beard reached almost to his waist. ‘Give it lip, an’
let’s hear what it’s all about.’ Then, turning to the
publican: ‘Give him a nobbler, Jimmy; it’ll keep his
pecker up. He’s mighty scared o’ somethin’.’ Declining
the offered half-tumblerful of rum with a gesture of
disgust, the curate, intent only on getting to the end
of his task, resumed his reading.</p>
<p><a name="png.210" id="png.210" href="#png.210"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>190<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>At this moment Cooronga Billy, who had passed the
day in the adjacent black’s camp, entered, and was at
once warmly greeted by the crowd, to all of whom he
was well known, and to whom he proceeded, amidst
shouts of laughter, to relate the story of his escapade
at the gully.</p>
<p>The curate, disturbed by the noise, lifted up his head,
and, seeing Billy now standing just in front of him, he
dropped his papers, and pointing to the grinning black
fellow, <span class="nw">shouted,—</span></p>
<p>‘Men! men! Satan himself is amongst you!’</p>
<p>The truth of the affair, helped out by Billy’s story,
now broke on all hands, and roars of unrestrained
laughter, accompanied by wild impromptu dancing and
cheers for ‘Cooronga,’ put an end, for the time at least,
to any hopes that the Reverend Spicer might have once
entertained as to his being instrumental to even a
slight degree in the regeneration of Dingo Creek, the
dust of which, a sadder and a wiser man, he shook
without the least delay from off his feet.</p>
<p>Cooronga Billy has long since rejoined his tribe in
the happy hunting grounds; but stories, many and
wonderful, of the effect produced by the exercise of
his perverted abilities are still told by the pioneers of
the region in which he flourished.</p>
<p>The Reverend Spicer Greenwell still exists; but,
should the reader feel inclined to seek him, his quest
must lie well within the precincts of the highest civilisation
to be found in our colonies, and he must be careful
that no reference, be it ever so remote, to the
<a name="png.211" id="png.211" href="#png.211"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>191<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>adventure herein described, pass his lips; for, though
his life has ‘fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf,’ still
is the reverend gentleman strangely susceptible to
any allusion to that episode of his earlier Australian
experience.</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Books at Barracaboo"><a name="png.212" id="png.212" href="#png.212"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>192<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>BOOKS AT BARRACABOO.</h2>
<p class="subtitle"><span class="smc">A Sketch.</span></p>
<hr class="short" />
<h3>PART I.</h3>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smc">They</span> were all very sore at Barracaboo station. From
manager to horse-boy, from jackaroo to boundary-rider,
they felt aggrieved and vengeful. First it had been
‘Around the World by Sea and Land,’ copiously
illustrated, and in monthly parts. This was dull—unutterably
dull—and each instalment turned out duller
and heavier than the last. Also, the pictures resembled
those on the specimen sheets as nearly as a mule does
a grindstone.</p>
<p>After this came ‘Diseases of All Known Domestic
Animals,’ with gorgeously coloured pictures. As nothing
could be found in the whole work relating to horses or
cattle or dogs, except the illustrations, this was also
voted a fraud. However, they cut out the plates, and
stuck them upon the walls of the huts and cottages, so
that it was not clear loss altogether.</p>
<div class="illo">
<a name="png.213" id="png.213" href="#png.213"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>192a<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a><img id="i192fp" src="images/i_192fp.jpg" alt="[Illustration]"
/><p><span class="ns"> [Illustration: </span>Started back to Atlanta, pursued for half the distance with thunderous whip-crackings. (<a href="#illo_pg194">Page 194</a>.)<span class="ns">]</span></p>
</div>
<p>But the last straw was ‘The Universal Biography of
Eminent Men—Dead and Alive,’ with splendid portraits.
<a name="png.215" id="png.215" href="#png.215"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>193<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>When they discovered that the notices they had been
led to expect of their own ‘Boss,’ ‘Hungry’ Parkes of
Humpalong, the Mayor of Atlanta, etc., etc., were
absent, and their places filled by paragraphs and woodcuts
relating to Nelson, Julius Cæsar, Pompey, Scipio
Africanus, and such-like characters, they one and all
bucked, and refused to pay on delivery. Then they
were hauled to Quarter Sessions, confronted with their
signatures, and made to pay.</p>
<p>In vain they swore that the thing had never been
ordered; that it wasn’t up to specification; that their
handwriting was a palpable forgery. In vain they
related how they had never touched it, but had left
their copies lying on verandahs, stockyard posts, in
mud, in dust, wherever, in fact, the agent had chanced
to bail them up. All in vain; they had to pay—costs
and all.</p>
<p>Therefore was it that Barracaboo had forsworn literature
by sample, or in uncertain instalments, and vowed
vengeance upon all shabby men with indelible pencils,
and printed agreements with a space left for signature.
More especially had they a ‘down’ on people who wore
goatees and snuffled when they talked.</p>
<p>‘If you see one of ’em at the station,’ said the
manager—a rough, tough old customer, and disappointed
at being ousted by Julius Cæsar—‘set the
dogs on him. I’ll pay damages. If he don’t take
that hint, touch him up with stockwhips. It’ll only
be justifiable homicide at the worst. I know the law:
an’ I don’t mind a fiver in such a case!’</p>
<p><a name="png.216" id="png.216" href="#png.216"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>194<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Let us only get a chance, sorr,’ said the sheep-overseer,
‘an’ we’ll learn ’em betther manners wid our whups.
Doggin’s too good for the thrash!’</p>
<p>This state of affairs was pretty well known at Atlanta,
the neighbouring township; and book-fiends, warned,
generally gave Barracaboo a wide berth. Once, certainly,
a new hand at the game, and one who fancied
himself too much to bother about collecting local
information, came boldly into the station-yard just
as the bell was ringing for dinner, and produced the
advance sheets of a sweet and lively work, entitled,
‘Hermits, Ancient and Modern: Illustrated with Forty-seven
Choice Engravings.’</p>
<p>He had got to ‘Now, gentlemen,’ when, hearing the
howl of execration that went up, he suddenly took in
the situation and <a name="illo_pg194" id="illo_pg194">started back to Atlanta</a>, pursued for
half the distance with thunderous whip-crackings by the
sheep-overseer and the butcher, who were the only
two who happened to have their horses ready.</p>
<p>Chancing to have a capital mount, he distanced them
and galloped into town, and up the main street, reins
on his horse’s neck, and trousers over his knees, half
dead with fright, only to be promptly summoned and
fined for furious riding within the municipality.</p>
<p>For weeks afterwards sheets of ‘Hermits’ strewed the
‘<!-- TN: opening quote invisible -->cleared line,’ and he received a merciless chaffing from
his fellow-fiends, who could have warned him what to
expect had he confided his destination to them.</p>
<p>About this time came to Atlanta a small, ’cute-looking,
clean-shaven, elderly man. He was unknown to any
<a name="png.217" id="png.217" href="#png.217"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>195<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>present, but modestly admitted that he was in the book
trade, and had a consignment with him. And he
listened with interest to the conversation in the ‘Commercial
Room.’</p>
<p>‘The district’s petered out,’ remarked a tall American
gentleman, with the goatee and nasal voice abhorred of
Barracaboo. ‘Clean petered out since that last
“Universal Biography” business. They’re kickin’
everywhere. Darned if a feller didn’t draw a bead on
me yesterday afore I’d time almost to explain business.
Then he got so mad that I left, not wantin’ to become
a lead mine.’</p>
<p>‘Been here a week and haven’t cleared exes.,’ said
another mournfully. ‘Off to-morrow. No use trying to
work such a desert as this now.’</p>
<p>‘Big place, this station with the funny name, you’re
talkin’ about?’ asked the newcomer, who had introduced
himself as ‘Mr Potts, from London.’</p>
<p>‘Over a hundred men of one sort or another all the
year round,’ was the reply. ‘Capital shop for us, once
too. But it’s sudden death to venture there now. I
did real good biz at Barracaboo for the Shuffle Litho.
Company. It wouldn’t pay, though, to chance back
again.’</p>
<p>‘Ah, that was the “Around the World” thing, wasn’t
it? Didn’t come up to guarantee, eh?’</p>
<p>‘Well, hardly,’ replied the other. ‘However, that
wasn’t my fault, you know. All I had to do was to get
the orders, which I did to the tune of a couple of hundred
or thereabout.’</p>
<p><a name="png.218" id="png.218" href="#png.218"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>196<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘That’s the worst of those things,’ said Mr Potts.
‘Instalments always make a mess of it. Then the agent
loses his character, if nothing else. I was out delivering
in the Western District for Shuffle Litho., and was glad
to get away by the skin of my teeth. But<!-- TN: original reads "But's" --> it’s not
only the personal danger I object to,’ continued Mr Potts, after a pause. ‘It is the, ahem, the moral
degradation involved in such a pursuit—you know what
I mean, sir?’</p>
<p>‘Just so, just so,’ answered the other vaguely, with
a hard stare at the round, red face looming through
cigar smoke.</p>
<p>‘That’s what made me throw the line up,’ went on
Mr Potts, ‘more than anything else. The money’s not
clean, sir! I’d rather carry about a ton of print, and
risk selling for cash at a fractional advance upon cost
price.’</p>
<p>‘That’s all right,’ replied his companion with a grin.
‘Only take my advice, and don’t trouble Barracaboo
with your ton of print, or you’ll be very apt to leave it
there. They won’t give you time to open your mouth.
Ask “The Hermit,” if you don’t believe me.’</p>
<p>For a whole day Mr Potts drove around and about
with a selection from his stock.</p>
<p>But he never was allowed even a chance to exhibit a
sample. Farmers, selectors, squatters, townsfolk, had
all apparently quite made up their minds.</p>
<p>Times out of number he was threatened with personal
violence, and greeted with language quite unprintable
here.<!-- TN: punctuation invisible --> Once sticks were thrown at him; and once an
<a name="png.219" id="png.219" href="#png.219"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>197<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>old copy of the ‘Biography’ was hurled into the buggy,
whilst cattle-dogs were heeling his horses. Clearly it
was useless to persist. The district was fairly demoralised;
and with a sigh, Mr Potts drove home to
receive the ‘What did I tell you’s’ of the other
‘gents.’</p>
<p>But he was a resourceful man was Mr Potts, and he
determined, before leaving the district for ever, to have
one more attempt under conditions which should, at all
events, give him an opportunity of displaying a specimen
of his goods. Besides, he thirsted for vengeance on
the community, and knew that if he could but get an
opening it was his, full and complete.</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>‘No objection to my camping here to-night, I s’pose?’
asked a rather forlorn-looking traveller of the cook at
Barracaboo, shortly after the events related above.</p>
<p>‘Chop that heap o’ wood up, an’ you gets your supper
an’ breakfus’,’ said the cook, laconically.</p>
<p>The traveller worked hard for an hour, and finished
his task, handling the axe as if born to it, and provoking
the cook’s admiration to such an extent that he went
one better than his promise, and proffered a pint of tea
and a lump of ‘brownie.’</p>
<p>Presently, lighting his pipe, and undoing his swag, the
new-comer, remarking that there was nothing like a read
for passing the time away, took out a gorgeously bound
volume, sat down at the table, and was soon so interested
that he let his pipe go out. Save for the cook, the long
kitchen was empty, all the men being away on the run.</p>
<p><a name="png.220" id="png.220" href="#png.220"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>198<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>For a time, busy with a batch of bread, the former
took no notice of the stranger. Then, his work done,
he came and looked over his shoulder, saying, ‘What
you got there, mate?’</p>
<p>‘Finest thing ever you read,’ said the other, carelessly
turning over some vivid pictures. “The Life and
Adventures of Dick Turpin, Claude Duval, and Other
Eminent Outlaws.” Something like a book this is,’
he continued. ‘Six hundred pages full of love and
murder; and that excitin’ you can’t bear to put it
down!’</p>
<p>This was charming; and the cook, and the butcher,
and a couple of boundary riders dropped in for a yarn,
at once became inquisitive, and anxious to have a
look.</p>
<p>‘See here,’ said the owner of the wonderful volume,
pointing to an outrageous effort in coloured process,
‘this is the bold Dick Turpin on his wonderful mare,
Black Bess, taking the ten-foot gate on the road to York.
See, he’s got the reins in his teeth and a pistol in each
hand.’</p>
<p>‘By gum, she’s a flyer!’ ‘Twig the long-necked
spurs.’ ‘No knee-pads to the saddle either!’ ‘Ten
foot! there ain’t a horse in Hostralia as could do it!’—exclaimed
his audience, becoming excited.</p>
<p>‘And here you have,’ went on the traveller, ‘<!-- TN: opening quote invisible -->the gentle
highwayman, Claude Duval, stickin’ up the Duke of
York’s coach on ’Oundslow ’Eath. And here he is
again, dancing under the moon with the Duchess.’ And
so he continued, setting forth in tempting sequence the
<a name="png.221" id="png.221" href="#png.221"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>199<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>glories of the work, pausing at intervals to read aloud
thrilling bits, and comment upon them.</p>
<p>‘Where did you get it, mate?’ at length asked the
cook.</p>
<p>‘Bought it in Atlanta,’ replied the other. ‘Fellow
there’s got lots of ’em, and only thirty bob apiece.
Cheap at double the price, I reckon, considerin’ the
amoun’ of readin’ in it.’</p>
<p>‘Ain’t no deliv’rin’ numbers, or signin’ ’greements,
or any o’ that game?’ asked one suspiciously. ‘’Cause
if there is, we’re full.’</p>
<p>‘No,’ was the reply; ‘you pays your money and you
takes your bargain. But I don’t think you fellows’ll
ever get the chance. I heard him say he’d as soon
face a mad bull as come to this station.’</p>
<p>The men, of whom the hut was now full, laughed;
and said <span class="nw">one,—</span></p>
<p>‘The chap as sells, out an’ out, an honest article like
that un needn’t be scared. It’s them coves as gets
you to sign things, and keeps sendin’ a lot o’ rotten
trash, not a bit like what you seen furst; an’ then
comes, as flash as you please, summonsin’ of you an’
a-gettin’ of you bullyragged in Court—them’s the coves
as we’ve got a derry on. Let’s have another squint at
that pitcher o’ Dick Turpin an’ Black Bess, mates.’</p>
<p>‘Give you five bob on your bargain!’ shouted a
tall stockman, presently, from the outer edge of the
circle, where he had been impatiently waiting for a
look.</p>
<p>‘Couldn’t part with it,’ said the owner decidedly.
<a name="png.222" id="png.222" href="#png.222"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>200<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>‘But I’ll tell you what I will do. I’m going back to
the township to-morrow. If the chap ain’t gone, I’ll
let him know he can sell a few here. He might
venture if you’ll all give your word not to go for him
when he does come. He’s got lots of others, too.
There’s “The Bloody Robber of the Blue Mountains,”
and “The Pirate’s Bride,” and “The Boundin’ Outlaws
of the Backwoods,” and plenty more—all same
price, and all pictures and covers same as this
one is.’</p>
<p>‘Right! Tell him to come! It was pay-day yesterday,’
yelled the crowd unanimously.</p>
<p>‘Not a bad night’s work, I do believe,’ muttered
the traveller to himself, as he reluctantly stretched out
on the hard bunk-boards. ‘I hope, though, this
confounded beard and moustache won’t come off
while I’m asleep, if I ever do get any on such a
bed.’</p>
<hr class="short" />
<h3>PART II.</h3>
<p class="noindent">‘<span class="smc">Is</span> your life insured?’ ‘You’ll get sudden notice to
vamose<!-- TN: ok OED --> the ranche<!-- TN: ok OED -->, sir!’ ‘Mind the dogs!’ ‘Look
out for whips!’ ‘You’ll lose your stock!’</p>
<p>Such were some of the warnings and admonitions
dealt out to Mr Potts by his friends, as he heavily
<a name="png.223" id="png.223" href="#png.223"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>201<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>loaded his buggy preparatory to starting for Barracaboo.</p>
<p>‘I’ll chance it!’ said he. ‘Haven’t sold a cent’s
worth yet; and it’s the only place I haven’t tried.
They can’t very well kill a fellow, anyhow. I’ll chance
it; faint heart never won fair lady!’</p>
<p>‘Give you five pounds to one you don’t deal!’ cried
one.</p>
<p>‘Give you five pounds to one you’re hunted!’
shouted ‘The Hermit.’</p>
<p>‘Bet you slap-up feed for the crowd to-night, and
wine thrown in, that somethin’s broke afore you come
back,’ said the American gentleman.</p>
<p>‘Done, and done, and done,’ replied Mr Potts
placidly, as he carefully booked the wagers and drove
off; whilst the bystanders, to a man, agreed to delay
their departure for the sake of not only eating a cheap
dinner, but witnessing a return which they were all
convinced would be ‘as good as a play.’</p>
<p>But they were mistaken. Mr Potts was received at
Barracaboo with open arms, no one recognising in the
clean-shaven features those of the bearded, dilapidated
swagman who had the other night spied out the lay of
the land and the leanings of its people. The manager
was absent; but the overseer, who had already by
personal inspection satisfied himself of the merits of
‘Bold Dick Turpin,’ etc., was amongst the earliest
purchasers.</p>
<p>‘Everything went like wildfire. Mr Potts could
hardly hand them out fast enough. Those present
<a name="png.224" id="png.224" href="#png.224"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>202<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>bought for others away on the run, and in a very short
time there were only three volumes left.</p>
<p>These were of a different calibre to the rest of the
rubbish, being nothing less than ‘The Adventures of
Don Quixote de la Mancha,’ with illustrations by
Gustave Doré. However, as no one would even look
at them at the price—five pounds—the dealer, having
pretty well cleaned out ‘the Hut,’ determined to try
his luck at ‘the House.’</p>
<p>Now, it happened that Mrs Morris, the manager’s
wife, wished just at this time to buy something for
her eldest boy, whose birthday was approaching.
Recognising, as a reading woman, that the work was
genuine, and not more than a pound or two over
price, she bought it. It was so much less trouble
than sending to the capital, with a chance of disappointment.</p>
<p>‘It’ll do very nicely for Master Reginald,’ quoth she;
‘I’m sure he’ll be pleased with it. And I’m glad to
see that you people are at last beginning to carry
something better than the usual lot of trash. I hope
you did well amongst the men with these standard
works?’</p>
<p>‘Very nicely indeed, thank you, ma’am,’ replied Mr Potts, smiling, as he bowed and withdrew.</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>John, the waiter, had twice informed the ‘commercial
gents’ that dinner was ready, before the anxious watchers
saw the man who was expected to pay for it drive into
the yard of the hotel.</p>
<p><a name="png.225" id="png.225" href="#png.225"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>203<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘He looks kinder spry,’ remarked the American
gentleman disappointedly. ‘Guess he’s got clear off
with a caution this once.’</p>
<p>‘Buggy seems to run light,’ chimed in another.
‘Shouldn’t wonder if they’d unloaded it into the river.’</p>
<p>‘Never had such a haul since I’ve been in the
business, gentlemen!’ exclaimed Mr Potts, as he
presently entered the dining-room with a big roll of
paper in his hand. ‘There must have been some
mistake about the place. Why, they’re the mildest
crowd you’d see in a day’s march. Sellin’ ’em books is
like tea-drinkin’. It actually kept me goin’ as fast as I
could to change their stuff for ’em. Here, you know
the Barracaboo cheques. Look at this, and count ’em<!-- TN: original reads "em'" -->,
one of you. Blessed if I’ve had time! I hope dinner’s
ready. Never let me hear a word against Barracaboo
after this!’</p>
<p>There was a long silence of utter astonishment, during
which the American rapidly thumbed strips of green
paper, and made mental calculations.</p>
<p>‘Eight hundred dollars!’ exclaimed he, at last, in
tones of unalloyed admiration. ‘Mister Potts, sir,
you’re a gifted genius! I ante-up, Colonel, to once,
an’ allow I’ll take a back seat.’</p>
<p>And so, in their several fashions, said the rest; whilst
the lion of the evening ate his dinner, sipped his
porphyry, and kept his own counsel.</p>
<p>‘Cost me four bob, landed in Sydney, averaging
the lot,’ said Mr Potts confidentially to a friend
that evening, as they enjoyed their coffee and cigars
<a name="png.226" id="png.226" href="#png.226"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>204<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>on the balcony. ‘I’m on my own hook, too, now.
I seen that the specimen-sheet-monthly-delivery-collection-per-agent
game was blown—not that I guessed it
was near as bad as it really is. So I sends straight
away to New York for this consignment, specially
got up and prepared for the Bush. It was a regular
bobby-dazzler! You see, the boards are only stuck
on with glue, type and paper’s as rough as they make
’em, and the picturin’s done by a cheap colour
patent. I’ve got another lot nearly due by this—not
for here, though. You fellows have ruined this
district. Of course the Dorees was genuine. I
bought the three of ’em a job lot in town for a
song. They’re the only books I’ve got left now.
If I’d had a score more of Turpins and such, I
could have sold ’em at the station.’</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>‘There’s old Morris, of Barracaboo, just come
in,’ remarked someone the next morning. ‘He’s
on his way home from Larras Show, I expect.’</p>
<p>‘Which is him?’ asked Mr Potts eagerly (all
literary people are not necessarily purists).</p>
<p>‘Sorry to disturb you at lunch, sir,’ said Mr Potts
presently, as he entered, bearing a large book. ‘But
Mrs Morris was kind enough to say that this would
do nicely for Master Reginald’s birthday. ‘Don
Quixote,’ sir, the most startling work of that
celebrated author, Gustavus Do-ree, sir. Splendidly
illustrated, sir. Your good lady was very much
pleased with it.’</p>
<p><a name="png.227" id="png.227" href="#png.227"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>205<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Umph, umph,’ growled the manager. ‘Been out
at the station, eh? Didn’t they run you, eh? No
whips, no dogs! Eh! eh! What?’</p>
<p>‘I am not an advance agent for books I know
nothing about, sir,’ returned the other with dignity,
as he took the volume up again. ‘I sell a genuine
article, sir, for cash on the nail. In transactions of
that kind there can be no mistake, sir.’</p>
<p>‘Umph!’ growled the squatter doubtfully. ‘Well,
as long as the missus says it’s all right, I s’pose it is.
How much?’</p>
<p>He paid without a murmur. Mrs M. was a lady
who stood no trifling.</p>
<p>‘Wrap the thing up and put it in the buggy,’ said
he. ‘Gad, it’s as big as the station ledger! Look
sharp, now, I’m in a hurry!’</p>
<p>‘So am I,’ quoth Mr Potts, as he returned. ‘John,
what time does the next train start?’</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>When the manager reached home that afternoon
with ‘Don Quixote,’ and compared notes and books,
there was a row, the upshot of which was that he
received orders to hurry off at once in pursuit, and
avenge the trick played upon them.</p>
<p>‘You’re a J.P.,’ stormed the lady, ‘and if you can’t
give that oily villain three months, what’s the use
of you? Besides, isn’t five pounds worth recovering?’</p>
<p>Mr Morris would much sooner have let the matter
drop quietly. No man likes to publicly advertise
<a name="png.228" id="png.228" href="#png.228"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>206<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>the fact of his having been duped, least of all
by a book-fiend.</p>
<p>‘Well, well, my dear,’ said he at last, ‘never mind.
I’ll go directly. I’ve got some letters to write first
But I’ll send M‘Fadyen into town to see the fellow
doesn’t get away.’</p>
<p>‘Tell him,’ said the manager, as the overseer was
preparing to start, ‘tell him I’m coming in presently,
about—um—er—about a book. Oh, and if he gives
you anything, perhaps you’d better take it. No use,’
he muttered to himself, with a side glance to where
his wife sat, ‘letting all hands and the cook know
one’s business. The beggar ’ll only be too glad to
stump up when he finds I’m in earnest. Thought,
I suppose, that I wouldn’t bother about it, eh,
what!’</p>
<p>Inquiring at the ‘Royal,’ the overseer was told
that Mr Potts had left; although, perhaps, if he
hastened, he might yet see him, as the train hadn’t
started. Sure enough, galloping up to the station
and searching along the carriages, he found his
man just making himself comfortable in smoking-cap
and slippers.</p>
<p>‘Be jakers, mister,’ he gasped breathlessly, ‘the
Boss wants to see ye badly! Have ye got anythin’
for him? It’s of a book he was spakin’. Tould me
to tell ye that he’d be in himself directly.’<!-- TN: closing quote invisible --></p>
<p>‘Too late! Can’t stop! Time’s up!’ replied Mr Potts. ‘But’—rising to the occasion, and taking the
last copy of ‘Do-ree’ out of his portmanteau—‘this
<a name="png.229" id="png.229" href="#png.229"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>207<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>is it. It’s for Master Reginald’s birthday. Your Boss
wouldn’t miss having it for three times the money.
Six pounds—quick!’</p>
<p>In a desperate flurry, the overseer ransacked his
pockets. No; he could only muster four.</p>
<p>‘All right, guard, wait a minute!’ he yelled as,
borrowing the balance, he clutched the book, whilst
the train, giving a screech, moved away, with Mr Potts nodding and grinning a friendly farewell.</p>
<p>‘Be kicked now!’ exclaimed the overseer, ‘if that
wasn’t a close shave! The Boss oughter think
himself lucky, so he ought!’</p>
<p>So, carrying the book carefully under his arm, he
jogged Barracaboowards.</p>
<p>Half way he met Mr Morris coming in at full
speed.</p>
<p>‘No hurry in loife, sorr!’ cried the overseer, beamingly,
and showing ‘Don Quixote.’ ‘I ped six notes
for it, an’ had to borrow two. It was just touch an’
go, though, so it was!’</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="‘Barton’s Jackaroo’"><a name="png.230" id="png.230" href="#png.230"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>208<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘BARTON’S JACKAROO.’</h2>
<p class="noindent">‘<span class="smc">Bother</span>!’ exclaimed Mr Barton, the Manager of Tarnpirr,
as he finished reading one of his letters on a certain
evening.</p>
<p>‘What’s the matter, papa?’ asked his daughter, Daisy,
pausing with the teapot in her hand.</p>
<p>‘Oh, nothing much, my dear,’ he replied; only we
are to have company. The firm is sending up the
444th cousin of an Irish Earl to learn sheep-farming,
and I suppose I’ve got the contract to break him in.
That’s all.’</p>
<p>‘I wish your mother could be at home, Daisy,’
he continued. ‘I never did care much about these
colonial-experience fellows. They generally give a lot
of trouble, especially when they’re well connected.
There, read the precious letter for yourself. Pity we
couldn’t put him into the hut, instead of making him
one of ourselves—eh, Daisy?’</p>
<p>The girl laughed as she read <span class="nw">aloud,—</span></p>
<p>‘Mr Fortescue is highly connected; and as he not
only brings introductions from the London office, but
<a name="png.231" id="png.231" href="#png.231"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>209<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>also possesses an interest in several properties out
here, we hope you will do your best to make him
comfortable, and to give him that insight into the
business that he seems desirous of acquiring at first
hand.’</p>
<p>‘Why, daddy!’ she exclaimed, ‘you ought to think
yourself honoured—“highly connected,” not merely
“well,” remember—by such a charge! As for myself,
I am all anxiety to see him.’</p>
<p>‘I don’t think anything of the sort, then, Daisy,’<!-- TN: closing quote invisible -->
said her father. ‘And if I could afford to do so,
I should like to tell them that I consider it a piece
of impertinence on their part to ask me to receive
a perfect stranger, knowing how I am situated alone
with you, how small the place is, and how roughly we
live. But one can’t ride the high horse on a hundred
and fifty pounds a year!’</p>
<p>And the Manager of Tarnpirr sighed, and stared
thoughtfully into his cup.</p>
<p>In the general sense of the word, Daisy Barton
was not a pretty girl, inasmuch as she possessed not
one regular feature. But it was such a calm, quiet,
pleasant face, out of which dark blue eyes looked so
tenderly and honestly at you, that one forgot to search
for details in the charm of the whole. Add to this,
one of the neatest, trimmest, most loveable little figures
imaginable, and you may have some faint idea of the
pleasant picture she made as she sat thinking which
of the two spare rooms should be got ready for the
new inmate. Mrs Barton was never at the station.
<a name="png.232" id="png.232" href="#png.232"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>210<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>She was a confirmed invalid, and resided permanently
in a far southern town. Daisy and an old Irishwoman
kept house.</p>
<p>In due course the ‘highly connected’ one arrived,
bringing with him as much luggage as sufficed to fill
the extra room.</p>
<p>He was a tall, good-looking Englishman, and he
gazed around at the small bare house with its strip
of burnt-up, dusty garden, and background of sombre
eucalypti; at the squalid ‘hut;’ the sluggish, dirty
river; and the barren forlornness of everything, with
a look on his face that caused Mr Barton to chuckle,
and think to himself that the new-comer’s stay would
be short. The manager had expected a youngster, not
a grown man of five or six and twenty, and he was
rather puzzled.</p>
<p>This self-possessed, languid sort of gentleman, with
well-cut features, long moustache, and slow, pleasant-sounding,
if rather drawling, speech, wasn’t by any
means the sort of creature that Mr Barton was accustomed
to associate with the term ‘jackaroo,’ and its
natural corollary, ‘licking into shape.’</p>
<p>‘A fellow with lots of money, I expect,’ he said
to Daisy that night after their guest, pleading fatigue,
had retired. ‘One of those chaps who just come
out to have a look around, and then off home
again with wonderful stories about the wild Australian
Bush.’</p>
<p>‘Yaas; shouldn’t wondah, now, Mistah Barton, if you
ah not quaite correct,’ laughed Daisy, mischievously.
<a name="png.233" id="png.233" href="#png.233"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>211<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>‘Oh, papa, do all the folk in England talk as if they
were clean knocked up?’</p>
<p>‘Only the highly-connected ones, my dear,’ replied
her father, smiling. ‘It’s considered quite fashionable,
too, amongst our own upper ten. He’ll lose
it after he’s been bushed a few times. I shouldn’t
imagine from his looks, however, that he’s got much
backbone. He’ll be away again presently—too rough
a life.’</p>
<p>And, in fact, poor Fortescue at first often did get
bushed.</p>
<p>Luckily for him, perhaps, a camp of blacks settled
at Tarnpirr shortly after his arrival, and these made a
regular income by hunting for and bringing him back.
And he was very considerate.</p>
<p>Once, when he had been missing for three days,
and Mr Barton and Daisy were half out of their
minds with fright, he made the blacks who were
bearing him home, tattered and hungry, and faint
from exposure, go ahead for clean clothes and soap
and water before he would put in an appearance.
This incident only confirmed Mr Barton the more in
his idea that he had to do with a man lacking strength
of character—a dandy willing to sacrifice everything
to personal outward show. His daughter thought quite
otherwise.</p>
<p>However, in time, ‘Barton’s Jackaroo,’ as he was
called throughout the district of the lower rivers, became
a favourite, not only at Tarnpirr, but on the
neighbouring runs. Even old Bridget admitted that
<a name="png.234" id="png.234" href="#png.234"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>212<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>‘he was a good sort ov a cratur, barrin’ the want ov a
bit more life wid him.’</p>
<p>But he was always calm and self-possessed; and
the Manager was accustomed to swear that a bush
fire at his heels wouldn’t make him quicken his pace
by a step.</p>
<p>And once Daisy, in a moment of irritation, confided<!-- TN: hyphen invisible -->
to her father that she felt inclined to stick a
needle into his jackaroo for the sake of discovering
whether that provoking air of leisurely languor was
natural or assumed.</p>
<p>‘He’s got no backbone, my dear,’ said the Manager,
laughing. ‘But try him by all means. I’ll bet you
ten to one he only says what he did last week, when
that old ram made a drive at him in the yard, and
knocked him down and jumped on him.’</p>
<p>‘And what did he say to that?’ asked Daisy
eagerly.</p>
<p>‘Well,’ replied Mr Barton, laughing again, ‘when
he’d cleaned the mud out of his eyes and mouth, he
looked surprised and said “Haw!”’</p>
<p>‘Oh,’ said Daisy, disappointedly. ‘But what ought
he to have said to show that he had a backbone,
papa?’</p>
<p>‘Well,’ replied her father vaguely, ‘you know, Daisy—er—um—well,
that is—um—a great many people, my
dear, your father amongst them, perhaps, would be apt
to say a good deal on such an occasion.’</p>
<p>‘I have a better opinion than ever of Mr Fortescue,’
cried Daisy indignantly at this. ‘Because he keeps his
<a name="png.235" id="png.235" href="#png.235"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>213<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>temper, and doesn’t go on like Long Jim or Ben the
Bullocky when any little thing happens, he’s got no
pluck or resolution! I own he exasperates one sometimes
with his calm, dawdling ways. But if he were
pushed, I shouldn’t be surprised to find more in him
than he gets credit for after all!’</p>
<p>‘Umph!’ said Mr Barton glancing kindly, but with
rather a troubled face, at the flushed cheeks and sparkling
eyes upturned to his own. And as he rode over the
run that day the burden of his thoughts was that the
sooner his serene-tempered jackaroo got tired of the Bush
the better it would be for all of them.</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>‘Ned, if the river ain’t a-risin’, an’ risin’ precious quick,
too, call me a Dutchman! ’Arf-an-hour ago the water
warn’t near them bullocks, and now it’s right agin their
’eels!’</p>
<p>‘Well,’ replied his mate, glancing towards the brown
stream slowly spreading over the flat, ‘we’re safe enough.
I’ll forgive it if it comes over this. Tell you what, though,
you might catch the pony an’ canter up to the station,
an’ tell ole Barton as there’s some water a-comin’. He
might have some stock he’d like to git out o’ the road.
An’ you might’s well git a lump o’ meat while you’re
there.’</p>
<p>So Ned, of the travelling bullock team, went with the
news to Tarnpirr, lower down.</p>
<p>But Mr Barton that very morning had been to Warrooga
township, and the telegraph people had said no
word of floods or heavy rain at the head of the river.
<a name="png.236" id="png.236" href="#png.236"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>214<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>Around Tarnpirr and district the weather had been
dry for weeks, so the Manager was not in the least uneasy.</p>
<p>‘It’s only a bit of a fresh, Brown,’ said he. ‘It’ll soon
go down again. Thanks all the same, though. Meat?
Yes, of course. And now you’d better go over to the
kitchen and get your dinner.’</p>
<p>‘Boss reckons it’s nothin’,’ said Ned, returning that
evening. ‘No rain fall’d up above.’</p>
<p>‘We wouldn’t need shift anyhow,’ replied the other,
preparing to cook the meat given them by Mr Barton,
who little dreamt how welcome it would be to some
people later on. ‘We’re a lot higher here than they
are at the station. I saw “Barton’s Jackaroo” just
now, out ridin’ with Miss Daisy. He’s a rum stick, he is.’</p>
<p>‘But ain’t she a little star!’ exclaimed Ned enthusiastically.</p>
<p>‘She are; all that!’ replied his mate. ‘Finest
gall on the rivers. Too good by sights for any new-chum.’</p>
<p>And so the pair sat and yarned and watched the
treacherous water of what was to become the biggest
flood since ’64 stealthily eating its way up amongst the
long grass of the sandridge, sneaking quietly into little
hollows, then pretending to creep back again, then with
a rush advancing a miniature wave further than ever.
Sat and talked and watched the brown expanse broaden
until the tall oaks that bordered the banks were whipping
the fierce current with their slender tops, sole mark now
to show where lay mid-stream.</p>
<p><a name="png.237" id="png.237" href="#png.237"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>215<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘It’s a darned big lump of a fresh!’ quoth Ned doubtfully.</p>
<p>‘It’ll be down afore mornin’,’ replied his mate. ‘And
anyhow it can’t do us real bad, seein’ what we’ve got in
the loadin’. But there’s no danger ’ere on this ridge.’</p>
<p>So they turned in under their tarpaulins, and never
heard how the water hissed at midnight as it crept, little
by little, advancing, receding, but always gaining, into
their carefully covered-up fire.</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>In the snug sitting-room at Tarnpirr, with lamps burning
brightly, and curtains drawn against the lowering
dusk, sat Herbert Fortescue and Daisy Barton, their
heads pretty close together over a chessboard.</p>
<p>‘I’m going across to the Back Ridge out-station this
afternoon,’ had said Mr Barton. ‘I sha’n’t be home
before to-morrow; I want to see how Macpherson’s getting
on with those weaners. Needn’t bother about the
river. It’s only a fresh, or Warrooga would have sent us
word.’</p>
<p>Alas for dependence on Warrooga with its absent
trooper, and absent-minded operator, who was warned,
just after Manager Barton left him, that masses of
water were coming down three rivers towards Tarnpirr!</p>
<p>Had he but taken horse and galloped out the few
miles, or sent, things might have happened very differently,
and this story would never have been written.
But as it <span class="nw">was—</span></p>
<p>‘There!’ exclaimed Daisy, ‘my king is in trouble
<a name="png.238" id="png.238" href="#png.238"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>216<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>again. I feel out of sorts to-night. It’s very close.
Shall we go on to the verandah?’</p>
<p>‘With pleasure,’ said the young man rising. ‘But it’s
as dark as pitch outside. Give me your hand, please, for
fear you stumble.’</p>
<p>Hesitating for a moment, their eyes met, and with
deepening colour she placed her hand in his, and they
went out through the long window into the night. It
was very quiet, and the darkness felt woolly and warm.
No light glimmered anywhere, and the only sound was
the cry of a solitary mopoke coming from amongst
the spectral boles of the box trees.</p>
<p>‘The men are in bed, I suppose,’ said Daisy, glancing
towards their hut.</p>
<p>‘They are away on the run,’<!-- TN: closing quote invisible --> replied Fortescue, ‘drawing
fencing stuff for the new line. But it’s a wonder we
don’t see the blacks’ fire.’</p>
<p>As they stood leaning against the garden fence a
soft continuous ripple, mingled with a sound like the
sighing of wind through tall belars fell on their
ears.</p>
<p>‘It’s only the river,’ said Daisy, ‘I’ve often heard it
making that mournful noise when it’s rising over its
banks. Shall we walk as far as the camp?’</p>
<p>It was a rough track, and more than once, but for the
sustaining arm of her companion, Daisy would have
come to grief over log or tussock.</p>
<p>But they got there at last, guided by a few dim sparks
from expiring fires.</p>
<p>‘Why, it’s deserted,’ exclaimed Daisy, as they found
<a name="png.239" id="png.239" href="#png.239"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>217<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>themselves amongst the empty gunyahs. ‘They’re gone,
dogs and all.’</p>
<p>‘Off on some hunting expedition, I expect,’ replied
Fortescue, laughing. ‘They look at me in a comically
disgusted manner of late since I left off getting bushed
so regularly.’</p>
<p>It was too dark to see the water, but they stood for a
long time listening to the swish of it as it ran full-lipped
from one steep high bank to the other, telling with
eerie mutterings and whisperings, and curious little
complaining noises, and low hoarse threatenings of
what it would presently do, and the mischief it would
work, but in language all untranslatable by its hearers.</p>
<p>‘What a sweet little lady it is,’ said Fortescue to
himself as, later, he sat on the edge of his bed staring
straight before him into a pair of tender, steadfast eyes
conjured out of the darkness. ‘<!-- TN: opening quote invisible -->I wonder if she does?
I’m nearly sure of it, thank heaven! Why, she is worth
coming here and roughing it like this, and being called
“Barton’s Jackaroo” twenty times over for!’ and he
laughed gently. ‘Fancy a prize like that hidden away
amongst these solitudes. I wonder what her father will
say? Anyhow, I won’t put it off any longer. I’ll ask
him to-morrow.’</p>
<p>With which resolution he laid down and went to sleep,
still thinking on Daisy Barton.</p>
<p>He awoke with a start, and lay listening to noises
in his room, the remnants, as he imagined, of some
grotesque dream.</p>
<p>Gurglings there were, and agonised squeakings and
<a name="png.240" id="png.240" href="#png.240"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>218<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>scrapings, with, now and then, ploppings and splashings
as of many small swimmers. Then something cold, wet
and hairy, crawled over his hand.</p>
<p>Shaking it off with an exclamation, he jumped out of
bed, and with the shock of it, stood stock still for two
minutes up to his knees in water.</p>
<p>Then, striking a match, he saw that his room was
awash, and that all sorts of articles were floating about
it, drawn hither and thither by the current which
swelled and eddied between the old slabs. Up a
corner of blanket, touching the water, swarmed a great
host of ants, tarantulas, beetles and crickets, whilst
drowning mice, lizards, and heaven knows what else,
swam wildly round and round and gratefully hailed his
bare legs as a harbour of refuge. Hastily rubbing
them off, and getting into some wet clothes, he opened
the window and looked out. A wan moon shed a
feeble light upon one vast sea of turgid water. Nothing
in sight but water—water, and the tops of the trees
quivering above the flood! No wonder the river talked
to itself last night! The scene was enough to make
even a man with a backbone quail and feel a bit
nervous.</p>
<p>As for Barton’s Jackaroo, his first astonishment over,
he forgot himself so far as first to whistle, and then
to swear, but very softly and tentatively, as one trying
an experiment.</p>
<p>You see, this was a different matter altogether to being
butted of rams, or even being badly bushed without a
drink for three days and three nights.</p>
<p><a name="png.241" id="png.241" href="#png.241"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>219<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Brushing off his sleeve the head of a column of sugar-ants
that had effected a lodgment <i>via</i> the window-sill, he
waded into the sitting-room and lit the lamp. Then,
making for Daisy’s room, he called and tapped until
she answered.</p>
<p>‘It’s me—Fortescue. Don’t be alarmed, Daisy—Miss
Barton,’ said he. ‘The water’s in the house. Get up
and dress, and come out as quickly as possible.’</p>
<p>As he finished speaking a wild yell rang through the
place, and Bridget’s voice from near by exclaimed,
punctuated by <span class="nw">screams,—</span></p>
<p>‘Howly Mother av Moses! Ow! Blessid Vargin an’
all the saints purtect us! Ow! the divvle be wid me!
but it’s drowned I am this minnit! an’ the wather up me
legs, an’ niver a soul comin’ next anigh me! Och! wirras-thru!
it’s a lost woman I am, wid all the mices and
bastes atin’ away at me! Ow! ow! ow!’</p>
<p>With difficulty suppressing a desire to laugh, Fortescue
shouted to her to get her clothes on and join him.
One little cry of dismay he heard from Daisy as she
lit her candle, and then he returned to the dining-room.</p>
<p>Here he was startled to notice a burst of dull moonlight
coming in through the front of the house where
already were gaps caused by the slabs being displaced
and carried away by the water.</p>
<p>Clearly the building, old and rotten, was going to
pieces.</p>
<p>Presently Daisy, pale, but silent and composed,
entered. Taking her in his arms, he placed her on a
<a name="png.242" id="png.242" href="#png.242"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>220<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>sideboard, grieving the while to see how the water
poured from her clothes.</p>
<p>‘I am afraid the whole house will go, Daisy,’ he said.
‘It’s shaky and decayed. I was thinking of making a
stage on the wall-plates up there. But I’m sure now
that our only hope is in a raft of some kind.’</p>
<p>At this moment in floundered Bridget, clasping a large
bottle to her breast, and muttering at every stride objurgations,
entreaties, and fag-ends of prayers.</p>
<p>‘Ochone!’ she cried, ‘may the saints an’ the Howly
Mother av all hould us in their kapin’ this night!’
Then, uncorking the bottle, ‘Sure, Misthur Fortyskeu,
sorr, if ye <em>are</em> a haythen, ye might have a thry for
purgathory itself. It’s better nor the other place, so it
is. Here’s the howly wather, avick, that Father Dennis
give me lasht chapel at Warrooga—if ye’ll let me sprinkle
a weeshy <span class="nw">dhrop—’</span></p>
<p>‘Come, come, Bridget; stop that nonsense!’ exclaimed
Fortescue sternly, as he knocked down slabs
and pulled them inside. ‘Isn’t there water enough
about, without any more. Take the candle and get me
some ropes—clothes-lines, saddlestraps, anything you can
find!’</p>
<p>Bridget opened her mouth with astonishment. She
had never been spoken to in such manner before.
Then putting down her precious bottle, she waddled off.</p>
<p>Presently Daisy slipped into the water, <span class="nw">saying,—</span></p>
<p>‘I can’t sit there and watch you working away by
yourself,’ and she helped to hold the slabs, whilst he and
Bridget secured them with lashings.</p>
<p><a name="png.243" id="png.243" href="#png.243"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>221<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Four, ten feet long, tied at the ends, and upon them
cross-pieces, and upon these the long dining-room table.
This was the raft; and while Fortescue tied and knotted
and fastened, he talked of how he had once been cast
away in a yacht, and had then learned many things.
And the pair, listening to his cheery voice, took courage,
albeit the water now was waist high.</p>
<p>The seasoned pine timber floated like a cork, and to
his satisfaction Fortescue found that with their combined
weight it was still well out of the water. He was just
considering whether it might be possible to secure a few
valuables and important papers, when an ominous creaking
caught his ear, and the house began to quiver
bodily.</p>
<p>Hurriedly jumping on board and seizing a long thin
slab, he pushed off. And what a wild sight it was
outside, as the frail craft shot clear of everything into
the flood!</p>
<p>The water ran like brown oil, swift but waveless,
bearing with it logs, great trees, posts and rails, planks,
heaps of straw, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">débris<!-- TN: original reads "debris" --></i> of every description, whilst into
the still, warm air ascended a stern hum like the sound
of some mighty engine. It was like the sound of the
river purring with satisfaction at the fulfilling of its last
night’s promises.</p>
<p>Looking back, they saw through the open front the
lamp, like some welcoming beacon, burning steadily
across the waters. Even as they gazed, there was a faint
crash heard, and the light disappeared. The house had
gone, and in another moment its fragments drifted by
<a name="png.244" id="png.244" href="#png.244"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>222<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>them. Round and round they swept, now threatened by
some huge uptorn tree whose bristling roots came nigh
transfixing them, now nearly dashed against the topmost
limbs of a standing one, taking all Fortescue’s strength
and skill to avoid a collision.</p>
<p>Presently they saw, on either hand, long strings of
sheep swimming down the current with plaintive bleatings
to their death; heard, too, shrill neighings and
bellowings of drowning cattle and horses.</p>
<p>Round and round they swept, although they knew it
not, towards the raging central current, where disaster
was inevitable; whilst Daisy sat with white face, mute,
and almost hopeless, and Bridget crouched, one arm
around a table leg, mumbling over her beads; and
Barton’s Jackaroo, the man without a backbone, toiled
steadily and watchfully, still finding time, at intervals, to
throw a word of cheer to his helpless companions.</p>
<p>Crash! and a log overtaking them and hitting them
end-on, sent the raft spinning; whilst to his dismay
Fortescue felt the slabs begin to loose and spread.
Decidedly, a few more knocks like that, and they would
all find themselves in the water.</p>
<p>‘I’m afraid, Herbert, it’s going to pieces,’<!-- TN: original has double quote --> whispered
Daisy, who had crept close to where he knelt.</p>
<p>It was the first time she had ever used that name
when addressing him, and her voice sounded so inexpressibly
sweet that, without even glancing at Bridget, he
turned and took the girl in his arms and kissed her,
a caress which she, thinking her end at hand, and loving
him, returned.</p>
<p><a name="png.245" id="png.245" href="#png.245"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>223<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Smash! and they are amongst the stout upper
branches of what must be a giant tree. But, in place
of pushing off, Fortescue hugs and pulls, and calls upon
the women to help him, which they do until the raft
is moored, so to speak, hard and fast between forks
and branches, the only ones visible now over all that
brown, bare waste of water with silver patches of moonlight
here and there upon it.</p>
<p>It was a grateful thing to be at rest, even so precariously,
after all the twisting and twirling they had
come through; and Bridget, rising stiffly and shaking
herself, with the fear of present death gone out of her
soul, <span class="nw">said,—</span></p>
<p>‘Praise the saints! Sure, Misther Fortyskeu, sorr, we
oughter to be thankful for gettin’ this far wid clane
shkins, so we ought! Sorra a one ov me ’ll go any
furder if I can help it! Is the wather raisin’ yet, does
ye think, sorr?’</p>
<p>‘I’m afraid it is, Bridget,’ said Fortescue, as he sat
on a stout limb supporting Daisy beside him. ‘I hope,
though, it won’t rise over the top of this tree.’ But,
disquieted by the idea, he presently got into the water
and tightened the lashings of the raft as well as he was
able.</p>
<p>It was a long, dreary night, especially after the moon
went down. Fortunately it was warm and fine. Indeed,
throughout that trying time of flood, curiously enough,
not a single point of rain fell in that region. They
talked of many things, these two, nestling snugly in
a great fork of the giant apple-tree, but their chief
<a name="png.246" id="png.246" href="#png.246"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>224<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>subject was the old, old story; whilst Bridget, just
below them, alternately invoked heavenly succour and
lamented earthly losses.</p>
<p>‘Twinty wan poun’ notes undther me head in the
bolsther, an’ me too hurried an’ flurried to remimber
’em! Sure, it’s clane roond I am afther this noight, bad
cess to it! But for Father Dennis’s wather—may glory
be his bed whin his toime comes—it’s at the bottom
wid the sheep and craturs I’d be afore now, so it is!
May the saints above sind the blessed light an’ the
masther wid a ship to us! Ochone! Miss Daisy, me
darlin’, I knows it’s hard on ye too. An’ for ye too,
sorr—God forgive me thinkin’ ye wasn’t quite so smart
as ye moight be!’</p>
<p>And so she rambled on, unheeded by the lovers
perched in the big fork above her.</p>
<p>Dawn at last, bright and clear, with presently a
brilliant sun.</p>
<p>To his relief, Fortescue saw by the marks on the
tree that the water was falling. By noon the raft was
suspended high and dry. But still a lamentable procession
of sheep and household <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">débris</i>, with an occasional
horse or bullock, hurried along the swift central stream,
at whose very verge a merciful Providence had arrested
the raft. Presently Fortescue was lucky enough to
secure a pumpkin out of the dozens floating about, and
the three divided and ate it with an appetite. Slowly
the shadows lengthened. Other tree tops, dishevelled
and dirty with driftage, began to appear around them.
The water was falling rapidly. But were they to pass
<a name="png.247" id="png.247" href="#png.247"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>225<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>another night there? Fortescue began to fear so, and
was even setting about the construction of a platform
out of the raft, when a loud ‘<em>Coo-ee-e-e!</em>’ made him start.
‘<em>Coo-ee-e-e!</em>’ in answer; and then a small boat pulled
by two men came through the branches of the big
tree.</p>
<p>‘Hoorar!’ shouted one. ‘We was afraid it was all
up with yees! But where’s the Boss?’</p>
<p>‘My father went to the out-station yesterday,’ replied
Daisy.</p>
<p>‘Oh, then he’s right enough,’ said the man. ‘Bet your
life, miss, he ain’t very far away this minute! He’s
seed, afore now, what the “bit of a fresh” turned to.
Hand us down the lady fust, guv’nor.’</p>
<p>But old Bridget, being lowest, and in a hurry, suddenly
let herself drop fairly on the speaker’s shoulders,
fetching him down, and nearly capsizing the boat.
Then, to his infinite astonishment, she got her arms
round his neck and hugged him, and would have served
his mate the same way, but he sprang into the tree and
avoided her.</p>
<p>‘Where are your waggons?’ asked Fortescue, as at
last they pulled off.</p>
<p>‘Ten foot under water, by this,’<!-- TN: closing quote invisible --> replied the carrier,
‘seein’ it was up to the naves afore we left. We
knowed nothin’ till we feels it in our blankets. Then
up we jumps, and, behold you, we’re on a hiland about
twenty foot round, an’ the flood a-roarin’ like billyho.
As luck ’ll ’ave it, Tom, there, has this boat in his
loadin’, takin’ her to a storekeeper at Overflow—I
<a name="png.248" id="png.248" href="#png.248"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>226<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>expect he’s a-thinkin’ on her just now. So we hiked her
out, paddles an’ all, gits some tucker, an’ steers for
Tarnpirr, knowin’ as you was a lot lower ’n we, an’ no
boat. Well, when we sees nothin’ but water where the
house shud ha’ been, we reckoned you’d all been swep’
away, so comes along on chance, cooeyin’ pretty often.
By jakers, guv’nor, if you hadn’t ’appened to have savee
enough to chuck that thing together, you’d all a’ been gone
goosers sure enough! I don’t b’lieve there’s one single
solitary ’oof left on the run, not exceptin’ our bullocks
an’ saddle ’orses.’</p>
<p>The castaways now made a much-needed meal off
damper and some of the Tarnpirr mutton, and voted it
a wonderful improvement on raw pumpkin, even with
love for its sauce.</p>
<p>Before they had pulled a mile towards Warrooga,
they met Mr Barton with some residents in the police
boat. He had been nearly frantic with anxiety since, on
returning home, he encountered the water, and, galloping
back, had with great difficulty reached the township.</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>‘What’s the use?’ replied Mr Barton despondently,
when, that same evening, Fortescue asked him for Daisy.
‘I’m a ruined man, and, like most such, selfish, and I
want to keep my little girl. So far as I can gather,
there’s not an animal of any description left alive on
Tarnpirr. Pastoral firms make no allowances; they’ll
say I ought to have cleared everything off before the
flood came, and they’ll sack me at a minute’s notice.
<a name="png.249" id="png.249" href="#png.249"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>227<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>Of course, if the people here had done as they should, I
might have saved most of the sheep, if not all. No; I
don’t like to disappoint you, after having behaved so
nobly and pluckily—and I must say now that I never
did you justice—but I think, Mr Fortescue, you’d better
choose a wife elsewhere; I do, indeed.’</p>
<p>Seeing that Barton was irritable, and rather inclined
to hug his misfortune, Fortescue, perhaps wisely, said no
more just then, and apparently took his dismissal with a
good grace.</p>
<p>But later, before starting for the capital, Daisy and he
had a long talk, during which a conspiracy was hatched.</p>
<p>Mr Barton bade his jackaroo a kindly good-bye; and
if he felt any surprise at the non-renewal of his suit, he
never showed it.</p>
<p>He was expecting, with almost feverish impatience, a
letter from the firm in answer to his own report, with
details of the disaster at Tarnpirr. And when at length
it arrived, after what seemed a long delay, and he found
that, instead of the reproaches and curt dismissal he was
prepared for, it contained sympathy and an appointment
to a large station on the Darling Downs, words were
wanting to express his utter astonishment, and his
deep contrition for the bad opinion he had formed of his
employers.</p>
<p>‘Never mind, Daisy,’ he cried. ‘They say the owner
will be there himself to receive us on our arrival. I can
thank him then in person.’</p>
<p>‘Dear me, how nice that will be!’ replied Daisy,
demurely.</p>
<p><a name="png.250" id="png.250" href="#png.250"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>228<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘And, only fancy,’ he went on, ‘they request us to
take our servant—that’s Bridget, of course—with us!
I’m to find out, too, if those carriers lost much, and, if
so, to compensate them.’</p>
<p>‘How very good and thoughtful they must be,’
answered Daisy—but this time with moist eyes.</p>
<p>I will not insult the reader’s penetration by asking
him to guess who the owner of that Downs station
was.</p>
<p>It will be sufficient to remark that Mr and Mrs Fortescue have only just returned from their wedding
trip to the Continent; and that it will be very long
indeed ere they forget that memorable night in ’90 upon
which the waters came to Tarnpirr, and caused ‘Barton’s
Jackaroo’ to show what he was made of.</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Told in the ‘Corona’s’ Cabin"><a name="png.251" id="png.251" href="#png.251"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>229<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>TOLD IN THE ‘CORONA’S’ CABIN.<br
/><span class="nosprd">————</span><br
/><small>ON THREE EVENINGS.</small><br
/><span class="nosprd">————</span></h2>
<h3><span class="smc">The First Evening.</span></h3>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smc">In</span> the south-east trades, and the big ship moving
steadily through the water with every sail full. Not a
quiver of the tightly-strained canvas, not the rattle of a
reef-point, broke the stillness aloft.</p>
<p>A glorious evening in the South Atlantic, with the
sun setting, as is often his wont in those latitudes, in a
bed of crimson, gold and amethyst. The passengers,
who had been watching the many-hued passing of the
day-king, went below as the cool night breeze began to
whistle with a shriller note through the top-hamper
and the water to swish more loudly along the sides,
and fall back with a louder plop. Very comfortable,
snug, and home-like the <cite>Corona’s</cite> cabin looked. It was a
cabin, remember, not a ‘saloon.’</p>
<p>There was nothing of the modern curse of varnish
and veneer about it. Everything was handsome,
also substantial, from the dark mahogany casing of
<a name="png.252" id="png.252" href="#png.252"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>230<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>the mizzen-mast to the highly polished, solid panelling<!-- TN: original reads "pannelling" -->
of rosewood, relieved with only a narrow gold
beading. The cabin might aptly have been termed
a study in brown and gold, so predominant was
this combination. Even the curtains in front of
each berth door were of brown damask, with gold
fringe. The general effect, if a little sombre, was
good.</p>
<p>Especially good it seemed this evening to the passengers
as they came trooping in with talk and laughter;
especially snug and home-like, with its three big
swinging moderator lamps, its long table covered
with odds and ends of female work, books, papers,
etc., etc., its piano, and its comfortable couches
scattered here and there.</p>
<p>The <cite>Corona’s</cite> great beam had been utilised to
some purpose, and, thus, her cabin was not, like
the saloons of so many sailing ships, a sort of stage
drawing-room, all white paint, gilding, glass, spindle-shanked
chairs, and turn-over-at-a-touch tables.</p>
<p>The company suited the cabin. There were only
a dozen or so of them, mostly middle-aged married
folk, who had left their grown-up families in Australia
whilst they took a trip ‘Home,’ and were now returning
to their adopted country. Amongst them, however,
were two or three single ladies of uncertain ages,
bound to the Land of the Golden Fleece in search
of fortune, even if it should only come in the shape
of a husband. There was, also, Miss Amy Hillier,
an Australian heiress in her own right, returning to
<a name="png.253" id="png.253" href="#png.253"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>231<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>her native land with an uncle and an aunt. This is
another man’s story; so that I am not going to take
up space by a description of Amy Hillier’s charms;
suffice it to say here that she was young and pretty,
and as good as she was young and pretty.</p>
<p>Wonderful to relate, the company of passengers
fitted each other. Each seemed to have discovered
in another his or her affinity, and, up to this, there
had been none of the usual backbitings, heart-burnings,
and malicious tittle-tattle usually so inseparable
from a sea voyage in a sailing ship.</p>
<p>Miss Hillier had seated herself at the piano, and
was playing something from <cite>Lohengrin</cite>, when a remarkable-looking
man, entering the cabin, doffed
his gold-banded cap, and made his way to her
side.</p>
<p>Strongly, yet gracefully built, upright as the royal
pole, active in all his movements, one would have taken
him to be scarce arrived at middle-age, but for the
fact that his thick, closely-cropped hair shone a dead white
under the lamplight. His features were regular and
good, albeit they wore, in general, a rather serious
expression. Altogether, it was a strong, pleasant
face, full of energy, confidence, and the power to
command.</p>
<p>As he rested one hand on the corner of the instrument,
it might be noticed that, from wrist to finger
tips, it was covered by the white cicatrices of long-healed
scars. In spite, however, of his grey hair
and disfigured hands, Captain Marion, of the <cite>Corona</cite>,
<a name="png.254" id="png.254" href="#png.254"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>232<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>Australian liner, was called by many people a handsome
man.</p>
<p>‘Sing me my favourite, please,’ asked the Captain
presently.</p>
<p>‘On condition,’ was the reply, ‘that you will tell
us a story in return.’</p>
<p>‘It’s a bargain,’ said the Captain. ‘I’ll relate
the legend of Vanderdecken, the Flying Dutchman.
Thoroughly appropriate it will be, too, as we are
just entering his domains.’</p>
<p>‘We don’t want to hear about the Flying Dutchman,’
answered the girl promptly.</p>
<p>‘Well, then,’ continued the Captain, ‘what do
you say if I tell you how I was cast away in ’69, on
the coast <span class="nw">of—’</span></p>
<p>‘No, no, Captain Marion,’ interrupted she, smiling
shyly up at him, ‘we don’t want that either.’</p>
<p>‘Ah, I see!’ exclaimed the Captain, after a pause, ‘a
conspiracy! Well,’ he went on, after a still longer
hesitation, ‘I don’t care much about it. The telling,
I mean, of how I got this’ (touching his hair) ‘and
these’ (spreading out his hands), ‘for, of course, that
is what you wish to hear. It reminds me of a time I
would rather not recall.</p>
<p>‘No, Miss Hillier’—for the girl had risen in dismay
and almost tears at her thoughtlessness, and was
attempting to apologise incoherently enough—‘it
doesn’t matter a bit. Besides, I somehow feel in the
vein for story-telling this evening; and as well that as
anything else. With some passengers, I find that I
<a name="png.255" id="png.255" href="#png.255"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>233<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>have to put a stopper on their curiosity rather abruptly.
But’ (with a grave smile and a bow to the group) ‘it
being a rare thing, indeed, to meet so well-assorted
and pleasant a party as we are this trip, I’ll spin
you the yarn, such as it is. And now, Miss Hillier,
my song.’</p>
<p>‘What would you like—the same as usual, I suppose—“The
Silent Land?”’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ answered the Captain; ‘your rendering puts
a new interpretation on Salis’ words for me, and I seem
to bear with me more strongly than ever the promise, as
I listen, that he</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>Who in life’s battle firm doth stand</div>
<div>Shall bear Hope’s tender blossoms</div>
<div class="i3"><span class="ns"> </span>Into the Silent Land!’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>‘It is,’ commenced Captain Marion, the song finished,
and taking his accustomed seat, whilst the others
gathered round him—‘It is nearly fourteen years ago
that the strange, and what many may deem improbable,
adventure happened which I am about to
relate. I was then about twenty-two years of age, an
able-bodied seaman on board a ship called the <cite>Bucephalus</cite>,
belonging to Liverpool. It was my first
voyage before the mast, for, although I had duly
served my apprenticeship with the firm who owned
her, and also passed my exam. as second mate, there
was no vacancy just then open. They, indeed, offered
me a post as third; but, knowing that I should be
none the worse for a month or two in the fok’s’le, I
<a name="png.256" id="png.256" href="#png.256"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>234<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>preferred to ship as an A.B. The <cite>Bucephalus</cite> was an
Eastern trader, and on this trip was bound for Singapore
and China. All went well with us until we entered
the Straits of Sunda. Then, one afternoon, the ship
lying in a dead calm off one of the many lovely islands
which abound in those narrow seas, the passengers,
chiefly military officers with their families, asked the
captain to let them have a boat and a run ashore.</p>
<p>‘He was a good-natured man, and consented.
Luckily for me, as it afterwards proved, the gig, a
very old boat, was full of lumber, fruit, fowls, etc.,
procured at Anjer, and so the life-boat, a stanch,
nearly new craft, was put into the water instead.</p>
<p>‘At the last moment some one suggested that a cup
of tea might be acceptable on the island. Not tea
alone, but provisions for an ample meal were at once
handed in, together with a keg of fresh water. This
also was, as you will discover presently, another lucky
or—ought I not to say?—providential, chance for me.</p>
<p>‘With myself, three more seamen, and eight or nine
ladies and gentlemen, we pushed off towards the verdant,
cone-shaped island. Landing without any
difficulty on a shell-strewn beach which ran up between
two lofty and abrupt headlands, all hands, except
myself and an elderly seaman known as Tom, jumped
ashore and went climbing and scampering about like
so many schoolboys out for a holiday. For my part,
I had been on scores of similar islands, or imagined I
had, and felt no particular wish to explore this one.
Neither, apparently, did my companion. So, hauling
<a name="png.257" id="png.257" href="#png.257"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>235<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>off a little from the shore, we threw the grapnel overboard
and prepared to take things easy, each in his
own fashion, he with a pipe, and I with a book lent me
by one of the cabin passengers.</p>
<p>‘We made a rough sort of awning with the boat’s sail,
and I lay in the stern-sheets, my companion between
the midship thwarts, under its grateful shelter. It was
a drowsy afternoon and a very hot one. To our ears
the shouts and laughter of those ashore came at
intervals, gradually growing fainter as they made their
way towards the summit of the mountain, for such one
might say the island was.</p>
<p>‘Presently, looking up from my book, I saw that old
Tom was fast asleep, his pipe still in his mouth. Very
shortly afterwards I dozed, and heard the book drop
from my hand on to the grating without making any
effort to recover it. I fell asleep in the broad sunlit
day, between ship and land, in the motionless boat,
with the voices of my kind still in my ears, and awoke
in thickest darkness, moving swiftly along in utter
silence, save for, at times, an oily gurgle of water
under the bows. Not that I realised even so much all
at once. It took me some time. I thought I must be
still dreaming, and lay there staring into the blackness
with unbelieving eyes. Then I pinched myself and
struck my hands sharply against the thwarts. But it
was of no use. I could not convince myself that I was
not the victim of some ghastly nightmare. Then the
idea came into my mind that, although awake, I had
suddenly become blind; that Tom had gone ashore
<a name="png.258" id="png.258" href="#png.258"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>236<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>for a stroll, and that the boat, drifting, had been
carried out to sea by some current. Under the influence
of this notion, I leaped to my feet, only to
be at once struck down again, as if by a hand of iron.
Although not completely stunned, I was, for a few
minutes, quite bewildered. I could feel, too, that my
head was bleeding freely. Sitting cautiously up, I
called “Tom!”<!-- TN: original has single quote --> I listened intently, but nothing was
audible save the faint gurgling sound of the water.
I called repeatedly, but there was no answer. Suddenly
I recollected that in my pocket was a large metal box
full of matches—long wax vestas.</p>
<p>‘Striking one, I held it aloft and gazed eagerly
about me. I thanked God that I was not blind.
But, so far as I could see, I was alone.</p>
<p>‘On each side, and a foot or so above my head,
barely visible in the feeble glimmer, were swiftly
passing walls of dripping rock, covered, in many
places, with huge<!-- TN: original reads "hugh" --> clusters of shiny weeds. So
amazed was I at my perfectly inexplicable situation
that I stared until the match burned my fingers and
dropped into the water, whilst I fell back quite
overcome by astonishment and fright.</p>
<p>‘Then, after a bit, I struck more matches. But
things were just the same. Always the rocky weed-grown
sides, sometimes within touch, at others seeming
to widen out; always the rocky, dripping roof,
sometimes at my head, at others out of sight; always
the darkness, the hurrying boat, and the water
like liquid pitch.</p>
<p><a name="png.259" id="png.259" href="#png.259"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>237<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Unable to see thoroughly over the boat, I presently
crawled for’ard, feeling, as I went, under the
sail which had fallen over the thwarts. As I feared,
I found no one.</p>
<p>‘Groping about, I picked up Tom’s pipe. And
then I feared the worst for him.</p>
<p>‘The darkness was horrible. It was so thick that
one seemed to swallow mouthfuls of it. The atmosphere
was close and muggy, with a smell reminding
me strongly of a tannery. Although lightly clad,
I was bathed in perspiration as I half sat, half
crouched, at the boat’s stern, straining my eyes
ahead, and now and again lighting one of my
matches. Time nor distance had any meaning for
me, now; and I have no idea how long I had
been voyaging in this unnatural fashion, when there
fell on my ears the loud threatening roar of many
waters. Commending my soul to God, I laid myself
in the boat’s bottom. The next minute she
seemed to stand nearly upright and then shoot downward
like a flash, whilst thick spray flew in showers
over me, and the imprisoned waters roared and howled
with deafening clamour adown the narrow chasm,
so narrow that more than once, in her headlong
course, I heard splinters fly from the boat’s timbers,
whilst masses of dank weeds detached by the blows
fell upon me.</p>
<p>‘I now,’ continued the Captain, after a pause,
during which he glanced from the ‘tell-tale’ compass
overhead to the attentive, wondering faces of
<a name="png.260" id="png.260" href="#png.260"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>238<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>his audience—‘I now gave myself up for lost, or,
at least, imagined that I did so. But the love of
life is strong indeed within us; so that when after
shooting this subterranean cataract, or whatever it
might have been, I found my boat once more
steadily gliding along, ever with the same dull
gurgle of cleft water at her bows, a faint ray of
hope took the place of despairing calm. I was
young, remember; healthy, too, powerful and agile
beyond the common, and I felt it would be hard
indeed to die like a rat in that black hole. What
accentuated the hope I speak of was the fact that
the lessening roar of the torrent I had just passed
sounded as if directly overhead. In vain I told
myself that it was but a deceptive echo. Hope
would have her say, and buoyed me up, though
ever so little, with the idea, incredible as it seemed,
that this horrible underground river had doubled
back beneath itself, and was making for the sea
once more. It has well been said that drowning
men will clutch at straws! This one, indeed, was
soon to fail me; for presently, to my utter despair,
the noise of tumultuous waters ahead gave warning
of another cataract—another, or the same one, for,
what with the din and the darkness, I became quite
confused. The passage was a repetition of the last
one, only, if anything, rougher; and, crushed in
spirit, all courage flown, I sank back, listening to
the rush of the falling water dying away overhead
again. Was I, I wondered, descending to even
<a name="png.261" id="png.261" href="#png.261"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>239<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>lower depths of earth’s bowels in this fashion, or
merely driven to and fro at the caprice of some
remorseless current in what was to prove my tomb!
I believe that, for a time, under the stress of ideas
like this, my mind wandered; for I have a vague
remembrance of singing comic songs, of shouting
defiance to fate, the darkness, and things generally;
behaving, in fact, like the lunatic I must have become.
Whether I descended any more rapids or
not I cannot say. I have no recollection whatever
of the last part of my strange journey. When,
however, I came to my sober senses again I was
at the end of it. The boat was motionless, and I
was standing upright in her.’</p>
<p>At this point in the Captain’s story, and while the
interest of his hearers was at its height, the chief
officer came quietly in, and, catching his superior’s
eye, as quietly made his way out again.</p>
<p>Now, four bells struck, and the Captain exclaimed,
‘What, ten o’clock already! My yarn has somewhat
spun itself out, and I’m afraid the rest must keep
for another evening.’</p>
<p>At this there was quite a chorus of remonstrance.
‘It was cruel to have excited their curiosity and
leave it unsatisfied,’ was the general verdict.</p>
<p>‘No sleep for me to-night,’ said Miss Hillier; ‘I
shall be wandering through that horrid place in my
thoughts, and puzzling my brain to discover how
you got out, unless I know the sequel.’</p>
<p>‘It grieves me to think of your disturbed rest,’
<a name="png.262" id="png.262" href="#png.262"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>240<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>replied the Captain, with a bow and a quizzical
smile, ‘although honoured by the cause of it. I am
afraid, however, I must refuse even you. I saw
heavy weather just now in Mr Santley’s eye; and
the ship, you know, before all.’</p>
<p>Then the sound of ropes thrown heavily on deck
was heard, together with tramp of feet and shouting,
the ship heeled over, and the Captain went out, and
was not again seen that night by his passengers.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<h3><span class="smc">The Second Evening.</span></h3>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smc">Close-reefed</span> top-sails, with a wild, high sea, met on
‘rounding the corner,’ did not prevent the <cite>Corona’s</cite>
passengers from putting in an appearance the next
evening to hear the continuation of the Captain’s
story.</p>
<p>‘Well,’ he remarked, as he took his seat, ‘this yarn
of mine seems to bring us luck, judging by the way
we exchanged our trades last night for this rattling
westerly breeze that is now taking us round the Cape
so nicely. I think I left off my story,’ continued the
Captain, ‘as the boat came to a stop in her travels,
through the darkness.’</p>
<p>‘I had recovered from my temporary fit of madness,
and was standing up. I was trembling violently, and
my limbs felt cramped and stiff. I fancy I must have
been a long time on the journey, for I was sick and
<a name="png.263" id="png.263" href="#png.263"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>241<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>faint, principally from want of food. The air, though
still heavy and warm, was not so oppressive as it had
been. But the former silence was broken by the most
unearthly noises imaginable, sobbings, deep cavernous
groans, and hoarse whistlings resounded on every side.
For a long time I did not stir. I just stood listening
with all my ears, and expecting every moment that
something awful was going to take place.</p>
<p>‘After a while, slightly reassured, and feeling the
boat’s bows scraping some hard substance, I crept into
them, and putting out my hand, and groping about
alongside, felt a mass of smooth honeycombed stone.
Striking a match, the possession of which, in my confused
state of mind, I had almost forgotten, I got hold
of the painter and took a couple of turns around a
projecting ledge of rock.</p>
<p>‘Then I scooped up a handful of water and tasted it.
It was as bitter as gall, also quite lukewarm. Happily
that in the breaker was unspoiled. Rummaging about,
I found the case of eatables also intact; and, sitting
there in profound darkness, made a meal of cheese
and white biscuits, listening between the mouthfuls
to the mysterious noises, whose origin, however, I
was now enabled pretty well to guess at.</p>
<p>‘It was very warm, and the tannery smell more
powerful than ever. A sensation of surrounding
vastness and space, however, was with me as opposed
to the confined cramped feeling of being in a narrow
channel, such as I suppose myself to have emerged
from. Now, I could stand upright and thrust an oar
<a name="png.264" id="png.264" href="#png.264"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>242<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>out and upwards without touching anything; and,
shouting aloud, the sound went echoing and thundering
away over the surface of the water with reverberations
lasting for minutes.</p>
<p>‘I can take you into that place,’ continued the
Captain impressively, ‘and tell you about it as far
as my poor words will serve. But I cannot tell
you my feelings. At times I almost imagined that
I was in Hades, and that the ceaseless noises about
me were the cries and groans of lost souls therein.
At others, a wild, forlorn hope would seize me, that
it might all turn out to be only a horrible dream, and
that I should presently awake to see God’s dear sun
shining brightly on the gallant ship and the green
island once more. It had all happened with such
startling rapidity, the transformation had been so
utter and complete, that to this day I wonder I did
not become a raving madman, and so perish miserably
down there in the depths. But God in His infinite
mercy took pity upon me, and brought me at the last
out of such a prison as it is given to few men to see,
much less escape from.</p>
<p>‘Like the majority of seafarers, I, in those days,
seldom troubled my head about what is vaguely called
“religion.”</p>
<p>‘The careful and pious teachings of my childhood had
been forgotten almost wholly. But, in that awesome
place, in solitude and misery, bound with darkness of
Scripture, “that might be felt,” many things came back
to me; and, kneeling down, I clasped my hands and
<a name="png.265" id="png.265" href="#png.265"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>243<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>prayed fervently that I might be saved out of the valley
of the shadow of death which encompassed me. Feeling
better and stronger, I took my sheath-knife, and with
it cut away at one of the oars until I had quite a
respectable pile of chips. Placing this on the rock
alongside, I set it on fire, and soon had the satisfaction
of seeing it blaze cheerfully up and, for a few yards, dispel
the darkness. I kept adding fuel from the same source,
with the addition of a couple of stretchers, until I had
a really good-sized fire. By its light I saw that I was
on a flat rock some twenty feet in circumference. Round
about were other islets, shaped most fantastically. One,
close to, resembled a gigantic horseshoe; another towered
up, the perfect similitude of a church spire, into the
darkness. At their bases were holes, into and through
which the water, flowing and ebbing, produced the
sounds that at first had so alarmed me. Look as I
might, I could not distinguish the way I had come in,
although I thought I could hear the steady pouring of a
volume of water not far away. Breaking off a lump of
the stone on which I sat, I examined it closely, and felt
pretty certain that it was lava. I had seen such before
at Mauna Loa, in the Sandwich Islands.</p>
<p>‘Was I then in the womb of a volcano, extinct just
at present, doubtless; but, perhaps, even now, taking
in water preparatory to generating steam and becoming
active? Somewhere in my reading I had dropped
across an article on seismology, and one of the theories
put forward came to mind as above.</p>
<p>‘The idea made my flesh creep!</p>
<p><a name="png.266" id="png.266" href="#png.266"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>244<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘I seemed to feel the air, the water, and my lump of
lava getting hotter and hotter.</p>
<p>‘Hopeless as my case appeared, and almost resigned
to face the end as I had become, even so, I did by no
means relish a private view of the preliminaries to a
volcanic eruption.</p>
<p>‘Strangely inconsistent, you will say, but so it was.
When face to face, even with the last scene of all, it
seems there can yet be something of which one may be
afraid.</p>
<p>‘Meanwhile, my beacon blazed up brightly, and,
peering around, I presently made out a pile of stuff
apparently floating against the base of one of the
nearest islets.</p>
<p>‘Taking a flaring fire-stick, I got into the boat and
sculled over to it. It was a heap of driftwood. Lowering
my torch to examine the stuff more closely, I nearly
pitched overboard, as, out of the reddish-black water
within the ragged patch of light, a white, dead face
gazed up at me with wide-open, staring eyes. I
recognised it at once as that of my old shipmate.
Tom, on awaking, had evidently been knocked out of
the boat and drowned, as so nearly happened to myself.
The current had as evidently carried him here with
me.</p>
<p>‘I leaned over the gunwale as if fascinated. What
would I not have given for his living companionship
now!</p>
<p>‘Lifting, at last, one of the stiff arms, I shook the
unresponsive hand in silent farewell, and paddled back
<a name="png.267" id="png.267" href="#png.267"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>245<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>towards the flame that marked my islet, actually feeling
envious of the quiet corpse. Misfortune makes us
sadly selfish, and so little had my thoughts ran on the
fate of my comrade that the shock of his appearance
thus was a heavy one.</p>
<p>‘I took it as a bad omen, and what spirit I had
nearly left me.</p>
<p>‘After sitting motionless on my rock for a very long
time, with my head bowed on my knees, and nearly
letting my fire go out, I shook myself together a little,
threw more chips on, and examined my stores.</p>
<p>‘All told, with cheese, biscuits, several tins of potted
meat and preserves, I reckoned there was enough, on
meagre allowance, to last me for a week. Water about
the same.</p>
<p>‘More than once I felt tempted to throw the lot
overboard and follow it.</p>
<p>‘But youth and health and strength are indeed
wondrous things, and a man possessed of them will do
and dare much before giving up entirely, no matter how
drear the outlook, how sharp the arrows of fate which
transfix him!</p>
<p>‘Feeling weary and fagged, I lay down in the boat
and slept, I suppose, for hours very soundly.</p>
<p>‘The awaking was bad—worse even than the first
time.</p>
<p>‘One thing comforted me somewhat. I found that
by the constant endeavour to use my eyes in the darkness
I was becoming able to discern at least the dim
outlines of objects.</p>
<p><a name="png.268" id="png.268" href="#png.268"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>246<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Renewing the fire with a lot of driftwood I picked
up at the further side of my islet, I proceeded to carry
out a plan I had formed. Taking the gratings out of
the stern-sheets, I arranged them firmly in the bows.
Then, breaking off projecting lumps and knobs of lava,
I beat them smaller with an iron pin, which I fortunately
found in the boat, and spread them thickly over
the gratings, thus forming a sort of stage. Upon this I
built a substantial fire. I was, you see, bound on a
voyage of exploration.</p>
<p>‘There might, possibly, be some avenue to freedom
out of this subterranean sea other than the one I had
entered it from, exit by which was, of course, hopeless.</p>
<p>‘It was, I argued, useless to stay on the rock. I
could not be much worse off, no matter where I
got to.</p>
<p>‘How I yearned and hungered for light no tongue
could tell. It seemed so hard to wander in the gloom
for a brief night of existence. And then, the end!
Do you, any of you, wonder at my hair turning
grey?</p>
<p>‘As I scraped the last embers off the islet on to the
tin dish used as a baler, in order to throw them on the
new fire, <a name="illo_pg246" id="illo_pg246">the light fell full upon the corpse</a>, which, to
all appearance, had just floated alongside.</p>
<p>‘My nerves were evidently getting unstrung by what
I had gone through, for, letting the dish fall, I shouted
with terror, and, jumping into the boat, pushed wildly
away from the poor body. To my unutterable dismay
<a name="png.269" id="png.269" href="#png.269"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>247<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>it followed me, with one arm extended and raised
slightly, as if in deprecation of my desertion
of it.</p>
<p>‘I have thought at times,’ remarked the Captain
parenthetically, ‘of what a picture the scene would
make—the boat floating in a patch of crimson water,
with the fire flaring into the blackness on her bows,
myself standing up grasping an oar, and gazing intently
at the nearly nude body as it came closer and closer,
and everywhere around the thick darkness.</p>
<p>‘I think that in another moment I should have leapt
overboard, so great was my fright, but that I happened
to catch sight of a piece of rope leading from the boat
to the body.</p>
<p>‘Getting hold of it, I pulled, and the corpse came
also. Then I understood. On my leaving it the first
time a portion of the sail halliards, which had been
towing overhead, had got foul of the body, and,
unperceived, I had brought it back to my islet with
me.</p>
<p>‘My presence of mind returned, and, not caring to
run the risk of more surprises of the sort, I again
landed, and pulled the body on to the islet.</p>
<p>‘There must have been some preserving agent in that
water, for, despite the heat, there was no sign of
decomposition, and the features were as fresh as in
life.</p>
<p>‘Sculling gently along, with my fire blazing bravely
and comfortingly at the bow, I set off into the
unknown.</p>
<p><a name="png.270" id="png.270" href="#png.270"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>248<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘For a time my attention was thoroughly taken up in
trying to avoid the numerous lava islets, whose presence
I could scarcely detect until right upon them. Indeed,
once or twice we bumped heavily enough to send
showers of hot ashes hissing into the water.</p>
<p>‘At last, after a long spell of this kind of blind
navigation, I seemed to get clearer of these provoking
islets. The noises also, to which I was becoming
quite accustomed, nearly ceased.</p>
<p>‘As I sculled warily along, I listened with all my
ears for some indication of a return current. It
was my one hope, and it kept every sense on the
alert.</p>
<p>‘But the water within the radius of my so limited
vision was quiet and still as in a covered reservoir—much
more so, now, indeed, than at my old resting-place.
This fact I accounted for by the emptying
near there of the underground, possibly under-sea
river, which had brought me into such an awful fix.</p>
<p>‘Presently the boat bumped more violently than
ever, and by the flame-light which shot up from the
disturbed fire, I saw, rising far aloft, a solid wall
of rock. No lava islet this, but the end of all—the
boundary, in this direction, of my prison.</p>
<p>‘To right and left stretched the same grim barrier,
dropping sheer down into the still black water. With
a sinking heart I turned the boat’s head along the
wall to my right hand, keeping a little distance out,
moving very slowly, with just a turn or two of the
oar, sufficient only to keep way on her.</p>
<div class="illo">
<a name="png.271" id="png.271" href="#png.271"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>248a<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a><img id="i248fp" src="images/i_248fp.jpg" alt="[Illustration]"
/><p><span class="ns"> [Illustration: </span>The light fell full upon the corpse. (<a href="#illo_pg246">Page 246</a>.)<span class="ns">]</span></p>
</div>
<p><a name="png.273" id="png.273" href="#png.273"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>249<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘It may have been minutes, or it may have been
hours, when, straight ahead, over the somewhat feeble
light of my fire, which had proved, after all, more
help by way of company than use, I imagined the
darkness looked thinner. Inspired by the mere idea,
I sculled vigorously along, at the risk of complete
wreck from some sunken rock, and in a short time
the boat shot into an oblong-shaped streak of light—light,
that is, comparatively, for it was as dim as
starlight; although, so acclimatised, if I may use the
term, had my eyes become to the denser medium,
that by its aid I could see clearly every article in
the boat.</p>
<p>‘I will not trouble you with a description of my
feelings, nor of all the extravagancies I committed in the
first flush of delighted hope that had visited me. I
seemed to be once more in touch with the upper
world through that column of dim greyness ascending
through the darkness, and so weak as hardly to
be able to conquer it.’</p>
<p class="tbspace">Here the Captain paused. He had told his story
well; seldom at a loss for a word, and with now
and again, but rarely, an appropriate gesture.</p>
<p>So successful had he been in gaining the attention
of his listeners, that, when he ceased, they sat quite
silent, gazing at him fixedly, and for some minutes
no one spoke.</p>
<p>Then four bells, which struck on deck during a
lull in the roar of the gale, came with such sudden
<a name="png.274" id="png.274" href="#png.274"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>250<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>distinctness to their ears, as to make some of the ladies
start and utter timid little ejaculations.</p>
<p>The spell broken, a chorus of tongues clamoured
out. Miss Hillier alone was silent. Then some dear
foolish female affinity said, ‘Why, Amy, love, you’ve
been crying!’ This the girl, with flaming cheeks
denied, only the next minute to affirm, quite inconsequently,
that if she had wept (which she was certain
she had not), was not such a tale enough to make
one, with any heart at all, shed tears?</p>
<hr class="short" />
<h3><span class="smc">The Third Evening.</span></h3>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smc">East</span> by S-½-South, under fore and main courses
and upper and lower top-sails, sped the <cite>Corona</cite> with
the wind on her quarter. Aft, rose great water-hills,
darkly green, with white crests, seeming, as each
followed each, to hang momentarily suspended over
the stern and threaten to overwhelm everything; then,
as the good ship rose just in the nick of time,
breaking with a long surge in sheets of milky foam
away for’ard.</p>
<p>The sun was setting sullenly behind a dense cloud-bank<!-- TN: OED hyphenates -->.
An albatross or two flew screaming from one
wave-crest to another right in the wake. It was a
typical evening in the Southern Ocean, the long
wash of whose seas reach from the foot of Cape
Leuwin to the rugged cliffs of Fuego.</p>
<p><a name="png.275" id="png.275" href="#png.275"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>251<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Well,’ continued the Captain, without any preface,
as he took his seat facing the waiting and expectant
little party.</p>
<p>‘Well, stare as I might aloft, I could not discover
to where this Jacob’s ladder led. You see, at its best,
it was only a column of dusky twilight, and the
further end, from where I stood, was lost to view. As
I gazed, it appeared to be gradually fading away.
I rubbed my eyes; and when I again looked, all
around was blacker than the blackest midnight,
except where my fire still burned. For a while, I
was puzzled to account for the disappearance of the
light. Then the thought struck me that it might
be caused by the fall of night in the upper world.
Was I, I wondered, as I turned sadly to my fire,
ever again to look upon the bright day, the sun,
the moon, the stars, and all the wonders of that fair
earth now grown so dear to me? Truly was I one
of those unhappy men who, as the Psalmist says,
“sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, being
bound in affliction and iron.”</p>
<p>‘Close to the pillar of light, just on its outside
edge, I had noticed a long, slender, almost perpendicular
pinnacle of lava towering upwards like the
spire of a church.</p>
<p>‘At the base of this I securely moored my boat.
Then, thinking that a cup of tea would cheer me up
a little, I brewed one, and made a good meal. After
this, lying down, I pondered many things, gazing
always aloft.</p>
<p><a name="png.276" id="png.276" href="#png.276"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>252<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Once I imagined I saw a star; but it disappeared
before I could make sure.</p>
<p>‘The one question uppermost in my mind was
whether or not the glimmer would reappear when
the morning broke above, or had it been an illusion?
One thing encouraged me to hope for the best. It
was perceptibly cooler, a grateful change from the
warm mugginess I had encountered everywhere else.
I had, by this, contracted a habit of talking aloud,
and I presently caught myself saying that I would
climb the lava pinnacle in the morning and try to
get a better look-out.</p>
<p>‘“In the morning.”</p>
<p>‘The utter vanity of the so familiar phrase as it
fell on my ears struck me with all the force of
some terrible shock, whilst the cold deadening thought
seized upon me that, for me, in this world, there
was to be no more morning. Through darkness was
I to make the last journey towards that dread bourne
whence no traveller returns? The slow death in the
darkness, drifting about on the bitter waters of that
secret sea—that was the thought that my soul revolted
from. And strange thoughts, horrible thoughts, a
man thinks placed as I was. At times his reason
leaves him, his whole soul rises in impious revolt,
and the devil rages freely therein, as if already his
victim’s bed were made in hell.</p>
<p>‘But, thanks be to God!’ exclaimed the Captain,
fervently, ‘that the recollections of that hideous time—of
the fits of doubt and despair and terror and
<a name="png.277" id="png.277" href="#png.277"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>253<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>madness, of which I have said but little to you—grow
dimmer and weaker with the years, leaving
only in enduring relief the memory of a great mercy!</p>
<p>‘It pleased me, though, unproved as it was, that
notion of being able to distinguish between night
and daylight. The very fact, pure conjecture though
it might be, of having the power to say, “Night has
come,” seemed to bring peace to my wearied eyes;
so that I presently lay down and slept dreamlessly,
and on awakening found again, to my intense joy,
that mild, soft haze falling upon me.</p>
<p>‘Scarcely giving myself time to snatch a mouthful
of biscuit and a draught of cold tea, I jumped ashore
and commenced the ascent of the tapering mass of
rock. It was, as I have said, nearly perpendicular,
and there was no lack of foot and hand-holds—projections
sharp as razors, formed by the drippings
of the once molten lava. Thanks to my trained vision
and the help afforded by the close proximity of the
light, I could see dimly. Higher up, the projecting
spurs and knobs grew scarcer, and the surface more
smooth and slippery. It was terrible work. At home
I had had some practice as a cragsman, and this
stood to me well now. As I climbed, sometimes vertically,
at others spirally, wherever I could feel the firmest
hold, the atmosphere grew palpably clearer, and this
infused new strength into my aching limbs as I
crawled upwards, now hanging by one bleeding hand
over the abyss beneath me, now with both hands
breathlessly embracing some sharp spur that cut into
<a name="png.278" id="png.278" href="#png.278"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>254<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>my flesh, whilst my feet groped convulsively for
precarious support.</p>
<p>‘When just about spent, I unexpectedly came to the
top. I found only room enough there to sit down and
pant. A wild hope had filled my breast that this rocky
ladder would lead me to liberty—a hope growing
stronger with every upward step. As I looked around,
these hopes fell, and the old leaden weight of despair
seemed to settle once more upon my soul. Slanting
away from me on every side, stretched the rugged
acclivities of a vast amphitheatre, converging again
towards its summit, where the blue sky was distinctly
visible. Picture to yourselves an hour-glass with a long
tunnel-like waist. Place a straw, the end of which rests
on the bottom of the lower section of the glass and
reaches up through the tunnel until just on a level
with the sloping-upward portion of the top section, but
touching it nowhere. Now place a minute insect
on the very tip of the straw, and you have my situation
as nearly as I can explain it to you. And there I
crouched on my lava straw, stretching out unavailing
hands to those scarred cliffs of liberty, betwixt me and
which spread that dark abyss, with the mournful waters
of the bitter sea at its foot. The distance between
where I sat on the top of the pinnacle and the sloping
walls of the crater all round must have been about
twenty five feet. I think it was afterwards measured as
that. A hundred plans darted swiftly into my mind for
crossing this little space, which meant so much to me,
only to be as quickly dismissed as impracticable.</p>
<p><a name="png.279" id="png.279" href="#png.279"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>255<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Although still very far from day, it was yet light
enough to let me see that the sides of the crater,
nearly equi-distant around my perch, were cut and
ploughed into deep furrows, and that, once there, I
should have comparatively little trouble in reaching
upper air.</p>
<p>‘Would it be possible, I wondered, to splice what
remained of the oars together, and thus make some
kind of a bridge along which to creep? But the idea
of again facing such a climb with such an unwieldy
burden made me shudder. Also, I doubted much if
there was length enough to reach across, supposing I
ever got them to where I was. This one amongst
many other plans. All at once, as I sat gazing alternately
at the far, far away patch of blue overhead, and
the dark rocks opposite, there flashed across my thoughts
the recollection of the boat’s grapnel. I had seen
nothing of it. But it might still be hanging under her
bows. Attached to the stern-post by a short length of
chain shackled to a ring-bolt, it would have taken a
heavy shock to shift it. If I could but get a line
across and, by help of the grapnel, firmly secured to
the opposite side, I felt I was saved. Tearing up the
light dungaree jumper I was wearing, and which, with
the remainder of my clothing, was little else but a rag,
I bound pieces around my stiff and wounded hands
and feet, and commenced the descent. It was an awful
journey, worse than the coming up. Then, my skin was
whole, at the start, anyhow; now, the cuts and tears
re-opened and bled and stung more than ever. At one
<a name="png.280" id="png.280" href="#png.280"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>256<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>time, indeed, I felt that I must give up and let go.
But the thought of the grapnel appeared to endue me
with fresh strength, whilst, in my mind’s eye, I kept
steadfastly the memory of that dear glimpse of blue sky.
At length, looking down and pausing for a moment,
I saw a flicker of light. It was from the dying embers
of my fire, and, in a few minutes, I was in the boat.
Although nearly utterly exhausted, crawling for’ard, I
felt for the chain. It was there; and pulling it rapidly
in, what was my delight to find the little grapnel still at
its end. Replenishing my fire, I made some tea, preparatory
to having something to eat, for I knew I should
want all my strength presently. In hauling at the chain
my hands had got wet, and, to my surprise, the bleeding
had ceased, and the pain almost departed. I immediately
bathed my feet, and felt wonderfully relieved
thereby. Now, I had my tea, and then considered
whether it might not be wiser to pass the night where I
was, and take a full day for my attempt. God knows
how eager I was for the moment of trial to arrive!
Still, I chose the prudent side, and sat and watched
the hazy column turn first to a dull green, then to
ashen grey, then go out suddenly, and so I knew,
certainly now, that the day was over on the earth.</p>
<p>‘As the darkness, thick and impenetrable, closed me
in, I lay down thinking to sleep a little, but my rest
was disturbed and broken. Always, as I dozed off, I
was clambering painfully up that terrible rock, with
bleeding hands and feet, staggering under huge burdens
of rope and iron. Once I dreamt that my shipmate’s
<a name="png.281" id="png.281" href="#png.281"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>257<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>body had floated off the islet, and was, even now, with
white clammy fingers, striving to lift itself into the boat,
whilst the ghastly face peered at me over the side. This
effectually awoke me; but so strong was the impression,
that I seized a fire-stick, and, making it blaze up,
searched sharply around. I had my trouble for my
pains. But further attempt at sleep for me was out of
the question.</p>
<p>‘My dawn, such as it was, came at last. I had
already detached<!-- TN: original reads "detatched" --> the grapnel from its chain, and
unrove the halliards from the mast. These last I
wound round and round my body, fully thirty feet of
line, small “Europe” rope, but tough and strong.
The disposal of my precious grapnel, which, luckily,
was one of the smallest of its kind, only used, as we
had used it, for a temporary holdfast, bothered me
a good deal.</p>
<p>‘Finally, I placed my head between two of the
flukes, one of which then rested on each shoulder,
whilst the stock hung down my back, swinging loosely.
To make sure of the flukes not slipping, I passed a
piece of line from one to the other, and knotted it
securely.</p>
<p>‘It was a most uncomfortable fixture altogether, a
tight fit for my neck into the bargain, but I could
think of no other way.</p>
<p>‘I’m not going to inflict upon you a detailed description
of how I reached the top—I believe it must
have been fully five hundred feet—carrying that half-hundred
weight of iron, to say nothing of the rope.
<a name="png.282" id="png.282" href="#png.282"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>258<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>Indeed, I hardly know myself. However, get there
I did; but, as you may guess, in a very evil plight.</p>
<p>‘I recollect, when still some thirty feet from the
top, unable to bear any longer the horrible chafing
of the flukes, which had broken through the skin,
and were grinding against the bone, that I rested,
or, rather, balanced myself on a sharp ledge, whilst
casting the grapnel adrift from my shoulders, and
unwinding the rope from my body. Then, making
one end of the line fast to the ring in the stock,
I fastened the other round my waist, the grapnel all
this time resting loosely on the rock.</p>
<p>‘Leaving it there, and paying out the line cautiously
into the void below me, away I went again, bracing
myself at every step to withstand the awful jerk should
the grapnel slip off, and tighten the rope with the
momentum of its fall. If such a thing had happened,
and the chances were many, my fate was certain—a
few scrambling clutches and annihilation. But where
it went I had made up my mind to go also.</p>
<p>‘It was my only and last hope, that bit of crooked
four-clawed iron! Death was in every step I took,
and I believe that it was in those last few feet that
my hair turned its colour, so terrible was the suspense
and expectation.</p>
<p>‘But God was very good to me, and I reached
the summit with a couple of feet of line to spare.
Dragging the grapnel up, I crouched down on the
little flat, table-like top, and fairly sobbed with pain
and exhaustion.</p>
<p><a name="png.283" id="png.283" href="#png.283"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>259<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘To my alarm, I felt myself growing weaker instead
of stronger from my rest. The fact was that, with
the awful cutting about I had received, I had lost
a good deal of blood. Many of the deeper cuts
on my hands and arms were bleeding still. Evidently
there was no time to lose. Standing up, feeling
sick and dizzy, I coiled down my line for a fair
throw, and, grasping it some three feet or so above
the grapnel, swung it to and fro until I thought impetus
enough was attained, then hove with all my remaining
strength.</p>
<p>‘I shut my eyes, expecting to hear every second
the sound of iron clanging far beneath against the
sides of the pinnacle. When I opened them again, the
line was hanging in a slack bight across the chasm.
The little anchor had fallen directly into one of the
deep furrows, but perilously close to the edge. With
trembling fingers I hauled the line in. Tighter,
tighter, tighter still, then with all the force I could
command. Would it support the weight of my body,
or would it come?</p>
<p>‘Without staying to argue the question, I made it
fast afresh to a round nob, the only one on the place.
Then, saying a short prayer, and taking a last glance
at the blue sky, I let myself slip gently off the rock,
hanging with my hands on the thin, hempen line.</p>
<p>‘It sagged terribly. I could plainly hear my heart
knocking and thumping against my ribs. It sagged
and “gave” still more. Imagining that I heard the
noise of the grapnel scraping and dragging, I looked
<a name="png.284" id="png.284" href="#png.284"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>260<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>upon myself as lost. But I still continued to drag
myself across. It was a long, terrible agony, and,
more than once, I thought I should have to let go.
My hands almost refused to close upon the rope. But
I still, almost as in a dream, worked myself along.
Once I caught myself wondering if I should fall into
or near the boat, and whether the dead man would be
there to receive me. Then a horrible fancy seized
me that I was making no progress, but that my
hands were glued to the rope with blood—ever in
the same spot. Then suddenly, in my now mechanical
motions, my head hit with great violence against
rock. This effectually aroused me. I was at the
threshold of liberty—the edge of the crater, where it
sloped quickly away below.</p>
<p>‘I hung there whilst one might count twenty, looking
up. I was three feet beneath the rim. The rope
had given that much.</p>
<p>‘I don’t remember in the least pulling myself
up and over that overhanging ledge. When my
senses returned, I was lying in the furrow alongside
the grapnel, and a rush of cold water was sweeping
under me. How long I had been there I have
no notion. Certainly a great many hours. The rain
was pouring down in tropical torrents; thunder pealed
above me, and the lightning flashed and darted in
vain endeavour to pierce the lower abyss.</p>
<p>‘After many fruitless attempts, I staggered to my
feet. I felt so dreadfully weak and faint that I thought
I was about to die. But a glance aloft gave me fresh
<a name="png.285" id="png.285" href="#png.285"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>261<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>heart. The dark clouds of the thunderstorm were
passing over, and full upon my nearly naked body
fell the warm rays of the glorious sun. I almost
at that moment, Parsee-like, worshipped him.</p>
<p>‘Painfully, stumbling at every step, I crawled upwards,
with many a rest and draught of the rain
water, caught in rocky hollows, until, after a weary
time, and feeling as one risen from the tomb, I
emerged into the full light of day once more.</p>
<p>‘Naked, bleeding, bruised, but free, I stood on the
topmost peak of that fateful island. At first everything
swam before my vision. Trees, the ocean,
the far horizon, reeled and shook, advanced and receded
to my dazzled eyes. The sun was low in
the heavens. As things gradually assumed their natural
appearance, I became conscious of a great ship lying
at anchor, of a cluster of white tents not a hundred
yards away from me.</p>
<p>‘But of these things, for a space, I took no heed.
Sun, air, water and sky held my regards in ecstasy.
I drank the beauty and the newness of them in till
my soul was saturated with the tender loveliness of
that nature to which I had been for so long a stranger.
Then, and not till then, I tottered towards the clump
of tents lying just below me.</p>
<p>‘Men were there, carpenters apparently, hammering at
a tall wooden structure. Other men—men-o’-war seamen
by their rig—were arriving and departing with
burdens.</p>
<p>‘I was close upon them before they saw me. Some
<a name="png.286" id="png.286" href="#png.286"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>262<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>shrank back. One, I recollect, picked up a rifle and
brought it to his shoulder. A man with a gold epaulette
on his coat struck it up and spoke to the sailor in
English.</p>
<p>‘Presently I was taken into a tent, a doctor appeared
from somewhere, and, whilst he dressed my wounds,
they gave me a cordial, and I told my story with
what seemed to me like the voice of a stranger. I
don’t remember much afterwards until I awoke, swinging
in a hammock under a shady tree close to the
tents.</p>
<p>‘I was a mass of bandages, but sensible, though
terribly weak.</p>
<p>‘“You’ve had a narrow escape of brain fever, my lad,”
said the doctor. “But we’ve pulled you through
all right. Lucky we happened to be here, though,
wasn’t it? A nice time you must have had down there.
We found your rope; but our men didn’t care about
venturing any further, as steam was beginning to
come up.”</p>
<p>‘“Four days,” replied the doctor, in answer to my
question, “it is since you appeared on the scene and
scared the camp.</p>
<p>‘“The <cite>Bucephalus</cite>? Yes, curiously enough, we met
her just entering Singapore Harbour. That’s ten days
ago. She spoke us, and asked us to keep a look-out for
her boat with two seamen. We have one of them, at all
events. I suppose the other poor beggar will be thrown
up presently.”</p>
<p>‘I looked at him. “Yes,” he continued, “the old
<a name="png.287" id="png.287" href="#png.287"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>263<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>volcano is showing every indication of renewed activity.
We came here to observe the transit of Venus, but shall
have probably to pack up and form another station if
those symptoms don’t subside. See there!”</p>
<p>‘Looking in the direction of his outstretched finger, I
saw several tall puffs of what seemed like white smoke
issuing from the depths of the crater.</p>
<p>‘<!-- TN: opening quote invisible -->The observers were loth to shift their quarters; but,
when some red-hot cinders from below set one of the
tents on fire, they accepted the hint.</p>
<p>‘Still in my hammock, I was presently carried down
the mountain and on board H.M.S. <cite>Hygeia</cite>, where, with
careful and skilled attention, I soon recovered.’</p>
<p>The Captain ceased speaking. For a time nothing
was heard except the steady blast of the ‘Roaring
Forties’ overhead.</p>
<p>Asked a passenger <span class="nw">presently,—</span></p>
<p>‘And did the volcano really explode after all?’</p>
<p>‘It did, indeed,’ replied Captain Marion; ‘but not
for a month afterwards, and then so fiercely as to scatter
death and destruction throughout those narrow seas,
grinding the island of Krakatoa itself into cosmic dust—visible,
according to scientists, nearly all over the
world.’</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>Here ends the story proper as compiled from the notes
taken by one of the passengers and jotted down in his
cabin of a night as the Captain finished each section of
his narrative.</p>
<p>Lower down on the last pages of these notes is
<a name="png.288" id="png.288" href="#png.288"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>264<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>gummed, however, a printed paragraph, cut from a
Sydney daily newspaper, which runs as <span class="nw">follows:—</span></p>
<p><small><span class="smc">Marion—Hillier.</span>—On the 29th ultimo, at St James’s Church
of England, Sydney, by the Rev. R. Garnsey, George Wreford
Marion, master in the British Mercantile Marine, to Amy Margaret,
daughter of the late John Hillier, Esq., of Pevensey, Miller’s
Point, Sydney, and Eurella and Whydah stations, Riverina,
N.S.W.</small></p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Dot’s Claim"><a name="png.289" id="png.289" href="#png.289"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>265<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘DOT’S CLAIM.’</h2>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smc">It</span> was evening in the German Arms at Schwartzdorf.
Great fires blazed in all the rooms of that old-fashioned
hostelry, welcome enough on entering from the chill, wild
weather ruling over the mountainland outside.</p>
<p>Tired with a heavy day’s work at inspecting the mining
claims, which were beginning to attract notice to this
secluded spot, it was with a feeling of satisfaction that,
after tea, I drew a chair up to the fire, lit my pipe, and
made myself comfortable.</p>
<p>Presently there was a knock at the door and, in response
to my ‘Come in,’ there entered the man who told
me this story.</p>
<p>In his hand he carried a canvas bag, whose contents
he emptied on the table with the remark, ‘I thought
perhaps you might like to see these.’</p>
<p>Very beautiful they were, without doubt—quartz, ironstone
and gold, mingled in the most fantastic manner;
grotesque attempts by Nature’s untrained fingers at
crosses, hearts, stars, and other shapes defying name.</p>
<p>‘We got these the last shot knocking off to-night,’ said
<a name="png.290" id="png.290" href="#png.290"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>266<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>the owner of the pretty things as I asked him to sit
down. ‘You might remember me tellin’ you as I didn’t
think we was very far from the main reef. I believe we
got it now in good earnest. Same lead as is in “Dot’s
Claim.” Same sort o’ country. Reef runnin’ with the
same dip. An’ you knows yourself, sir, as they took
forty-five pound weight o’ specimens richer than them
out o’ “Dot’s” this mornin’.’</p>
<p>‘I beg your pardon,’ I said after a hasty glance at my
note-book, ‘but I don’t remember any such name. I
thought, too, that I had seen all the most important
claims.’</p>
<p>‘Why, of course,’ he replied, ‘I forgot! It’s only a
few of us old hands as knows the story as calls it Dot’s
now. When the big company took it from Fairleigh
they names it the “El Dorado.” I reckon t’other was
too short—didn’t sound high enough for ’em. But if it
hasn’t the best right to the old name I’d like to know the
reason why.’</p>
<p>‘El Dorado,’ I remarked; ‘why that’s the original
prospector’s claim.’</p>
<p>My visitor nodded, saying, ‘An’ I’m No. 2 South.’</p>
<p>‘Ward and party?’ I inquired, referring again to my
memos.</p>
<p>‘That’s it. I’m Ward.’</p>
<p>‘Well, then, Mr Ward, I want to hear that story you
hinted at just now. Kindly touch that bell at your
elbow. Thanks.’</p>
<p>It may have been only fancy, but I thought that
between blooming Gretchen journeying to and fro with
<a name="png.291" id="png.291" href="#png.291"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>267<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>hot water, tumblers, sugar, etc., etc., and my lucky
reefer glances passed betokening a more than casual
acquaintance.</p>
<p>‘Yes, Gretchen, you may as well leave the kettle.’</p>
<p>I am trying to air my German, but fail lamentably,
judging from the expression on the girl’s full, fresh-coloured
features as she struggles to avoid laughing.
Even my visitor smiles. Everything is German here—bar,
luckily, the beds. Outside the wind howled and
beat against the curtained windows, and the rain fell
dully on the shingled roof, and the roar of the Broken
River came to our ears between the storm gusts.</p>
<p>Inside, the fire flickered and fell, sending deep
shadows over the pine-panelled walls and the grave
handsome face of my companion, the first fruits of whose
labour shone sullenly under the shaded lamplight.
From a distant room rose and died away faintly the
chorus of some song of the Fatherland.</p>
<p>‘Now,’ said I, as Gretchen finally closed the door,
‘now for the story.’</p>
<p>‘Well,’ commenced Ward, after getting his pipe into
good going order, ‘it’s over eight years ago since I came
here from the West Coast—Hokitika. I’d been diggin’
there. But my luck was clean out, so I chucked it up,
an’, after a lot of knockin’ about, settles down here—would
you believe it?—farmin’!</p>
<p>‘Now I know’d as much about farmin’ as a cow does
o’ reefin’. Cert’nly my mate—for there was a pair of
us—had been scarin’ crows for a farmer in the Old
Country when he was a boy. That wasn’t much.
<a name="png.292" id="png.292" href="#png.292"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>268<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>Still, on the strength o’ that experience, he used to give
himself airs.</p>
<p>‘I think it was two years afore we got a crop o’
anythin’. Then it was potaters. When we tried
to sell ’em we couldn’t get an offer. Everybody had
potaters. So we just turned to an’ lived on ’em.
They’re fillin’, doubtless. But potaters and fish, an’
fish an’ potaters for a change, all the year round, gets
tiresome in the long run.</p>
<p>‘I often wonder now what could have possessed me
an’ Bill to go in for such a thing as farmin’. But
there, when a chap’s luck’s out diggin’, he’s glad to
tackle anythin’ for a change!</p>
<p>‘Presently one or two more, men with fam’lies,
settles close to us and tries to make a livin’. It
didn’t amount to much. Then up comes a string
o’ Germans, trampin’ along from the coast, carryin’
furniture an’ tools, beds—ay, even their old women—on
their backs. An’ they settles, an’ starts the
same game—clearin’, an’ ploughin’, an’ sowin’. But
I couldn’t see as any of ’em was makin’ a pile.
They worked like bullocks, women an’ all, late
an’ early. The harder they worked, the poorer
they seemed to get. Bill an’ me had a pound
or two saved up for a rainy day. But they had
nothin’; an’ how they lived was a mystery. So,
you see, takin’ things all round, it was high time
somethin’ turned up. An’ somethin’ did. The next
farm to us belonged to a married couple. He
was a runaway sailor. She’d been a passenger
<a name="png.293" id="png.293" href="#png.293"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>269<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>on board. They had one child, just turned four
year old, an’ they was both fair wrapped up in
that kid.</p>
<p>‘If Dot’s—Dot was his pet name—finger only ached,
the work might go to Jericho.</p>
<p>‘An’ indeed he were a most loveable little chap.
With regards to him, we was all of us ’most as
bad as the father an’ mother, the way we played
with him an’ petted him. There was no denyin’
Dot of anythin’ once he looked at you out o’ those
big blue eyes o’ his. And the knowledgeableness of
him! No wonder Jim Fairleigh an’ his missis thought
the sun rose every mornin’ out o’ the back o’ their
boy’s neck.’</p>
<p>Here Ward paused and <span class="nw">queried,—</span></p>
<p>‘Married man, sir?’</p>
<p>‘No,’ I replied.</p>
<p>‘No more ’m I,’ he continued, ‘or I don’t s’pose I’d
be here yarning a night like this.’</p>
<p>‘It’s a wonder,’ I said, ‘that none of these jolly-looking
<i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Fräuleins</i> about here have been able to take
your fancy.’</p>
<p>‘Well, to tell the truth,’ he replied, with, however,
a rather conscious expression on his face, ‘I think
what those poor Fairleighs went through rather scared
me of marryin’.</p>
<p>‘But, as I was sayin’, farmin’ didn’t seem to agree
with my mate, Bill—that’s him you seen at the claim
to-day—spite o’ his past experience, any more’n it did
with me. <em>He</em> done the business, by-the-bye, quite
<a name="png.294" id="png.294" href="#png.294"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>270<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>lately with a bouncin’ gal—Lieschen Hertzog—an’ now
stays at home o’ nights.</p>
<p>‘We had a note or two left. We had also a crop
o’ potaters an’ some punkins. But no one wanted ’em—wouldn’t
buy ’em at any price. In fact, you couldn’t
give ’em away in those times.</p>
<p>‘The Fairleighs an’, I think, all of us, were pretty
much in the same box. As I said before, it was time
somethin’ turned up.</p>
<p>‘It was a wild night. Bill an’ me was lyin’ in our
stretchers readin’. About ten o’clock, open flies the
door, an’ in bolts Fairleigh drippin’ wet, no hat on,
an’ pale as a ghost, an’ stands there like a statue,
starin’ at us, without a word.</p>
<p>‘“In God’s name what’s the matter?” I says at
last. With that he flaps his hands about, so-fashion,
an’ sings out, “Dot’s lost in the ranges!”</p>
<p>‘You may bet that shook us up a bit! You’ve
seen the Broken Ranges for yourself, an’ can judge
what chance a delicate little kiddy like Dot’d have
among them rocks an’ scrub on a worse night than this is.</p>
<p>‘That fool of a sailor-man, if you’ll believe me, an’
his wife had been out sence dark searchin’ for the
child, ’stead o’ rousin’ the settlement. Presently, to
make matters worse, it appears that he’d lost the
woman too—got separated in the scrub, an’ couldn’t
find her again. Just by a fluke, while on the Black
Hill yonder, he’d caught the glimper o’ sparks from
our chimney. He was covered with cuts and bruises
an’ goin’ cranky fast when he got to the hut.</p>
<p><a name="png.295" id="png.295" href="#png.295"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>271<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Bill had gone to tell the news; an’ in a very few
minutes a whole crowd o’ Fritzes, an’ Hanses, an’ Hermans,
an Gottliebs was turned out an’ ready for a start.</p>
<p>‘They didn’t want no coaxing. All they says was
‘<i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Ach Gott!</i>’ an’ they was fit for anythin’. By no manner
o’ means a bad lot,’ here commented Ward, ‘when you
comes to get in with ’em an’ know ’em like. Honest as
the light, an’ as hard-workin’ as a bullock. Slow, maybe,
but very sure. Full o’ pluck as a soger-ant. Clannish
as the Scotties, an’ as savin’. I’ve got some real good
friends among ’em now. An’ their women-folks, too,
is amazin’ handy—make you up a square feed out o’ a
head o’ cabbage an’ a bit o’ greenhide, I do believe,
if they was put to it.</p>
<p>‘Cert’nly their lingo ’s the dead finish at first, till you
gets used to it. I can <i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Deutsch gesprechen</i>, myself, now,
more’n a little.</p>
<p>‘However, that’s neither here nor there.</p>
<p>‘Bill, my mate, as I told you, as much as me, havin’
got full o’ farmin’, we used to take a prospectin’ trip
now and then among the ranges. But we never rose
the colour. Never found a thing, ’cept scrub turkeys’
eggs. Anyhow, we knew the country better’n the Germans,
an’ took the lead.</p>
<p>‘Pitch dark it were, with heavy squalls, an’ the river
roarin’ along half a banker.</p>
<p>‘Fairleigh, after a stiff nip o’ rum, began to find his
senses again sufficient to give us the right course.</p>
<p>‘Such scramblin’, an’ <em>coo-eein’</em>, an’ slippin’, an’ tearin’
about the Bush in the dark never, I should think,
<a name="png.296" id="png.296" href="#png.296"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>272<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>happened before. But we managed to keep in some
sort o’ line an’ cover a goodish track o’ country.</p>
<p>‘We must ha’ gone fully five miles into the ranges, an’
Bill an’ me was gettin’ to the end of our tether in that
direction, when we found Mrs Fairleigh. Karl Itzig
nearly falls over her, lyin’ stretched out on a big flat
rock.</p>
<p>‘We thought she was dead; but, after a while, she
comes to, light-headed, though, and not able to tell us
anythin’. So we sends her home with a couple o’ the
chaps carryin’ her.</p>
<p>‘Well, we searched till daylight—rainin’ cats an’ dogs
all the time. And we searched all the next day without
any luck. That evenin’ it cleared-up bright at sundown.
Then Fairleigh gives in complete, an’ has to be carried
home to his wife.</p>
<p>‘After a camp an’ a snack the moon rose, an’ we
at it afresh. But we ’bouted ship now; for I was sure
we’d overrun ourselves. There was full fifty of us, an’
we circled, takin’ in all the country we could. You
see, we was hopin’ for fresh tracks, an’ we went with our
noses on the groun’ like a lot of dogs on the scent
of an old man kangaroo, only a sight slower.</p>
<p>‘’Bout midnight I sees somethin’ shinin’. It was the
steel buckle on the front o’ poor Dot’s shoe. Only
one of ’em, an’ all soaked through with rain. No tracks;
so we reckoned he’d been here last night in the heaviest
of it.</p>
<p>‘That little bit o’ leather put us in better heart. But
it wasn’t to be. The sun was just risin’, when, pretty
<a name="png.297" id="png.297" href="#png.297"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>273<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>near done up, me an’ Bill an’ Wilhelm Reinhardt comes
out o’ the scrub on to a small bald knob, an’ there,
on a bare patch, lies Dot, stone dead, with his blue eyes
wide open, starin’ at the sky, an’ the long curly hair,
as his mother used to be so proud of, all matted with
sand and rain.</p>
<p>‘Four crows was sittin’ overright him on the limb
of a tree. I don’t believe the poor little fellow ’d been
dead very long—in the chill o’ the early hours o’ that
mornin’ likely. In one hand he had a bit o’ stick.
With the other he held his pinny, gathered up tight,
same as you’ve seen kiddies do when they’re carryin’
somethin’.</p>
<p>‘A real pitiful sight it were. It was as much as
Bill an’ me could stand. As for Wilhelm, he just sits
down aside the body an’ fair blubbers out.</p>
<p>‘Well, with our <em>coo-ees</em>, the rest comes up in twos
an’ threes. Most of the Germans started to keep
Wilhelm company. Foreigners, I think, must be either
softer-hearted than us, or ain’t ashamed o’ showin’ what
they feel. Anyhow, there wasn’t a dry eye among them
Germans when they gathered round little Dot.</p>
<p>‘Presently we starts to rig a sort o’ stretcher with
coats and a couple o’ saplin’s.</p>
<p>‘Then Bill lifts the body up, an’ as he does out from
the pinny drops four o’ the beautifullest specimens you’d
ever wish to see—them on the table ain’t a patch on
’em.</p>
<p>‘I twigs them at once. So did three or four more
old digger chaps.</p>
<p><a name="png.298" id="png.298" href="#png.298"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>274<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘Then we takes a squint around, an’ there, right
against our noses, as one might say, ran the reef, with
bits o’ gold stickin’ out o’ the surface-stone an’ glimperin’
in the sun.</p>
<p>‘I don’t believe the Germans tumbled for a while.
You see they was all new chums. Most likely none of
’em hadn’t ever seen a natural bit o’ gold afore.</p>
<p>‘But the others did, quick. An’, presently, a rather
hot sort o’ argument begins to rise.</p>
<p>‘For a short time me an’ Bill stands and listens to
the wranglin’. Then I looks at Bill, and he nods his
head, and I shoves my spoke in.</p>
<p>‘“Look here, chaps!” I says, “this may be only a
surface leader, as some of you appears to think, or it
may be a pile. I don’t care a damn which it is! It’s
Fairleigh’s first say. His kid, as lies there dead, found it!
An’, by the Lord, his father’s goin’ to be first served!
I’m goin’ now to peg out what I considers a fair prospectin’
claim for him. That’ll be seen to after. When
that’s done you can strike in as you likes. If you
objects to that you ain’t men. Bill, here, ’ll back me
up, an’, if you don’t like it, we’ll do it in spite o’ you.
We’re all poor enough, God knows! But none of us
ain’t just lost an only child, an’ self an’ wife gone half
mad with the sorrow of it.”</p>
<p>‘Well, sir, the Germans, who was beginning to drop
to how the thing lay, set up a big shout o’ “<i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Hoch!
Hoch!</i>” meanin’ in their lingo, “Hooray.” An’ the
rest, what was right enough at bottom, an’ only wanted
showin’ like what was the fair an’ square thing to do,
<a name="png.299" id="png.299" href="#png.299"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>275<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>quick agreed. All ’cept, that is, one flash sort of a joker
from the Barossa. But, while I steps the groun’, Bill
put such a head on him in half-a-dozen rounds that his
own mother wouldn’t know him again.</p>
<p>‘It were only a couple o’ miles in a straight line from
the settlement, through the ranges, to that bit of a bald
hill.</p>
<p>‘Exactly, almost, where you stood to-day, lookin’
at the windin’ plant o’ the El Dorado, was where we
found Dot.</p>
<p>‘When the field was proclaimed the Warden didn’t
have much alteration to make in the p.c. I’d marked
off for Fairleigh.</p>
<p>‘You see it was only one man’s groun’ then. An’ it
turned out rich from the jump. An’ it’s gettin’ better
every foot. None o’ the others, as the Company’s
bought an’ ’malgamated with it, although joinin’, can
touch “Dot’s.”</p>
<p>‘But Fairleigh’s never to say held up his head sence
that night.</p>
<p>‘A week after we buried the child we carried the
mother to rest beside him.</p>
<p>‘Fairleigh must be a rich man now. Everythin’ he
touches, as the sayin’ is, seems to turn to gold. He
can’t go wrong. But he seldom comes a-nigh the place.
One of the first things he done when “Dot’s” turned
up such trumps, was to put five thousand pounds to
mine and Bill’s credit in the <span class="nw">A——</span> bank. But we
never touched it. Ever sence that night our luck’s been
right in. First we sells out No. 1 North to the Company
<a name="png.300" id="png.300" href="#png.300"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>276<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>at a pretty stiff figure. Then we buys out No. 2 South
an’ seemingly we’ve struck it again, an’ rich.’</p>
<p>‘And, now,’ I remark as my friend, his yarn finished,
sits gazing meditatively at the glowing logs,—‘and, now,
all you want is a wife. Follow your mate’s example, and
make a home where you’re making your money.’</p>
<p>Ward shook his head, smiling doubtfully, and, knocking
the ashes out of his pipe, rose to go.</p>
<p>Just then Gretchen, buxom, and smiling also, appeared
bearing a huge back-log in her arms. And when I saw
the way my companion sprang up and rushed to meet
and relieve her of the burden, and heard the guttural
whispering that took place before the lump of timber
reached its destination, I thought that, ere very long, all
doubts would be dissipated, and that, even then, I sat
within measurable distance of the future Mrs Ward.</p>
</div>
<div class="chap">
<h2 title="A Cape Horn Christmas"><a name="png.301" id="png.301" href="#png.301"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>277<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>A CAPE HORN CHRISTMAS.</h2>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smc">All</span> hands in Yamba hut had turned in, except a
couple at the end of the long rough table.</p>
<p>These late birds were playing euchre by the flickering
light of an evil-smelling slush lamp. The cook
had banked up the fire for the night, but the myall
ashes still glowed redly and cast heat around. On
the stone hearth stewed a bucket of tea. But for
the snores of the men in the double tier of bunks
ranged ship-fashion along both sides of the big hut,
the frizzling of the grease in the lamp, and the
muttered exclamations of the players, everything was
very quiet.</p>
<p>‘Pass me!’</p>
<p>‘Make it!’</p>
<p>‘Hearts!’</p>
<p>And both men dropped their hands and sprang up
in affright as a wild scream rang out from the bunk
just above them.</p>
<p>As they gazed, a white face, wet with the sweat of
fear, poked out and stared down upon them with eyes
in which the late terror still lived.</p>
<p><a name="png.302" id="png.302" href="#png.302"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>278<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘What the dickens is up?’ asked one, recovering from
his surprise, whilst the grumbles of awakened sleepers
travelled around the hut.</p>
<p>‘My God! what a dream! what a dream!’ exclaimed
the man addressed, sticking out a pair of naked legs,
and softly alighting on the earthen floor, and standing
there trembling.</p>
<p>‘Shoo!’ said the station wit, as he turned for a
fresh start; ‘it’s only Jack the Sailor had the night-horse.’</p>
<p>But the man, crouching close to the players, and
wiping his pallid face with his loose shirt sleeve, still
<span class="nw">exclaimed,—</span></p>
<p>‘What a dream! My God! What a dream!’</p>
<p>‘Tell us what it were all about, Jack,’ asked one
of the others, handing him a pannikin of tea. ‘It
oughter been bad, judgin’ by the dashed skreek as
you give.’</p>
<p>‘It was,’ said the other—a grizzled, tanned, elderly
man—as he warmed his legs, and looked rather
ashamed of himself. ‘But hardly enough to make
such a row over as you chaps reckons I did. I
was dreamin’,’ he continued, speaking slowly, ‘as I
was at sea again. It was on Christmas Day, an’ the
ship was close to Cape Horn. How I knowed that,
I can’t tell. But the land was in sight quite plain.
Me an’ another feller—I can see his ugly face yet,
and sha’n’t never forget it—was makin’ fast one of
the jibs. Presen’ly we seemed to ’ave some words
out there, hot an’ sharp. Then I done a thing,
<a name="png.303" id="png.303" href="#png.303"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>279<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>the like o’ which ud never come into my mind
when awake—not if I lived to the age of Methyuseler—I
puts my sheath-knife into him right up to the
handle.</p>
<p>‘The weather were heavy, an’ the ship a-pitchin’
bowsprit under into a head sea. Well, I was just
watchin’ his face turn sorter slate colour, an’ him
clingin’ on to a gasket an’ starin’ hard, when she gives
a dive fathoms deep.</p>
<p>‘When I comes up again I was in the water, an’ there
was the ship half-a-mile away.</p>
<p>‘Swimmin’ an’ lookin’ round, I spies the other feller
alongside me on top of a big comber, with the white
spume all red about him.</p>
<p>‘Nex’ minute, down he comes, an’ I feels his two
hands a-grippin’ me tight by the throat. I expect’s it was
then I sung out an’ woke myself,’ and the man shivered
as he gazed intently into the heart of the glowing myall
ashes.</p>
<p>‘Well, Jack Ashby,’ said one of his hearers, gathering
up the scattered cards, ‘it wasn’t a nice dream. If I
was you I should take it as a warnin’ never to go a-sailorin’
no more. Never was at the game myself, and
don’t want to be. There can’t be much in it, though,
when just the very thoughts o’ what’s never ’appened, an’
what’s never a-goin’ to ’appen, is able to give a chap such
a start as you got.’</p>
<p>‘Ugh!’ exclaimed the sailor, getting up and shaking
himself as he climbed into his bunk. ‘No, I’ll never go
back to sea again!’</p>
<p><a name="png.304" id="png.304" href="#png.304"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>280<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>But, in course of time, Jack Ashby became tired of
station life—became tired of the everlasting drudgery of
the rouseabout, the burr-cutting, lamb-catching, and all
the rest of it.</p>
<p>He had no more dreams of the kind. But when o’
nights the wind whistled around and shook the crazy old
hut, he would turn restlessly in his bunk and listen for
the hollow thud of the rope-coils on the deck above, the
call of ‘All hands,’ the wild racket of the gale, and the
hiss of stormy waters.</p>
<p>So his thoughts irresistibly wandered back again to the
tall ships and the old shipmates, and all the magic and
mystery of the great deep on whose bosom he had passed
his life. He knew that he was infinitely better off where
he was—better paid, better fed, better off in every
respect than he could ever possibly hope to be at sea.</p>
<p>Battling with his longing, he contrasted the weevilly
biscuits and salt junk of the fo’k’stle with the wholesome
damper and fresh mutton and beef of the hut.</p>
<p>He thought of the ‘all night in’ of undisturbed
rest, contrasting it with the ‘Watch ahoy! Now
then, you sleepers, turn out!’ of each successive four
hours.</p>
<p>He thought, too, of tyrannous masters and mates; of
drenched decks and leaking fo’k’stles, of frozen rigging,
of dark wild nights of storm, and of swaying foot-ropes
and thundrous<!-- TN: ok OED --> canvas slatting like iron plates about his
ears; of hunger, wet, and misery.</p>
<p>Long and carefully he thought of all these things, and
weighed the balance for and against. Then, one
<a name="png.305" id="png.305" href="#png.305"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>281<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>morning, rolling up his swag hurriedly, he went straight back
to them.</p>
<p>Even the thought of his dream had no power to stay
him.</p>
<p>But he made a reservation to himself. Said <span class="nw">he,—</span></p>
<p>‘No more deep water! I’ll try the coast. I’ve heard
it’s good.<!-- TN: punctuation invisible --> No more deep water; and, above all, no
Cape Horn!’</p>
<p>He shipped on board a coaster, and went trips to
Circular Head for potatoes; got bar-bound for weeks in
eastern rivers looking for maize and fruit; sailed coal-laden,
with pumps going clanketty-clank all down the
land, and finally, after some months of this sort of work,
found himself in Port Adelaide, penniless, and fresh from
a gorgeous spree. Here he fell in with an old deep-water
shipmate belonging to one of the vessels in harbour.</p>
<p>‘Come home with us, Jack,’ said his friend. ‘She
ain’t so bad for a limejuicer—patent reefs, watch an’
watch, an’ no stun’s’ls for’ard. The mate’s a Horse. But
the ole man’s right enough; an’ he wants a couple o’
A.B.’s.’</p>
<p>‘No,’ said Jack Ashby, firmly, ‘I’ll never go deep
water again. The coast’s the ticket for this child. I’ve
got reasons, Bill.’</p>
<p>And then he told his friend of the dream.</p>
<p>The latter did not appear at all surprised. Nor did
he laugh. Sailors attach more importance to such things
than do landsmen. All he said <span class="nw">was,—</span></p>
<p>‘The <cite>Dido’s</cite> a fine big ship. She’s a-goin’ home by
<a name="png.306" id="png.306" href="#png.306"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>282<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>Good Hope. Was it a ship or a barque, now, as you
was on in that dream?’</p>
<p>‘Can’t say for certain,’ replied Ashby, reflectively;
‘but, by the size o’ her spars, I should reckon she’d be
full-rigged. Howsomever, if ever I clap eyes on his
ugly mug again—which the Lord forbid—you may bet
your bottom dollar, Bill Baker, as I’ll swear to that,
with its big red beard, an’ the tip o’ the nose sliced clean
off.’</p>
<p>‘A-a-a-h!’ said the other, staring for a minute, and
then hastily finishing his pint of ‘sheoak.’ And he
pressed Ashby no more to go to England in the <cite>Dido</cite>.</p>
<p>But the latter found it just then anything but easy to
get another berth in a coaster. Also he was in debt to
his boarding-house; and, altogether, it seemed as if
presently he would have to take the very first thing that
offered, or be ‘chucked out.’</p>
<p>‘Two A.B.’s wanted for the <cite>Dido</cite>,’ roared the shipping
master into a knot of seamen at his office door one day
shortly after Jack and his old shipmate had foregathered
at the ‘Lass o’ Gowrie.’ And the former, feeling very
uncomfortable, and as a man between the Devil and the
Deep Sea, signed articles.</p>
<p>His one solitary consolation was that the <cite>Dido</cite> was
not bound round Cape Horn. He cared for none other
of the world’s promontories. Also, as he cheered up a
little, it came into his mind that it would be rather
pleasant than otherwise once more to have a run down
Ratcliffe Highway, a lark with the girls in Tiger Bay,
and a look-in at the old penny gaff in Whitechapel.
<a name="png.307" id="png.307" href="#png.307"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>283<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>But the main point was that there was no Cape Horn.
Had not Bill Baker told him so? ‘Falmouth and the
United Kingdom,’ said the Articles. Certainly there was
no particular route mentioned. But who should know
if Bill Baker did not?</p>
<p>But all too surely had the thing that men call Fate
laid fast hold on the Dreamer. And the boarding-house-keeper<!-- TN: this is (boarding-house)-keeper, not boarding-(housekeeper) hence needs both hyphens -->
cashed his advance note—returning nothing—and
carted him to the <cite>Dido</cite>, and left him stretched out
on the fo’k’stle floor, not knowing or caring where he
was, or who he was, or where he was going, and oblivious
of all things under the sun.</p>
<p>Nor did he show on deck again until, in the grey of
next morning, a man with a great red beard and a flat
nose looked into his bunk and called him obscene names,
and bade him jump aloft and loose the fore-topsail, or
he would let him know what shirking meant on board
of the <cite>Dido</cite>.</p>
<p>‘This is a bad beginning,’ thought Jack Ashby, as,
with trembling body and splitting head, he unsteadily
climbed the rigging, listening as one but yet half awake
to the clank of the windlass pawls and the roaring chorus
of the men at the brakes. ‘That’s the feller, sure
enough!’ he gasped, as, winded, he dragged himself
into the fore-top. ‘I’d swear to him anywhere. Thank
the Lord we ain’t goin’ round the Horn! I wonder if
he knowed <em>me</em>? He’s the mate. An’ Bill was right;
he <em>is</em> a Horse. Damn deep water!’</p>
<p>‘Now then, fore-top, there, shift your pins or I’ll <em>haze</em>
you,’ came up in a bellow from the deck, making poor
<a name="png.308" id="png.308" href="#png.308"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>284<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>Jack jump again as he stared ruefully down at the fierce
upturned face, its red beard forking out like a new swab.</p>
<p>‘Thank the Lord, we ain’t goin’ round the Horn!’
said Jack Ashby, as, with tremulous fingers, he loosened
the gaskets and let the stiff folds of canvas fall, and sang
out to sheet home.</p>
<p>Down the Gulf with a fair wind rattled the <cite>Dido</cite>,
through Investigator Straits and out into the Southern
Ocean, whilst Jack cast a regretful look at the lessening
line of distant blue, and exclaimed once <span class="nw">more,—</span></p>
<p>‘Damn deep water!’</p>
<p>That evening the officers spin a coin, and proceed to
pick their respective watches.</p>
<p>To his disgust, Jack is the very first man chosen by
the fierce chief mate, who has won the toss, and who
at once <span class="nw">says,—</span></p>
<p>‘Go below the port watch!’—his own.</p>
<p>It is blowing a fresh breeze when he comes on deck
again at eight bells. It is his wheel. He finds his
friend Bill Baker there.</p>
<p>‘East by sowthe,’ says Bill emphatically, giving him
a pitying look, and walking for’ard.</p>
<p>‘East by sowthe it is,’ replies Jack, mechanically.</p>
<p>Then, as he somewhat nervously, after the long absence,
eyes the white bobbing disc in the binnacle, and squints
aloft at the dark piles of canvas, it suddenly bursts upon
him. Whilst he has been asleep the wind has shifted
into the west. It blows now as if it meant to stay there.
They are bound round Cape Horn after all.</p>
<p>‘<!-- TN: opening quote invisible -->Mind your hellum, you booby,’ roars the mate, just
<a name="png.309" id="png.309" href="#png.309"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>285<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>come on deck. ‘Where are you going to with the ship—back
to Adelaide? I’ll keep an eye on you, my lad,’
lurching aft, and glancing first at Jack’s face and then
at the compass.</p>
<p>Truth to tell, the latter had been so flustered that he
had let the <cite>Dido</cite> come up two or three points off her
course. But he soon got her nose straight again, with,
for the first time, a feeling of hot satisfaction at his
heart that, upon a day not far distant, he and the man
with the red beard, and tip off his nose might, if there
was any truth in dreams, be quits. Be sure that, by this
Jack’s story was well known for’ard of the foremast. Bill
Baker’s tongue had not been idle, and, although a few
scoffed, more believed, and waited expectantly.</p>
<p>‘There’s more in dreams than most people thinks for,’
remarked an old sailor in the starboard watch, shaking
his head sagely. ‘The first part o’ Jack’s has comed
true. If I was Mister Horse I’d go a bit easy, an’ not
haze the chap about the way he’s a-doing of.’</p>
<p>But the chief officer seemed to have taken an unaccountable
dislike to Ashby from the moment he had
first seen him. And this dislike he showed in every
conceivable way until he nearly drove the poor chap
frantic.</p>
<p>At sea an evil-minded man in authority can do things
of this sort with impunity. The process is called ‘hazing.’
The sufferer gets all the dirtiest and most disagreeable
of the many such jobs to be found on shipboard. He
is singled out from his fellows of the watch and sent
aloft with tarry wads to hang on to a stay by his
<a name="png.310" id="png.310" href="#png.310"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>286<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>eyelashes. Or he is set to scraping masts, or greasing down,
or slung outboard on a stage scrubbing paintwork, where
every roll submerges him neck high, whilst his more
fortunate companions are loafing about the decks.</p>
<p>If the hazed one openly rebels, and gives his persecutor
a good thrashing, he is promptly ‘logged,’ perhaps
ironed, and at the end of the passage loses his pay,
holding himself lucky not to have got six months in
gaol for ‘mutiny on the high seas.’ There is another
thing that may and does happen; and every day the
crew of the <cite>Dido</cite> watched placidly for the heavy iron-clad
block, or marlingspike<!-- TN: ok OED -->, sharp-pointed and massive, that
by pure accident should descend from some lofty nook
and brain or transfix their first officer—the Horse, as
unmindful of the qualities of that noble animal, they
had named him. But Jack Ashby never thought of
such a thing. Nor did he take any notice of friendly
hints from his mates—also sufferers, but in a less degree—that
the best of spike lanyards would wear out by
constant use, and that the best-fitted block-strops would
at times fail to hold.</p>
<p>Jack’s mind was far too much occupied by the approaching
test to which his dream was to be subjected
to bother about compassing a lesser revenge that might
only end in maiming.</p>
<p>He, by this, fully believed things were going to turn
out exactly as he had seen them that night in Yamba
men’s hut in the far-away Australian Bush. Therefore
he looked upon himself and his tyrant as lost men.</p>
<p>At times, even, he caught himself regarding the first
<a name="png.311" id="png.311" href="#png.311"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>287<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>officer with an emotion of curious pity, as one whose
doom was so near and yet so unexpected. And, by
degrees, the men, recognising this attitude of his, and
sympathising heartily with it in different fashions, and
different degrees of credulity, forbore further advice, and
waited with what patience they might.</p>
<p>It was getting well on towards Christmas.</p>
<p class="tb">. . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p>I no more wished to go to London <i>viâ</i> Cape Horn
than did John Ashby. But my reasons were altogether
different.</p>
<p>When I had engaged a saloon passage on the <cite>Dido</cite> it
was an understood thing that she would take the other
Cape for it. But a short four hours’ fight against a
westerly wind so sickened the captain that he put his
helm up, and squared his yards, and shaped a course
that would bring him closer to Staten Island than to
Simon’s Bay.</p>
<p>It was some time before I had any conception of
how things stood for’ard, with respect at least to the
subject of this story.</p>
<p>I saw, of course, that the chief officer was a bully,
and that he was heartily disliked by the men. But of
Jack Ashby and his dream I knew nothing. Nor, until
my attention was especially drawn to it, did I perceive
that he was undergoing the hazing process.</p>
<p>As the only passenger, and one who had paid his
footing liberally, I was often on the fo’k’stle and in other
parts of the ship supposed to belong peculiarly to the
men.</p>
<p><a name="png.312" id="png.312" href="#png.312"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>288<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Thus, one night, happening to be having a smoke
on the top-gallant fo’k’stle, underneath which lay the
quarters of the crew, I sat down on the anchor stock,
and watched the cold-looking seas rolling up from the
Antarctic Circle, and exchanging at intervals a word
with the look-out man as he stumped across from rail
to rail.</p>
<p>Close beside me was a small scuttle, with the sliding-lid
of it pushed back.</p>
<p>I had scarcely lit my pipe when up through this,
making me nearly drop it from my mouth, came a long,
sharp scream as one in dire agony.</p>
<p>‘What’s the matter down there?’ shouted my companion,
falling on his knees and craning his head over
the coamings of the hatch.</p>
<p>Without waiting for an answer, we both bolted on to
the main deck and into the fo’k’stle, where could be
heard broken murmurs and growlings from the sleepy
watch who filled the double tier of open bunks running
with the sheer of the ship right into the eyes of her.</p>
<p>And on one of these, as I struck a match and lit
the swinging slush lamp, and glanced around me,
I saw a man sitting, his bare legs dangling over
the side. Down his pale face ran great drops of
sweat, and his eyes were staring, glassy, and fixed.
One or two of his mates tumbled out; others poked
their heads over the bunk-boards and swore that it
couldn’t be eight bells already. But the man still
gazed over and beyond us with that horrible stare in
his dilated eyes, and when I laid my hand on him
<a name="png.313" id="png.313" href="#png.313"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>289<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>he was rigid. Then one who, in place of drinking
his ‘tot’ of rum that night, had treasured it up for
another time, produced it; and, laying the man back,
and forcing open the clenched teeth, we got some of
it down his throat; and presently he came to himself
and sat up.</p>
<p>His first words <span class="nw">were,—</span></p>
<p>‘I’ve had it again! Just the same—the mate an’<!-- TN: apostrophe invisible -->
me!’ Then, with a look around, ‘I’m sorry to
have roused ye up, mates. I’m all right now.’ Then,
to myself, ‘How long afore we’re off the Horn,
sir?’</p>
<p>‘About a week if the wind holds. Why?’</p>
<p>‘Because,’ replied he, lying back and rolling over in
his blankets, ‘I’ve got a week longer to live.’</p>
<p>‘That was Jack Ashby, an’ he’s had his dream again,’
said the lookout man in an awed voice as we hurried
on deck, fearful of wandering bergs.</p>
<p>Then (his name was Baker) he told me the whole
story, and, in spite of my utter incredulity, I became
interested, and, having little to do, watched closely the
progress of the expected drama.</p>
<p>Also, after that night, I had many a talk with Ashby.<!-- TN: punctuation invisible -->
I found him a man rather above the average run of
his class, and one open to reason and argument; nor,
on the whole, very superstitious. But on the subject
of his vision he was immovable.</p>
<p>‘You saw the land in your dreams, did you not?’ I
once asked.</p>
<p>‘Yes, sir,’ replied he. ‘Big cliffs, not more ’n a mile
<a name="png.314" id="png.314" href="#png.314"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>290<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>away,’ and he described its appearance, and the position
of the vessel.</p>
<p>‘Well, then,’ I said, ‘it may interest you to know
that the skipper intends to keep well to the south’ard,
and that we’re more likely to sight the Shetlands than
the Horn.’</p>
<p>But he only shook his head and smiled faintly as
he <span class="nw">replied,—</span></p>
<p>‘He was goin’ home by Good Hope, sir. But he
didn’t. What the skipper means to do, an’ what the
Lord wills is two very different things. My time’s
gettin’ short; but we’ll both go together—<em>him</em> an’ me.
I don’t reckon as there ’ll be any hazin’ to speak of
in the next world. P’r’aps it’s best as it is. If I
wasn’t sure an’ certain o’ what’s comin’, I’d have killed
him long ago. But,’ he concluded, ‘I’m ready. I’ve
been showed how it’s ordained to happen; an’, so long
as I’ve the company I want, I don’t care.’</p>
<p>During these days, impressed, somehow, by the feeling
of intense expectation that pervaded all hands for’ard,
I took more notice of Mr Harris, the mate, than I had
hitherto done.</p>
<p>‘He was no favourite of mine, and, beyond passing
the time of day, we had found very little to say to
each other.</p>
<p>And now, although scouting the idea of anything
being about to happen to the man, I watched him and
listened to him with curiosity.</p>
<p>Certainly he was an ill-favoured customer. Besides
being plentifully pitted with smallpox over what of his
<a name="png.315" id="png.315" href="#png.315"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>291<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>face was visible through the red tangle of hair and
beard, the fleshy tip of his nose had been sliced clean
off, leaving a nasty-looking, flat, red scar.</p>
<p>This, he said, was the work of a Malay kreese, whilst
ashore at Samarang on a drunken spree. But the
captain once told me confidentially that common report
around Limehouse and the Docks attributed the mishap
to Mrs Harris and a carving-knife.</p>
<p>Be this as it may, he was a bad-tempered, overbearing
brute, although, I believe, a good seaman.</p>
<p>At meal times he rarely spoke, but, gulping his food
down, left the table as quickly as possible.</p>
<p>The captain, who occupied the whole of his time in
making models of a new style of condenser, for which
he had taken out a patent, but by no means could get
to work properly, never interfered with his first officer,
but left the ship entirely in his charge.</p>
<p>No thought of approaching evil appeared to trouble
Mr Harris, and he became, if possible, more tyrannical
in his behaviour towards the crew, Ashby in particular.
Truly wonderful is it how much hazing Mercantile Jack
will stand before having recourse to the limited amount
of comparatively safe reprisal that a heavy object and
a high altitude endows him with!</p>
<p>But the Jacks of the <cite>Dido</cite> were waiting, with more
or less of faith, the fulfilment of their shipmate’s dream.</p>
<p>It was on the 23d of December—which, by the way,
was also the extra day we gained—that the strong
westerlies, after serving us so well, began to haul to
the south’ard.</p>
<p><a name="png.316" id="png.316" href="#png.316"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>292<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘You’ll see the Horn after all,’ remarked the captain
to me that morning. ‘Two years ago I was
becalmed close to it. But I scarcely think that such
a thing will happen this time,’ and off he went to his
condenser.</p>
<p>It was bitterly cold, and the sharp wind from the
ice-fields cut like a knife. The water was like green
glass for the colour and clearness of it, the sky speckless,
and as bitter looking as the water. Gradually
freshening, and hauling still to the south, the wind at
length made it necessary to shorten some of the plain
sail the <cite>Dido</cite> had carried right across. On the 24th
land was sighted, and the captain, coming on deck with
his pockets full of tools and little tin things, told us that
it was Cape Horn.</p>
<p>The fo’k’stle-head was crowded with men, one minute
all gazing at the land, the next staring aft.</p>
<p>‘What the deuce are those fellows garping at?’ growled
the mate, walking for’ard.</p>
<p>Whereupon the watchers scattered.</p>
<p>Looking behind me, I saw that Jack Ashby was at
the wheel.</p>
<p>He smiled as his eye caught mine, and pointed one
mittened hand at the chief officer’s back. I looked
at the land, and began for the first time, to feel
doubtful.</p>
<p>Coming on deck that Christmas morning, I rubbed
my eyes before being able to take in the desolation
of the scene, and make sure that I was indeed on board
the <cite>Dido</cite>.</p>
<p><a name="png.317" id="png.317" href="#png.317"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>293<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>The ship looked as if she had been storm-driven
across the whole Southern Ocean, and then mopped all
over with a heavy rain-squall.</p>
<p>The wet decks, the naked spars, the two top-sails
tucked up to a treble reef, and seeming mere strips
of canvas, grey with damp, the raffle of gear lying
about, with here and there a man over his knees
in water slowly coiling it up, hanging on meanwhile
by one hand, combined, with the lowering sky and
leaden sea, to make up a gloomy picture indeed.
The ship was nearly close-hauled, and a big lump
of a head-sea on, with which she was doing her level,
or rather, most unlevel, best to fill her decks fore
and aft.</p>
<p>Broad on the port bow loomed the land—great cliffs,
stern and ragged—at whose base, through the thin mist
that was softly drizzling, could be seen a broad white
belt of broken water.</p>
<p>‘Cape Horn weather!’ quoth the captain at my elbow.</p>
<p>He was swathed in oilskins, and squinting rather
anxiously at the sky.</p>
<p>‘The glass is falling,’ he continued; ‘but there’s more
southing in the wind. Might give us a slant presently
through the Straits of Le Maire.’</p>
<p>And with that, pulling out a bit of the condenser, and
looking lovingly at it, he went below. The mate was
standing near, staring hard at the land. It might have
been the shadow of the sou’-wester on his face, but I
thought he appeared even more surly and forbidding
than ever.</p>
<p><a name="png.318" id="png.318" href="#png.318"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>294<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>Of course it was a holiday. During the last four hours
both watches had been on deck shortening sail. After
clearing up the washing raffle of ropes, and leaving a
man at the wheel and another on the lookout, they were
free to go into the fo’k’stle, and smoke or sleep, as they
pleased.</p>
<p>Dinner—a curious acrobatic feat that Christmas day
in the <cite>Dido’s</cite> cabin—over, I donned waterproofs and
sea-boots, and, putting four bottles of rum in a handbag,
which I slung over my shoulder, I stepped across the
washboards and made for the fo’k’stle.</p>
<p>Creeping from hold to hold along the weather bulwarks,
at times up to my waist in water, I wondered how
any ship could pitch as the <cite>Dido</cite> was doing and yet
live.</p>
<p>One moment, looking aft, you would imagine that the
man at the wheel was about to fall on your head; the
next that the jibbooms were a fourth mast; whilst incessantly
poured such foaming torrents over her fo’k’stle
that, as I slowly approached, I seriously doubted of
getting in safely with my precious freight. Luckily, the
men were watching me, and a couple, running out,
caught hold of my hands, roaring in my <span class="nw">ear,—</span></p>
<p>‘Run, sir, when she lifts again!’</p>
<p>And, making a dash for it, we got through the
doorless entrance just in time to escape another avalanche.</p>
<p>I found the fo’k’stle awash, chests and bags lashed into
lower bunks, and the greater part of both watches
sitting on the upper ones, smoking, and eyeing the
<a name="png.319" id="png.319" href="#png.319"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>295<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>cold sparking water as it rushed to and fro their habitation.</p>
<p>My arrival, or rather, perhaps, my cargo, was hailed
with acclamation.</p>
<p>The captain certainly had sent them a couple of
dozen of porter. But, as one <span class="nw">explained,—</span></p>
<p>‘What’s the good of sich rubbishin’ swankey as that
when a feller wants somethin’ as ’ll warm ’is innards this
weather?’</p>
<p>‘Where’s Ashby?’ I asked, hoisting on to a bunk
amongst the crowd.</p>
<p>‘Here I am, sir,’ replied a voice close to in the dimness.</p>
<p>‘Well,’ I said, cheerily, ‘what did I tell you? Here’s
Christmas Day well on for through, everything snug—if
damp—and nothing happening. Give him a stiff nip,
one of you, and let us drink to better times, and no
more nonsense. Once we’re round the corner, yonder,
this trip will soon be over.’</p>
<p>‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ replied Ashby, as he emptied
the pannikin, which was being so carefully passed around
by the one appointed, who, holding on like grim death,
after every poured-out portion, held the bottle up to the
light to see how the contents were faring. ‘Thank you
kindly, sir,’ said he. ‘But Christmas Day isn’t done
yet.’</p>
<p>Even as he spoke, a form clad in glistening oilskins
came through the water-curtain that was roaring over the
break of the fo’k’stle, and, leaning upon the windlass,
sang <span class="nw">out,—</span></p>
<p><a name="png.320" id="png.320" href="#png.320"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>296<span class="ns">]<br
/></span></span></a>‘You there, Ashby?’</p>
<p>‘Ay, ay, sir,’ replied the seaman.</p>
<p>‘Lie out, then,’ continued the mate, for he it was,
‘and put another gasket around that inner jib! It’s
coming adrift! Bear a hand, now!’</p>
<p>The ship for a minute seemed to stand quite still, as
if waiting to hear the answer, and each man turned to
look at his neighbour.</p>
<p>Then Ashby, jumping down, with a curious set expression
on his face, walked up to the mate and said very
<span class="nw">loud,—</span></p>
<p>‘Don’t send a man where you’d be frightened to go
yourself.’</p>
<p>‘You infernal soger!’ shouted the other, enraged
beyond measure at this first sign of rebellion in his
victim. ‘Come out here and I’ll show you all about
that! Come out and crawl after me, and I’ll learn you
how to do your work!’</p>
<p>He disappeared, and Ashby followed him like a flash.
In a trice every soul was outside—some clinging to the
running gear around the foremast, others on the galley,
others in the fore rigging.</p>
<p>I could see no sign of any of the head sails being
adrift. All, except the set fore-topmast stay-sail, lay on
their booms, masses of sodden canvas, off which poured
green cataracts as the <cite>Dido</cite> lifted her nose from a mighty
plunge.</p>
<p>For a minute or two, so dense was the smother for’ard
of the windlass bits, that nothing was visible but foam.
But, presently, as the <cite>Dido</cite> paused, weaving her head
<a name="png.321" id="png.321" href="#png.321"><span class="pagenum"><span
class="ns">[</span>297<span class="ns">]
</span></span></a>backwards and forwards as if choosing a good spot for
her next dive, we saw, clear of everything, and high in air
fronting us, the two men.</p>
<p>One was on the boom, the other on the foot-rope.
The topmost man seemed to be hitting rapidly at the
one below him, who strove with uplifted arm to shield
himself.</p>
<p>Perhaps for half a minute this lasted. Then the ship
gave her headlong plunge, the crest of a great wave met
the descending bows, and when the bitter spray cleared
out of our eyes again the lower figure was missing.</p>
<p>From the other, overhanging us, a black streak against
the sullen sky, came what sounded like a faint cheer.
There was a rapid throwing motion of the arm released
from the supporting stay, followed by a clink of steel on
the roof of the galley. Then came once more the
roaring plunge, and slow upheaval as of a creature
mortally wounded.</p>
<p>But, this time, the booms were vacant, and a man
beside me was curiously examining a sheath-knife,
bloody from point of blade to tip of wooden handle.</p>
<p>Louder shrieked the gale through the strained rigging,
and more heavily beat the thundrous seas against the
<cite>Dido’s</cite> sides, as, breathless, drenched and horrified, I
staggered into the captain’s state-room.</p>
<p>‘I think I’ve got it now,’ said he, smiling, and holding
up a thing like a tin saucepan.</p>
<p class="finis">THE END.</p>
</div>
<div class="tnote">
<h2>Transcriber’s Note</h2>
<p>The text contains a lot of dialect spelling, which has been left as printed. Punctuation has been amended where required to clarify the sense of the text. A small number of errors that appear to be typographical rather than authorial have been corrected; otherwise inconsistent spelling and hyphenation
(agoin’/a-goin’,
anigh/a-nigh,
apiece/a-piece,
ashen grey/ashen-grey,
befel/befell,
black fellow/black-fellow,
bulkhead/bulk-head,
close hauled/close-hauled,
dark blue/dark-blue,
doorposts/door-posts,
enquiries/inquiries,
far inland/far-inland,
fo’c’sle/fo’c’stle,
greenhide/green-hide,
half way/half-way,
head sea/head-sea,
highly connected/highly-connected,
lifelike/life-like,
lookout/look-out,
main deck/main-deck,
middle age/middle-age,
mopoke/mo-poke,
native born/native-born,
new chum/new-chum,
newcomer/new-comer,
out an’ out/out-an’-out,
p’raps/p’r’aps,
rain water/rain-water,
remarkable looking/remarkable-looking,
rope coils/rope-coils,
saddlestraps/saddle-straps,
soger/sojur,
sojur ants/sojur-ants,
such like/such-like,
thundrous/thunderous,
topsail/top-sail,
upturned/up-turned,
viâ/via)
have been retained as printed.</p>
</div>
<hr class="ww" />
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60482 ***</div>
</body>
</html>
|
